Trauma Doesn't Even Start To Describe It (Part 1)

I never talk about it.
It doesn't work.
I can't say it out loud. But I can think it. I think it all the time. 
It comes in different forms: dreams, day dreams, flashbacks, black outs. 
One particular day I was sitting quietly in math class at my high school. My hand traveled absentmindedly through my hair, combing it out again and again. I started at the back of my head, at a safe distance away from it. Slowly my fingers got closer and closer to my forehead as I smoothed out my hair. For once, I didn't notice. Of course I didn't. Just my luck. My pinky finger touched my forehead, just above my eyebrow. 
No. Nonononono. 
Before I could even try to stop it, my vision clouded and it was back to that day. I tried and tried to pull myself out of the flashback but I was stuck. 
Okay. Okay. Breathe. Count to ten. That's what Ms. Layder says. Count to ten. 
I tried counting to ten. I had to count to ten sixteen times before it finally worked and I was released from my cage. 
No, I wasn't released. I was being given a break. A breath of fresh air. But no. I was far from released. 
Maybe I should try to explain things.
My name is Kayla McCallister. I know. Basic. 
I'm 17 now, but I was 15 then. I try to keep myself with it. I've held on for two years.
Two years. 
I can't tell you what happened. It's next to impossible to say anything out loud for me. Other people can talk about their trauma but I can't. I can never find the words. The only person that I've told who wasn't there that night is my therapist, and it took two months for me to finish the story. 
PTSD is hardly explaining it. I am past broken. Far past. 
Like I said, I can't tell you. But maybe I can show you. Every single night, it comes back. I have to be uptight all the time to keep myself from slipping off and day dreaming because I can't handle that more than once a day. 
Sometimes, on really bad days, I have flashbacks and blackouts. 
I have to leave school and lie in my dark room all day because there's nothing I can do to stop them. 
I am trapped in a tightly woven cage that moves but never breaks. I don't have the key. And I can't find it anywhere. 
My trauma is holding me captive. But that doesn't even explain it well. 
The scar is on my forehead. Just above my left eyebrow. It's small, but to me, it's enormous. And it's deep. Deep as Tartarus. Physically, too. I had to get fifteen stiches on this tiny scar. It's only an inch and a half. More like a mile and a half. Or a billion miles. I can never get to the end. I can never finish the race I'm losing. 
Whatever you're thinking happened to me, unless it happened to you too, you're probably wrong. 
Unless you're right, of course. 
If you're right, I am so incredibly sorry that you even had to think that.
I am going to have to leave you in the mystery of what happened to me because I refuse to speak it. Or even write it down.
For your sake and mine.
Writing this, I'm trying not to flashback. I can't have another bad day. 
And I can't touch it, either. I flashback every single time. 
I thought maybe writing this would loosen the bars on my cage. But I think until I say what truly happened, I'll still be locked just as tight. 
Maybe I'll say it eventually. 
Maybe this blog is where I will finally come clean and let myself free at least a little bit.