There was a problem with Mom. Demons from a hard life came to visit sometimes. She didn’t want to be “crazy”, but the demons of Fear, Frustration, and Confusion were often there to drive her into the halls and rooms at night to wail and bemoan her lot in life. Or, even her sudden rages during the day.
There was no way for three young children to appease these monsters, much less understand why they came. Each child alone, afraid, hiding in their covers, weeping and praying for the sun to rise and peace to return. For sunlight often drives the evil away. Or allows for a distance from its source.
The house was haunted by these demons off and on for years. And they pursued Mom to the end of her days in an institution that tried to “fade” them if not destroy them.
And the offspring of these creatures of the psyche were planted in each of the children to confuse or destroy them. As they had been, probably, for generations.
This haunted house has lived in the haunted minds and souls of three children. It doesn’t appear in my dark, hidden dreams to warp the emotions as it once did. The time and the telling will build a scab and scar tissue over deep wounds eventually.
PTSD is not just for soldiers, concentration camp survivors, or victims of overt violence. All trauma is not physical.
I began writing this to be fiction, but truth wanted to be told.