Shell Shock

He's seen too much, everyday life a battlefield, watching normal folks being so normal, always wondering why they can't see what he sees, hear what he hears, feel what he feels. He stares blankly, retreating into dissociation, triggered at every ripple crossing his path, each seemingly mundane wave of stimulus carrying an infinite load of negatively tinged data, all tied to his own traumas, stabbing his tender heart in subtle yet cruel ways, living a life scratched, poked, chewed, his emotional infections worsened like ill-intentioned maggots lunching on his suffering soul.

Neurologically carved channels of terror route all external stimulus through these tainted pathways, painting his moment-to-moment experiences muddy brown, leaving his perception of life corrupted, all hope diminished.

Scrupulosity, obsessions, compulsions, and a self-immolating internal voice bark continuous displeasure at every turn, always telling him he's wrong, bad, condemned, every breath a sin, no way out. It's executed with such artful intentionality, he assumes it must all be Satan at play.

He hopes for healing. He believes in Jesus Christ as his Lord and Savior—his only light in the darkness of corrupted wetware.

Jesus will save him.
This suffering is not his end.
Amen.