The Healing Power of Poetry: Navigating Nausea and Vomiting while Healing from Post Traumatic Stress
The stomach clenches, a fist
unfurling slowly,
a cold dread blooming in the gut.
Not hunger, not butterflies,
this is something deeper,
a sickness born of memory.
The bile rises, bitter, acrid,
a taste of ash and fear,
a phantom limb of trauma,
aching in the throat.
It claws its way upwards,
a desperate scramble for release,
a purging of the unseen.
The body, a vessel
overflowing with unshed tears,
with screams unspoken,
with the weight of what was.
The heaving, a shuddering release,
a convulsive wave washing over,
leaving behind the hollow echo
of a silent scream.
It is not a simple sickness,
this emptying of the self.
It is the body’s rebellion,
a protest against the invisible wounds,
the slow poison of the past.
The vomit spills forth,
a messy confession,
a chaotic landscape
of what cannot be contained.
The nausea lingers,
a shadow clinging to the edges of consciousness,
a reminder of the battle fought within,
the war still raging unseen.
The trembling hands, the racing heart,
the cold sweat clinging to the skin,
these are the aftermath,
the silent aftermath of survival.
Days bleed into nights,
a cycle of sickness and exhaustion,
a slow, painful unwinding.
The healing is a messy business,
a relentless unraveling,
a journey through the dark heart of the self,
a confrontation with the demons within.
But even in the midst of the nausea,
in the bitter taste of the vomit,
a flicker of hope remains,
a fragile promise of a dawn that will eventually break.
A dawn where the body will quieten,
where the memories will soften,
and the stomach will finally find peace.
A slow, hesitant peace,
hard-earned and well-deserved.
A peace that comes only after the storm.
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