I'll save you the trouble. There is nothing. And I do not live each day in fear of reliving my traumatic experiences, but with the awareness that at any moment I could be plunged directly into a new one, possibly of an equal or greater intensity, and for a duration that would not end unless it was alongside my life. And for these experiences, I have no one to blame, and nothing to fault but my own dysfunctional neurochemistry.
Though, I suppose I could blame God — and hate him for giving me an illness that I didn't deserve and can't fix, only to leave me with the presence of mind to contemplate its horrors but not avoid them. I suppose that I could even blame you, and grow to hate all that is good for being so unscathed that it would dare taunt me with love that I was never given! And given to was I without, I was stripped of all warmth and given a past that could chill anyone. And for what? — to peddle my petty prose in hopes that others may find some meaning in a life that I couldn't?