You know how I'm always going on and on about the domino effect that my brain can sputter out? How I'm conscious of it most of the time and know what to do in order to divert it? It's not that black and white.
I'm on a medication called Naltrexone. I started it a good 6 or so years ago, back when I had a PTSD therapist. She had gone to a conference where someone spoke of the drug (which the main use was for recovering alcoholics and heroine addicts) used in small doses to minimize the trigger response in PTSD. It was still in trial and not yet in the US, but it sounded promising. So I took the paperwork that my therapist had given me on the research and convinced a psychiatrist to prescribe it to me. It was as simple as that.
The drug isn't some sort of catchall for my mind. It doesn't always go the way it's supposed to. But it sometimes blocks things or gives me an minute or two heads up, and I'm grateful for that. If something powerful is coming through my brain, it sends a dramatic shudder down my spine to warn me. "Hey, we can't hold this one back much longer, do something NOW or they'll break free." (They, being the memories or triggers.)
Class last night goes as follows:
I'm fine, my head was full of a book I had listened to on my drive to school. (Thank you Audible for being awesome) I sat alone in the lounge and cautiously watched everyone else chatting with each other. Then we started shuffling into class.
Someone in front of me smells like a lotion that is the same as a bath & body soap scent. It seeps into my brain without me even knowing it, but stays a block of unlocked connection. A shiver runs through my body, a temporary warning sent by my Naltrexone. I push past the lady who wears it and methodically take the same seat I've sat in for the last 3 years.
I manage to distract my way out of the scent trigger but now the teacher has placed us into small groups and I have to move to the other side of the room. The only chair left at the table that I am to occupy has the back of the chair facing the door to the hallway. This would normally be mostly ok because the door is closed so it's not posing as a huge threat and I can block the thought. This teacher gets warm easily though, so she props it open. I immediately feel threatened and can't sit still in my seat. I'm constantly swiveling my chair to check the open door. My back is tense and my body hums with fear. Once again shudders run through me almost methodically. It might appear to an outsider at this point that I am having some sort of small seizure.
Jayne sits next to me and quietly asks "Are you cold?" I shake my head no in response but don't explain.
An hour slowly ticks by and I can't concentrate on what the teacher is saying because hypervigilance has kicked in and since I don't feel safe, my body feels as though I need to have super human hearing.
I can hear every tiny noise not only from inside the room, but in the hallways and in the lounge that is fairly far away. The world is suddenly louder than it's meant to be and I can only hear the ticking of the clock and someone tapping their pen and someone bouncing their leg and footsteps in the hall and someone spilling their M&Ms in the lounge. I just need to sit somewhere else, I sink down in my chair. Every break in silence makes me jump in my seat.
At the hour and a half mark the teacher announces that we will be taking a break after we are done answering a series of 30 questions (marking them agree or disagree) and we are to reconvene at 7:05. I glance at the clock and it's currently 6:55 and I've only answered half of the questions. I need that break, badly. My leg starts to bounce and I suddenly can no longer sit still in my chair or concentrate on what I'm reading. At this point, a heard of pink elephants are stampeding through my brain and I have to reread the questions several times before I can comprehend them.
From NPR and WBEZ Chicago, this is Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me the NPR news quiz. I'm Carl Kasell and here's your host, Peter Sagal.
I turn on one of my favorite episodes of a podcast that I listen to every week without fail. I need something to calm my brain before I jump into my audiobook because otherwise I risk not being able to actually pay attention to what's being said. It only takes about 10 minutes and I gleefully turn on the book I'm currently listening to Where She Went. By the time I get home, I'm calm and my brain has leveled out but I'm exhausted and still haven't slept. It's 10pm and I can't push myself to stay up any longer. It can go one of two ways, either I'll get a good solid dreamless 8 hours of sleep or I'm subjecting myself to extra hours of torture. I climb into bed and stack my pillows so close to my body that I can't move. I pray it works and fall asleep.
The latter of the two scenarios happened. The night was a horrific mess and I could barely pry open my swollen eyes enough to see what I was doing during my morning shower.
I'm exhausted and my brain is following suite. I can usually handle the radio, but with my brain as weak as it is, I'm putting myself at risk for triggers. My week or two of bad sleep has come at a bad time because the morning show that I use to distract myself while I get ready for work in the morning has been fired and my cheap/old alarm clock radio in my bathroom refuses to get in any other station. (This lead to me spending a bit more money to buy a new one, complete with iPod connection for the days that the radio doesn't want to cooperate in getting reception).
The drone that has replaced my favorite morning DJ's has no personality and rarely talks. So he leaves me susceptible to a flood of memory. Songs are glued to memories just like scent is. There aren't many bad ones, but a song can lead to a memory can lead to a time period can lead to a memory that isn't so pleasant.
My mom and I used to listen to Reba McEntire's album For My Broken Heart (on cassette of course) nonstop, always trying to figure out exactly what the plot of every song was. Listening to The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia a million times. She drove a Cougar back then.
My brother Tony introduced me to the song by Jason Michael Carroll called Alyssa Lies. He drove a stick shift truck back then and we were driving to see my uncle who lives in Muskego.
While my friend Quinn was at boot camp we both liked Lonestar's My Front Porch Looking In and would often reference it in the letters we wrote back and forth to each other while he was gone.
One time when my Aunty Dar was visiting we discovered a song by James Otto called Days of Our Lives and became obsessed with finding a copy of it.
Michelle and I used to listen to songs like Tim McGraw's Don't Take the Girl and Faith Hill's A Man's Home is his Castle nonstop when we were 7 or 8.
My baby sister used to listen to Tim & Faith's It's Your Love and dance around the living room for hours when she was 3 or 4.
My friend Shelly and I listened to Mambo #5 nonstop during a camping trip we took to Mauthe Lake when I was 15.
You get the point, the songs are all there, bound to memories - waiting to jump out when I least expect it. Most of the time I can just smile at what it makes me remember and move on with my day/hour/minute, but when my brain is this weak, it threatens to open doors that should remained closed and locked.
So, songs bind to my memory, but I'm assuming that's just the same for everyone else. I can't usually spit out singers and song titles the way that I can actors/actresses and movies. I'm assuming it has something or another to do with my photographic memory. And neither of the two probably have nothing to do with my PTSD. For the most part, my iPod touch is my savior. It's made my life that much easier to manage and without it I'd be lost. I'm already trying to figure out a game plan for the day it decides to no longer turn on (since I assume from it's age that time will be sometime soon).
Worst case scenerio always at the forefront of my mind. But that's just how it is.
I'm on a medication called Naltrexone. I started it a good 6 or so years ago, back when I had a PTSD therapist. She had gone to a conference where someone spoke of the drug (which the main use was for recovering alcoholics and heroine addicts) used in small doses to minimize the trigger response in PTSD. It was still in trial and not yet in the US, but it sounded promising. So I took the paperwork that my therapist had given me on the research and convinced a psychiatrist to prescribe it to me. It was as simple as that.
The drug isn't some sort of catchall for my mind. It doesn't always go the way it's supposed to. But it sometimes blocks things or gives me an minute or two heads up, and I'm grateful for that. If something powerful is coming through my brain, it sends a dramatic shudder down my spine to warn me. "Hey, we can't hold this one back much longer, do something NOW or they'll break free." (They, being the memories or triggers.)
Class last night goes as follows:
I'm fine, my head was full of a book I had listened to on my drive to school. (Thank you Audible for being awesome) I sat alone in the lounge and cautiously watched everyone else chatting with each other. Then we started shuffling into class.
Someone in front of me smells like a lotion that is the same as a bath & body soap scent. It seeps into my brain without me even knowing it, but stays a block of unlocked connection. A shiver runs through my body, a temporary warning sent by my Naltrexone. I push past the lady who wears it and methodically take the same seat I've sat in for the last 3 years.
I manage to distract my way out of the scent trigger but now the teacher has placed us into small groups and I have to move to the other side of the room. The only chair left at the table that I am to occupy has the back of the chair facing the door to the hallway. This would normally be mostly ok because the door is closed so it's not posing as a huge threat and I can block the thought. This teacher gets warm easily though, so she props it open. I immediately feel threatened and can't sit still in my seat. I'm constantly swiveling my chair to check the open door. My back is tense and my body hums with fear. Once again shudders run through me almost methodically. It might appear to an outsider at this point that I am having some sort of small seizure.
Jayne sits next to me and quietly asks "Are you cold?" I shake my head no in response but don't explain.
An hour slowly ticks by and I can't concentrate on what the teacher is saying because hypervigilance has kicked in and since I don't feel safe, my body feels as though I need to have super human hearing.
I can hear every tiny noise not only from inside the room, but in the hallways and in the lounge that is fairly far away. The world is suddenly louder than it's meant to be and I can only hear the ticking of the clock and someone tapping their pen and someone bouncing their leg and footsteps in the hall and someone spilling their M&Ms in the lounge. I just need to sit somewhere else, I sink down in my chair. Every break in silence makes me jump in my seat.
At the hour and a half mark the teacher announces that we will be taking a break after we are done answering a series of 30 questions (marking them agree or disagree) and we are to reconvene at 7:05. I glance at the clock and it's currently 6:55 and I've only answered half of the questions. I need that break, badly. My leg starts to bounce and I suddenly can no longer sit still in my chair or concentrate on what I'm reading. At this point, a heard of pink elephants are stampeding through my brain and I have to reread the questions several times before I can comprehend them.
From NPR and WBEZ Chicago, this is Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me the NPR news quiz. I'm Carl Kasell and here's your host, Peter Sagal.
I turn on one of my favorite episodes of a podcast that I listen to every week without fail. I need something to calm my brain before I jump into my audiobook because otherwise I risk not being able to actually pay attention to what's being said. It only takes about 10 minutes and I gleefully turn on the book I'm currently listening to Where She Went. By the time I get home, I'm calm and my brain has leveled out but I'm exhausted and still haven't slept. It's 10pm and I can't push myself to stay up any longer. It can go one of two ways, either I'll get a good solid dreamless 8 hours of sleep or I'm subjecting myself to extra hours of torture. I climb into bed and stack my pillows so close to my body that I can't move. I pray it works and fall asleep.
The latter of the two scenarios happened. The night was a horrific mess and I could barely pry open my swollen eyes enough to see what I was doing during my morning shower.
I'm exhausted and my brain is following suite. I can usually handle the radio, but with my brain as weak as it is, I'm putting myself at risk for triggers. My week or two of bad sleep has come at a bad time because the morning show that I use to distract myself while I get ready for work in the morning has been fired and my cheap/old alarm clock radio in my bathroom refuses to get in any other station. (This lead to me spending a bit more money to buy a new one, complete with iPod connection for the days that the radio doesn't want to cooperate in getting reception).
The drone that has replaced my favorite morning DJ's has no personality and rarely talks. So he leaves me susceptible to a flood of memory. Songs are glued to memories just like scent is. There aren't many bad ones, but a song can lead to a memory can lead to a time period can lead to a memory that isn't so pleasant.
My mom and I used to listen to Reba McEntire's album For My Broken Heart (on cassette of course) nonstop, always trying to figure out exactly what the plot of every song was. Listening to The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia a million times. She drove a Cougar back then.
My brother Tony introduced me to the song by Jason Michael Carroll called Alyssa Lies. He drove a stick shift truck back then and we were driving to see my uncle who lives in Muskego.
While my friend Quinn was at boot camp we both liked Lonestar's My Front Porch Looking In and would often reference it in the letters we wrote back and forth to each other while he was gone.
One time when my Aunty Dar was visiting we discovered a song by James Otto called Days of Our Lives and became obsessed with finding a copy of it.
Michelle and I used to listen to songs like Tim McGraw's Don't Take the Girl and Faith Hill's A Man's Home is his Castle nonstop when we were 7 or 8.
My baby sister used to listen to Tim & Faith's It's Your Love and dance around the living room for hours when she was 3 or 4.
My friend Shelly and I listened to Mambo #5 nonstop during a camping trip we took to Mauthe Lake when I was 15.
You get the point, the songs are all there, bound to memories - waiting to jump out when I least expect it. Most of the time I can just smile at what it makes me remember and move on with my day/hour/minute, but when my brain is this weak, it threatens to open doors that should remained closed and locked.
So, songs bind to my memory, but I'm assuming that's just the same for everyone else. I can't usually spit out singers and song titles the way that I can actors/actresses and movies. I'm assuming it has something or another to do with my photographic memory. And neither of the two probably have nothing to do with my PTSD. For the most part, my iPod touch is my savior. It's made my life that much easier to manage and without it I'd be lost. I'm already trying to figure out a game plan for the day it decides to no longer turn on (since I assume from it's age that time will be sometime soon).
Worst case scenerio always at the forefront of my mind. But that's just how it is.
Erica,
ReplyDeleteI just wanted you to know that I've read your posts from January. They make my heart ache, not just from what you have to deal with on a moment-to-moment basis, but also because of the beautifully horrific clarity in your words.
I saw that you're working on a YA novel and I encourage you to keep doing so. It's clear to me that you have talent, just from these few posts. You are fighting back by writing down what you feel and that is the key to taking flight.
I loved the poem and I will pray for you. Keep fighting the fight.
Cyndi
Oh girlie. Songs and scents can trigger memories in people who don't suffer from PTSD. Though I know for you it's worse. I often think when I hear a song I like to not let it be during a bad time because I would never want to hear it again.
ReplyDeleteI love you! And omg I hated that Mambo #5 song. And now I'll have that stuck in my head, thanks!