In my world, an anniversary is hardly something to celebrate. My anniversaries don't include flowers or candle lit dinners or smiles. Anniversaries for a person with PTSD is the date of a trauma. You could hide the calendar from me and my body would still manage to remember. I might not connect the dots right away as to why I felt physically out of whack, but my body would remember - causing me to be anxious and nervous and irritable. I'd feel like I had a brick laying on my chest, weighing down my heart.
Most of my days are in summer and fall but unfortunately one of those days is linked to a Friday the 13th. The original date is June 13th, but since that day in 2003 was a Friday and following the horrible events that happened that day, I will not be able to forget that it was that dreaded Friday the 13th.
I did my best to distract myself today. In my spare time I read a book, I listened to a different book on audio when in my car (I often have more than one book going at a time so that I always have one accessible), while at work if there was a lull I focused on the next chapter in a YA novel I'm writing, I watched 3 different TV shows and saw a movie at the theater.
If my brain is busy following a story, it has a far less chance of pushing through memory or pain. It's why I'm able to quote and reference my fair share of movies and actors, why my book shelves are lined with novels and why I never can quite seem to get enough programmed (and DVRd) television.
Despite my greatest efforts, I still cringed and prayed for peace every time someone at work (whether it was a coworker or customer) blabbed on about what day it was. It still was the first thing on my mind as I walked to my car. Memory... is like an obnoxious person who just has to finish telling you their story until they get the reaction that they so desire.
Death can steal a person, make them into nothing but a memory that your brain grasps for. People stay frozen in time, a prisoner in your mind. Sometimes you can pull out a memory at random, sometimes the memory jumps out at you and leaves you balled up on the floor. Death graces us with memory we've never even noticed that we have. We suddenly remember things about people in great detail. Detail that drags us down and beats us until we can't even feel the pain any longer. And that moment you find out that you've lost someone? You'll remember that moment for the rest of your life.
That June Friday the 13th I can remember the way the summer air smelled, how heavy my brown sandals were on my feet, how my knee length jean skirt had a tendency to twist uncomfortably when I went to sit down. I can remember the blare of sirens in the rig I rode in and I can see every street sign that I glanced at while looking for the road that the emergency page had initially called out. If you needed me to, I could draw out the exact set up of the living room that the call was at and how I suddenly couldn't remember how to do something as simple as breathe.
{The next excerpt previously written in a private blog from 2008}
I ran into a friend at school today... someone I hadn't seen in years. Much to my surprise she didn't even look the same. I barely recognized her at all, until she spoke. And her voice? It was what death would sound like if it had the ability to be heard. I stood before her, but my mind was everywhere else.
In my head I was stepping out of the still moving truck only to be greeted by air thick enough to be able to grab a handful and hold for a moment. And her stale words of "I'm so sorry, Erica" lingered in my ears. That's why the sound of her voice takes me back. Because she was the person to tell me that he had died. She was the first of many that had called to check on me that night and make sure I had heard the news, but the only one that seems to be stuck hiding in my head somewhere, patiently waiting for the right moment to jump out and smother me.
Reliving moments like those remind me how important life really is. I watch too many people take things for granted and I wish I could take them by the shoulders and shake the hell out of them until they fully understand what they'd feel if they spent all their time keeping their thoughs to themselves instead of sharing them with other people.
You can stop, think about everyone important to you and ask yourself if you'd regret anything if they weren't here tomorrow. You should never have to start out saying "I never told them....". Even the people that you've been standing next to for the last 15 years, you just assume they may just know that you care about them, but never assume. Because regret? It can kill you. And it never goes away.
PTSD may not be who I am, but it definetly has a way of explaining me. And making things seem more controllable. I no longer have to sit in a fit of confusion wondering what I did wrong. I can fix what's broken... I can't fix what doesn't exist. On June 13th 2008, in memory of that date and all it represented, I had a small tattoo done on my wrist. It was a symbol for the word fly. My friend Sarah had copied a poem into a gift she gave me once and it had moved me beyond words.
The poem read:
"Come to the edge" he said.
"We are afraid" they replied.
"Come to the edge!" he said.
They came.
He pushed them.
They flew.
I got the tattoo as a reminder that when I'm pushed to the edge, I have the ability to fly instead of fall.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Thursday, January 12, 2012
caught in the inbetween.
So far, I've made PTSD seem pretty simple. The sad truth is, it's not. The small amount that I've talked about is only the beginning. My days are so extremely complex and unpredictable. The hard truth is, sometimes I don't even know what parts of me are normal and which ones are PTSD.
Does everyone hear the world so loudly? Is everyone this afraid of something that isn't even there? Does everyone have a hard time seeing past next week? Is everyone thinking worst case scenario or jumping to the worst conclusion on a daily basis?
I understand that people fear, I understand they worry, I understand sometimes it's hard to believe we're all growing up. But for me, it just isn't that simple.
There's so many important things that someone needs to know about the reactions and sensitivity of a PTSDer - two of those things are hypervigilance and hyperarousal.
To put them plain, here are the definitions of each:
Hyperarousal:
Having a difficult time falling or staying asleep.
Feeling more irritable or having outbursts of anger.
Having difficulty concentrating.
Feeling constantly "on guard" or like danger is lurking around every corner.
Being "jumpy" or easily startled.
Hypervigilance is one of the hyperarousal symptoms of PTSD and refers to the experience of being constantly tense and "on guard." A person experiencing this symptom of PTSD will be motivated to maintain an increased awareness of their surrounding environment, sometimes even frequently scanning the environment to identify potential sources of threat. Hypervigilance is also often accompanied by changes in behavior, such as always choosing to sit in a far corner of a room so as to have awareness of all exits. At extreme levels, hypervigilance may appear similar to paranoia.
There is a part of our brain called the amygdala. It's considered the fear center of our brain. It's the part that tells you when danger is present and how to react and also decides on what memories to store and the proper place to store them.
The amygdala of a normal person will light up when someone jumps out from behind a door and yells "ahhhh" to scare you. You immediately know that there is no real danger and that it was just your friend trying to make you jump. Your heart may beat fast for a few minutes and your body might have a strange sense of needing to run, but it all goes away fairly quickly. No harm done.
If you jump out from behind the door at me (or startle me in any way), it has a much greater effect. I can immediately recognize that it was only a friend and there really isn't any immediate danger, but my body doesn't follow suite. That intense need to "run" stays with me for a good hour or so and I become highly agitated because I feel like I'm in danger and need to fight for my life. I know I don't need to, but I'm incapable of relaying that information to my brain. It takes a lot of energy to calm myself back down. The world gets loud and my body gets so extremely tired from wanting to take flight but not being able to.
And then for the icing on the cake, it's in those moments that my brain sees the opportunity to attack. In those moments I'm "looking the other way" so to say, and a trigger or flashback can sneak in and take over. The things I work so hard to fight off during the day are sneaky little bastards that will take the first opportunity to strike when I'm at my weakest.
Because of all of this, the most important thing to my day is to feel safe.
I need a locked door.
I need a space in which I don't feel as though someone can sneak up on me. (Which is why you will often see me sitting (alone) at a table in the corner of the room, a couch with a wall behind it, always being able to see all areas of possible approach, and never with my back to a door.)
I want to be at home instead of on the road where I feel like I could die in a car accident at any given moment.
I will do whatever I have to do in order to be in control of a situation. (ie. I hate being passenger on car rides. You might kill me, I have no control over how you drive.)
I want to feel like no one can get to me while I sleep. (And yes, I'm lucky enough to have one of the only bedrooms in the house without a lock on the door. Sometimes I sleep in the bathroom or the closet after a bad day until I feel safe enough again.)
Don't take offense to my need for safety. It's not that I don't trust you, it's that I know I'm not exempt from the bad things that happen in this world. I'm never going to mutter the words "It won't happen to me" because I actually think the exact opposite.
For the sake of anyone involved in any of my traumas over the years, I won't ever talk about them as specific events with specific details. I'll just refer to them as a whole, as a "series of unfortunate events" that brought me where I am today. I've seen a lot of horrible things, I've lived through horrible things that people shouldn't have to even remember, much less constantly relive and I've lost a lot of people who were really important to me to death.
My lovely little almond shaped amygdala is (obviously) far more overactive than the normal amygdala. Overreacting to potential danger and also storing way too many memories, most of them in the wrong areas of my brain. It's the reason that I can not only tell you the date of a bad memory, but also what day of the week it was that year, what the weather felt like on my skin, how the air smelled, what I was wearing, what songs played on the radio and so on.
My brain is, at any given time, remembering details beyond what is necessary. No one wants to remember the worst days of their life with such clarity and detail. And I don't just see it, I feel it. When it resurfaces, it's not just a picture in my head, it's happening all over again.
Will it make sense if I now tell you that at any given time during the day, when I'm working my ass off to stay in check, that I can easily become agitated and irritable? I'm really sorry in advance when you get to see me during those times. Know this: it has nothing to do with you. If it does, I would tell you. Why? Because as far as I know, people can't read other people's minds. If I haven't told you something you've done to upset/anger me, then it has nothing to do with you. Just let me have my fit of anger and give me a minute to bounce back. Please don't purposely aggravate me further. I know that seems pretty obvious, but human beings are so naturally defensive that it's not. If you start to approach me and I step back, give me my space. There are times when all my PTSD symptoms are colliding that I don't want to be touched. The simple gesture of a touch/hug/shoulder rub can set off things that I am trying to calm down. Please give me my space. (I refer to this as my "bubble" as my way of getting away with having to explain my chaos to people).
I found the following list of rules on a PTSD support site:
The unwritten rules for PTSD:
Believe me;
Be patient, I do not want to be a burden;
Accept that my pain and my disorder is as real as any other physical disability or injury, even though you can’t see it;
Understand that I would never hold on to this if I had a choice;
I would like to cast these feelings into the far reaches of the universe and banish the pain and bad memories from my mind forever.;
If I don’t mind being touched then hugs are great;
If I say I just need a moment, or I lash out for no apparent reason, just wait for me to come back;
I want to be whole and happy and, other than my dark times, I will be there for you.
"Geez, you come with too many rules..."
I know, I know. I'm not asking you to know them. I'm just giving you the opportunity to learn if you want to. And if you don't want to, that's fine with me.
Does everyone hear the world so loudly? Is everyone this afraid of something that isn't even there? Does everyone have a hard time seeing past next week? Is everyone thinking worst case scenario or jumping to the worst conclusion on a daily basis?
I understand that people fear, I understand they worry, I understand sometimes it's hard to believe we're all growing up. But for me, it just isn't that simple.
There's so many important things that someone needs to know about the reactions and sensitivity of a PTSDer - two of those things are hypervigilance and hyperarousal.
To put them plain, here are the definitions of each:
Hyperarousal:
Having a difficult time falling or staying asleep.
Feeling more irritable or having outbursts of anger.
Having difficulty concentrating.
Feeling constantly "on guard" or like danger is lurking around every corner.
Being "jumpy" or easily startled.
Hypervigilance is one of the hyperarousal symptoms of PTSD and refers to the experience of being constantly tense and "on guard." A person experiencing this symptom of PTSD will be motivated to maintain an increased awareness of their surrounding environment, sometimes even frequently scanning the environment to identify potential sources of threat. Hypervigilance is also often accompanied by changes in behavior, such as always choosing to sit in a far corner of a room so as to have awareness of all exits. At extreme levels, hypervigilance may appear similar to paranoia.
There is a part of our brain called the amygdala. It's considered the fear center of our brain. It's the part that tells you when danger is present and how to react and also decides on what memories to store and the proper place to store them.
The amygdala of a normal person will light up when someone jumps out from behind a door and yells "ahhhh" to scare you. You immediately know that there is no real danger and that it was just your friend trying to make you jump. Your heart may beat fast for a few minutes and your body might have a strange sense of needing to run, but it all goes away fairly quickly. No harm done.
If you jump out from behind the door at me (or startle me in any way), it has a much greater effect. I can immediately recognize that it was only a friend and there really isn't any immediate danger, but my body doesn't follow suite. That intense need to "run" stays with me for a good hour or so and I become highly agitated because I feel like I'm in danger and need to fight for my life. I know I don't need to, but I'm incapable of relaying that information to my brain. It takes a lot of energy to calm myself back down. The world gets loud and my body gets so extremely tired from wanting to take flight but not being able to.
And then for the icing on the cake, it's in those moments that my brain sees the opportunity to attack. In those moments I'm "looking the other way" so to say, and a trigger or flashback can sneak in and take over. The things I work so hard to fight off during the day are sneaky little bastards that will take the first opportunity to strike when I'm at my weakest.
Because of all of this, the most important thing to my day is to feel safe.
I need a locked door.
I need a space in which I don't feel as though someone can sneak up on me. (Which is why you will often see me sitting (alone) at a table in the corner of the room, a couch with a wall behind it, always being able to see all areas of possible approach, and never with my back to a door.)
I want to be at home instead of on the road where I feel like I could die in a car accident at any given moment.
I will do whatever I have to do in order to be in control of a situation. (ie. I hate being passenger on car rides. You might kill me, I have no control over how you drive.)
I want to feel like no one can get to me while I sleep. (And yes, I'm lucky enough to have one of the only bedrooms in the house without a lock on the door. Sometimes I sleep in the bathroom or the closet after a bad day until I feel safe enough again.)
Don't take offense to my need for safety. It's not that I don't trust you, it's that I know I'm not exempt from the bad things that happen in this world. I'm never going to mutter the words "It won't happen to me" because I actually think the exact opposite.
For the sake of anyone involved in any of my traumas over the years, I won't ever talk about them as specific events with specific details. I'll just refer to them as a whole, as a "series of unfortunate events" that brought me where I am today. I've seen a lot of horrible things, I've lived through horrible things that people shouldn't have to even remember, much less constantly relive and I've lost a lot of people who were really important to me to death.
My lovely little almond shaped amygdala is (obviously) far more overactive than the normal amygdala. Overreacting to potential danger and also storing way too many memories, most of them in the wrong areas of my brain. It's the reason that I can not only tell you the date of a bad memory, but also what day of the week it was that year, what the weather felt like on my skin, how the air smelled, what I was wearing, what songs played on the radio and so on.
My brain is, at any given time, remembering details beyond what is necessary. No one wants to remember the worst days of their life with such clarity and detail. And I don't just see it, I feel it. When it resurfaces, it's not just a picture in my head, it's happening all over again.
Will it make sense if I now tell you that at any given time during the day, when I'm working my ass off to stay in check, that I can easily become agitated and irritable? I'm really sorry in advance when you get to see me during those times. Know this: it has nothing to do with you. If it does, I would tell you. Why? Because as far as I know, people can't read other people's minds. If I haven't told you something you've done to upset/anger me, then it has nothing to do with you. Just let me have my fit of anger and give me a minute to bounce back. Please don't purposely aggravate me further. I know that seems pretty obvious, but human beings are so naturally defensive that it's not. If you start to approach me and I step back, give me my space. There are times when all my PTSD symptoms are colliding that I don't want to be touched. The simple gesture of a touch/hug/shoulder rub can set off things that I am trying to calm down. Please give me my space. (I refer to this as my "bubble" as my way of getting away with having to explain my chaos to people).
I found the following list of rules on a PTSD support site:
The unwritten rules for PTSD:
Believe me;
Be patient, I do not want to be a burden;
Accept that my pain and my disorder is as real as any other physical disability or injury, even though you can’t see it;
Understand that I would never hold on to this if I had a choice;
I would like to cast these feelings into the far reaches of the universe and banish the pain and bad memories from my mind forever.;
If I don’t mind being touched then hugs are great;
If I say I just need a moment, or I lash out for no apparent reason, just wait for me to come back;
I want to be whole and happy and, other than my dark times, I will be there for you.
"Geez, you come with too many rules..."
I know, I know. I'm not asking you to know them. I'm just giving you the opportunity to learn if you want to. And if you don't want to, that's fine with me.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
over and over again.
The past few days I've beginning to take mental notes about the differences from the PTSD mind in comparison to the normal mind. I've only come up with one burning question: What would it be like to not have to have a daily battle with your own mind? Don't get me wrong, not every day is filled with gruesome horror, but there are still things in the day that can play the "Remember when..." and sometimes those slight twists of mind can open the wrong door and let chaos flood in.
And yes, like I said, every day is not filled with gruesome horror, but every single day is a challenge. I've found very rare few days in which I didn't have to battle my own mind. Every single morning (unless someone is there to immediately distract me) is a battle from the moment I open my eyes. I immediately grab for my phone to check up on Twitter and Facebook, play a game or two, read a blog. I need that immediate distraction or else my mind will start taking pieces of my dreams and finding ways to use them to open doors that I try my very hardest to keep closed.
After about 15 minutes of distraction, I decide I'm well enough (or have run out of time) to move on to start my day. In the bathroom while I shower, I have the radio on. Morning talk shows are brilliant distraction (as long as I concentrate on what they're saying and don't tune them out to listen to my own mind).
I'm usually fine by the time I leave for work, but still - the radio talk or an audio book on the car ride to work is crucial because all it takes is one trigger to slip through and I'm at risk for mush brain. One word spoken in the right context, a smell, a sound, a feeling, a song on the radio.... any one of those things can act as the key to unlock a door that lets out a flood of memory. And once that one memory gets through, it threatens that it has the master key to unlock every other door that I try to keep closed in my brain.
I always have to be ready for the battle. Every minute of every day. If I'm not paying attention when something slips through, it can be hours before I realize that I've mentally checked out. And even then, I only notice because I suddenly can't speak properly, or comprehend something simple, or the world grows increasingly louder to the point that I can hear every conversation going on around me within earshot.
"Get over it" right? All those who think that PTSD is just "in someone's head" and they're "choosing to relive bad memories" is dead wrong. Studies have shown that the PTSD brain PHYSICALLY looks different than the non-PTSD brain. Different areas are bigger than they're supposed to be. The logic "I'm safe" brain area is broken in a PTSD brain. You can check out this article for more information (aka proof that I'm not just blowing smoke about it).
It's things like these that make PTSD a disability. I shouldn't be able to function enough to get out of bed in the morning much less go to work, but I have three jobs and go to school part time. I've found that I can make it through my days if my days are filled with things that busy my brain.
My old boss at my current job once said to me (after we had an argument as to why I had my iPod on while I was working on computers - and the fact was that the song that my coworkers were playing had triggered me and I needed a different song to focus on to redirect my brain) "if you're disabled, you shouldn't even be allowed to work here".
It must be nice to be so ignorant to the world, right?
I immediately contacted HR and have them send over a massive amount of paperwork talking about PTSD in the workplace and how to accommodate an employee with PTSD. Turns out, the small things I was asking for to be accommodated in the first place were only a few of dozens of things that they were to offer me.
Yesterday I spent my hour after waking up mentally prepping myself back into reality but the moment I stepped out the door, all was lost. My skin grabbed at the air and my lungs took deep, unnecessary breaths. My brain held guard as best as it could, but I knew it'd be too late.
I needed to adjust to the weather and try to quickly make as many good positive memories as I could in order to overcome the bad one.
But good memories? They're hard to make in my world, the one in which I live inside my own head. I might smile at you or throw out a bit of wit and sarcasm, but they're just shields. They keep you from staring too long, from seeing deeper into the twisted horror that is the inside of me. I smile, I focus on you, I change the subject if anything gets too intense.
It's alright though, because you don't notice, and that's probably for the best.
And yes, like I said, every day is not filled with gruesome horror, but every single day is a challenge. I've found very rare few days in which I didn't have to battle my own mind. Every single morning (unless someone is there to immediately distract me) is a battle from the moment I open my eyes. I immediately grab for my phone to check up on Twitter and Facebook, play a game or two, read a blog. I need that immediate distraction or else my mind will start taking pieces of my dreams and finding ways to use them to open doors that I try my very hardest to keep closed.
After about 15 minutes of distraction, I decide I'm well enough (or have run out of time) to move on to start my day. In the bathroom while I shower, I have the radio on. Morning talk shows are brilliant distraction (as long as I concentrate on what they're saying and don't tune them out to listen to my own mind).
I'm usually fine by the time I leave for work, but still - the radio talk or an audio book on the car ride to work is crucial because all it takes is one trigger to slip through and I'm at risk for mush brain. One word spoken in the right context, a smell, a sound, a feeling, a song on the radio.... any one of those things can act as the key to unlock a door that lets out a flood of memory. And once that one memory gets through, it threatens that it has the master key to unlock every other door that I try to keep closed in my brain.
I always have to be ready for the battle. Every minute of every day. If I'm not paying attention when something slips through, it can be hours before I realize that I've mentally checked out. And even then, I only notice because I suddenly can't speak properly, or comprehend something simple, or the world grows increasingly louder to the point that I can hear every conversation going on around me within earshot.
"Get over it" right? All those who think that PTSD is just "in someone's head" and they're "choosing to relive bad memories" is dead wrong. Studies have shown that the PTSD brain PHYSICALLY looks different than the non-PTSD brain. Different areas are bigger than they're supposed to be. The logic "I'm safe" brain area is broken in a PTSD brain. You can check out this article for more information (aka proof that I'm not just blowing smoke about it).
It's things like these that make PTSD a disability. I shouldn't be able to function enough to get out of bed in the morning much less go to work, but I have three jobs and go to school part time. I've found that I can make it through my days if my days are filled with things that busy my brain.
My old boss at my current job once said to me (after we had an argument as to why I had my iPod on while I was working on computers - and the fact was that the song that my coworkers were playing had triggered me and I needed a different song to focus on to redirect my brain) "if you're disabled, you shouldn't even be allowed to work here".
It must be nice to be so ignorant to the world, right?
I immediately contacted HR and have them send over a massive amount of paperwork talking about PTSD in the workplace and how to accommodate an employee with PTSD. Turns out, the small things I was asking for to be accommodated in the first place were only a few of dozens of things that they were to offer me.
Yesterday I spent my hour after waking up mentally prepping myself back into reality but the moment I stepped out the door, all was lost. My skin grabbed at the air and my lungs took deep, unnecessary breaths. My brain held guard as best as it could, but I knew it'd be too late.
I needed to adjust to the weather and try to quickly make as many good positive memories as I could in order to overcome the bad one.
But good memories? They're hard to make in my world, the one in which I live inside my own head. I might smile at you or throw out a bit of wit and sarcasm, but they're just shields. They keep you from staring too long, from seeing deeper into the twisted horror that is the inside of me. I smile, I focus on you, I change the subject if anything gets too intense.
It's alright though, because you don't notice, and that's probably for the best.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
til the end.
For right now, its just my brain & me til the bittersweet end. You may know me, we may be friends, but I can guarantee that I haven't let you get close enough to really know me. We've been friends, but until now you've had no idea how I really work. By reading this, you've only really had a glimpse. I may have tried to explain myself to you, I may have tried to lay it out as plainly as I can but at the end of the day you only look at me as though I'm wearing this foreign disability on the outside instead of the inside. You stare at me as though I've become disfigured, unsure of how to act or what exactly it is you should do even though I've explained it as plainly as I can a dozen times. I can tell you what it is I'm thinking but you can't see it, can't feel it. In the end, its only me who has to constantly relive every memory, every fear, every uncertainty.
You all move through your lives with peace and grace and I'm stuck walking backwards through time over and over again. Every so often I've had that one person who grabs ahold of my hand and refuses to let me move from one spot. They've tried to give me a glimpse into true happiness, into life. So far, every time, I've watched the life fade from those few people and my brain just picks up shattered hope and tucks it away safely as a memory that undoubtdly will jump back into my thoughts in the weeks, months, years that follow the tragic loss.
Although the path to acceptance isn't the easiest path to wind though, I think I'm breaking ground. I'm no longer afraid of it, no longer trying to figure it out, no longer running from it - pretending its not my own. I live my days as they come. I try really hard to dominate my brain & thoughts and when I can't, then I use my resources to nutralize myself and wait to see what tomorrow might be like.
There's certain days when I stand alone, watching the world blur around me. Days when I could use someone to talk to and frantically search the hollows of my brain for someone anyone who may understand the impact of the words that would emit from my mouth. At the end of my search, I give in to the fact that the only person coming out strong through my frantic search of contacts stored in my head, is me. Ever since the fateful day when I was 19 and my best friend dared utter the words "Why don't you just get over it? Everyone else does." every bright light went dim inside my head. It was the day that I realized that no matter how hard I tried to explain and re-explain and draw maps and diagrams, no one else would ever understand the madness in my head. The daily, sometimes hourly devastation that consumes every inch of my body, mind and soul.
Am I saying it's virtually impossible for me to find a being who might remember enough of what I've told them and actually grasp what my world is like? No, I'm not. I'm sure there is someone out there. I'm not entirely sure, after all these years in "confinement", that I'd even know how to fully let someone in. I don't deserve it, and they don't deserved to be dragged down by the ever growing whirlwind of chaos and tragedy that is my brain.
I'm ok with that, maybe I was sent here for a greater purpose than to live a mundane life.
You all move through your lives with peace and grace and I'm stuck walking backwards through time over and over again. Every so often I've had that one person who grabs ahold of my hand and refuses to let me move from one spot. They've tried to give me a glimpse into true happiness, into life. So far, every time, I've watched the life fade from those few people and my brain just picks up shattered hope and tucks it away safely as a memory that undoubtdly will jump back into my thoughts in the weeks, months, years that follow the tragic loss.
Although the path to acceptance isn't the easiest path to wind though, I think I'm breaking ground. I'm no longer afraid of it, no longer trying to figure it out, no longer running from it - pretending its not my own. I live my days as they come. I try really hard to dominate my brain & thoughts and when I can't, then I use my resources to nutralize myself and wait to see what tomorrow might be like.
There's certain days when I stand alone, watching the world blur around me. Days when I could use someone to talk to and frantically search the hollows of my brain for someone anyone who may understand the impact of the words that would emit from my mouth. At the end of my search, I give in to the fact that the only person coming out strong through my frantic search of contacts stored in my head, is me. Ever since the fateful day when I was 19 and my best friend dared utter the words "Why don't you just get over it? Everyone else does." every bright light went dim inside my head. It was the day that I realized that no matter how hard I tried to explain and re-explain and draw maps and diagrams, no one else would ever understand the madness in my head. The daily, sometimes hourly devastation that consumes every inch of my body, mind and soul.
Am I saying it's virtually impossible for me to find a being who might remember enough of what I've told them and actually grasp what my world is like? No, I'm not. I'm sure there is someone out there. I'm not entirely sure, after all these years in "confinement", that I'd even know how to fully let someone in. I don't deserve it, and they don't deserved to be dragged down by the ever growing whirlwind of chaos and tragedy that is my brain.
I'm ok with that, maybe I was sent here for a greater purpose than to live a mundane life.
Monday, October 10, 2011
one bad day.
A ninja turtle could count on one hand the number of things that could pull me out of a bad day. For those of you who didn’t grow up watching our shelled friends fight crime and keep the streets of New York safe, that would be exactly three things. Three things I’ve found so far. And really, who knows if there will eventually be more or if there will come a time when one of those three things will no longer work.
The first is to overwhelm one of my senses. Currently that would mean one of two things, either blast my ears with music so loud that I can’t help but be distracted by the rhythm and thump of the music or to watch something dance across the television set. Some day I will probably end up deaf from the volume of the music I am able to tolerate when I’m nearly lost to my PTSD. But for now, it can at least keep me partially grounded. And by partially, I mean it won’t bring me back to reality but it keeps me from slipping into a non-responsive blank stare for the rest of my day. The chances that I am able to use this as a tool on a day that I really need it is slim to none. The only thing that can keep me treading water with music would be a pair of headphones that not only fully surround my ears and shut out the entire world or to be standing in front of giant speakers that are blasting enough bass to make the ground move. I could turn the music up in my car loud enough to make it seem distorted and risk possibly blowing out my speakers, but I’m too afraid of disturbing the outside world with such nonsense. They do, after all, always come before I do in my own mind.
On days like this I want to crawl into a hole, take a sleeping pill and succumb to the battle that I undoubtedly cannot win. Unfortunately everyday life requires me to be awake. And even in the hours I can choose sleep, it won't come easy. A day of battle means that the sleeping hours will be even worse. I want to pretend I can make it all go away but instead I find myself forcing myself to stay awake far past any reasonable bed time. This occurs for two reasons: 1. I can finally take time to find as many things as possible to distract myself with the use of the internet and an endless stream of movies. 2. The harder I crash, the more exhausted I am, the better the chance at falling into a sleep deep enough to ward off some demons. Even if I didn't feel like going through those two steps, I really have no choice because my drugs will not work their wonders on my super overactive brain. I would take an Ambien and then continue to stare off into space instead of slowly falling victim to the sedative. I need to be somewhat calm in order for them to really work. If I go to bed emotionally upset on the Ambien, I will end up starting my venture into slumber by sobbing violently into my pillow until I can no longer breathe and need to somehow bring myself back to a calm level.
It's always us, my brain and me, best friends til the end because I have no other choice.
Don't get me wrong, I do actually have real friends, ones that live outside of my brain. I spend every moment that I can to make sure that I'm helping them out in some way. Always staying busy, always useful and it's just as much as for your sake as it is mine. Helping distracts me and makes me feel better. And making you feel better by having my help makes me feel like I have a purpose. I love you all, with all my heart. You've become my tether to the world. But there are some days that I sit back and think "they really don't need me at all. I make them need me".
The first is to overwhelm one of my senses. Currently that would mean one of two things, either blast my ears with music so loud that I can’t help but be distracted by the rhythm and thump of the music or to watch something dance across the television set. Some day I will probably end up deaf from the volume of the music I am able to tolerate when I’m nearly lost to my PTSD. But for now, it can at least keep me partially grounded. And by partially, I mean it won’t bring me back to reality but it keeps me from slipping into a non-responsive blank stare for the rest of my day. The chances that I am able to use this as a tool on a day that I really need it is slim to none. The only thing that can keep me treading water with music would be a pair of headphones that not only fully surround my ears and shut out the entire world or to be standing in front of giant speakers that are blasting enough bass to make the ground move. I could turn the music up in my car loud enough to make it seem distorted and risk possibly blowing out my speakers, but I’m too afraid of disturbing the outside world with such nonsense. They do, after all, always come before I do in my own mind.
On days like this I want to crawl into a hole, take a sleeping pill and succumb to the battle that I undoubtedly cannot win. Unfortunately everyday life requires me to be awake. And even in the hours I can choose sleep, it won't come easy. A day of battle means that the sleeping hours will be even worse. I want to pretend I can make it all go away but instead I find myself forcing myself to stay awake far past any reasonable bed time. This occurs for two reasons: 1. I can finally take time to find as many things as possible to distract myself with the use of the internet and an endless stream of movies. 2. The harder I crash, the more exhausted I am, the better the chance at falling into a sleep deep enough to ward off some demons. Even if I didn't feel like going through those two steps, I really have no choice because my drugs will not work their wonders on my super overactive brain. I would take an Ambien and then continue to stare off into space instead of slowly falling victim to the sedative. I need to be somewhat calm in order for them to really work. If I go to bed emotionally upset on the Ambien, I will end up starting my venture into slumber by sobbing violently into my pillow until I can no longer breathe and need to somehow bring myself back to a calm level.
It's always us, my brain and me, best friends til the end because I have no other choice.
Don't get me wrong, I do actually have real friends, ones that live outside of my brain. I spend every moment that I can to make sure that I'm helping them out in some way. Always staying busy, always useful and it's just as much as for your sake as it is mine. Helping distracts me and makes me feel better. And making you feel better by having my help makes me feel like I have a purpose. I love you all, with all my heart. You've become my tether to the world. But there are some days that I sit back and think "they really don't need me at all. I make them need me".
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
and the doctor said.
In my many attempts at trying to find some sort of peace during sleeping hours, I’ve seen a sleep specialist at a major medical college in the Milwaukee area. On my 6th visit they’ve only come to this conclusion: when I sleep, I look like I’m being chased and even the strongest of seizure medications taken before bed cannot calm this.
On this, my 6th visit, I get the pleasure of first talking with a foreign medical student studying under my primary sleep doctor. She speaks broken English and starts to drill me with questions without any type of warm greeting.
“You have PTSD?” she asks with surprise. I respond with the same surprise and say yes as I nod quickly.
“You have fought in war?” she asks in an almost mocking tone.
My face twists in horror and confusion and I tell her that I have not fought in a war.
“PTSD comes from war, no? How do you have PTSD if you have not fought in war?” she asks as she continues to stare at her computer screen and rapidly clicks her mouse. She has not looked over at me. She cannot see that my face has twisted into horror in reaction to her closed mindedness. She hasn’t the slightest clue that the two hours that I’ve been awake before my appointment I had to spend distracting myself back into a functionable reality. She has no idea how incredibly hard it was to walk through the halls of her hospital to get to her office without literally losing my mind. The hospital she works from is a major trigger to a painful memory that constantly threatens to swallow me whole.
Because she doesn’t know this, nor does she take note to the distress that she’s causing me, she leaves me in a thick fog by the time she walks out the door. She has unknowingly made my entire day become ten times more challenging than it normally would be. That’s all it really takes.
My sleep pattern goes something like this: a night filled with horrible dreams in which I wake 5 or 6 times, a second night with the same, a third filled with sad memories of those lost in which I wake up with swollen eyes from the tears I wasn’t even aware I cried, and by the fourth night, I’m forcing myself to stay awake and get little to no sleep so that by the fifth night I am in such a fit of utter exhaustion that maybe, maybe, I may sleep sound enough that I don’t remember my dreams.
On this, my 6th visit, I get the pleasure of first talking with a foreign medical student studying under my primary sleep doctor. She speaks broken English and starts to drill me with questions without any type of warm greeting.
“You have PTSD?” she asks with surprise. I respond with the same surprise and say yes as I nod quickly.
“You have fought in war?” she asks in an almost mocking tone.
My face twists in horror and confusion and I tell her that I have not fought in a war.
“PTSD comes from war, no? How do you have PTSD if you have not fought in war?” she asks as she continues to stare at her computer screen and rapidly clicks her mouse. She has not looked over at me. She cannot see that my face has twisted into horror in reaction to her closed mindedness. She hasn’t the slightest clue that the two hours that I’ve been awake before my appointment I had to spend distracting myself back into a functionable reality. She has no idea how incredibly hard it was to walk through the halls of her hospital to get to her office without literally losing my mind. The hospital she works from is a major trigger to a painful memory that constantly threatens to swallow me whole.
Because she doesn’t know this, nor does she take note to the distress that she’s causing me, she leaves me in a thick fog by the time she walks out the door. She has unknowingly made my entire day become ten times more challenging than it normally would be. That’s all it really takes.
My sleep pattern goes something like this: a night filled with horrible dreams in which I wake 5 or 6 times, a second night with the same, a third filled with sad memories of those lost in which I wake up with swollen eyes from the tears I wasn’t even aware I cried, and by the fourth night, I’m forcing myself to stay awake and get little to no sleep so that by the fifth night I am in such a fit of utter exhaustion that maybe, maybe, I may sleep sound enough that I don’t remember my dreams.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
on sleep.
It’s 6:30am and my alarm clock is threatening to jump off of my night stand. A metal bar violently thrashes between two bells in an ear piercing ring. It’s the only thing that is loud enough to jolt me from any type of sleep. This particular morning I can hear my friend upstairs as she encourages her 3 year old to wake up his daddy. My eyes aren’t yet open but I’m awake and my brain thinks it’s 1997 and that I’m listening to my mother talk to my 3 year old sister.
I open my eyes and try to focus on the room in a hast of confusion. I know exactly what my room looks like in 1997 and where everything is supposed to be but what I’m seeing doesn’t match. I jolt upwards in a panic and survey my surroundings repeatedly until my current life, 14 years later, starts to slowly enter my brain. I’m not at my childhood home. I am… living with Michelle. She is talking to Jaydon. I slump back into my bed and continue to try and sort out what my current life consists of from all the other memories and thoughts that are running through my head.
Hours later while I’m at work, trying to focus on the duties of my job, my body has still not physically caught up to my thoughts. I can consciously say to myself what year it really is and that the events of my dreams never happened but my body thinks otherwise. It whispers one word that keeps me feeling like I’m waiting for the starters gun in a race: "run!".
My dreams are different from yours. I don’t often dream of fictional situations that make me giggle when I wake up. Instead I dream of people who have passed away and situations that either have occurred or I fear will occur. My dreams are actually real life nightmares that tear me from sleep only to taunt me by letting fear engulf my entire being.
People with my kind of PTSD spend there entire day keeping their brains in check. Every sight, smell, sound, feeling is a potential trigger that can send you into a fit of rage or leave you huddled in the corner shaking uncontrollably. Every waking moment, I’m fighting my largest battle but the very minute that my sleeping pill takes over my consciousness, I’m literally setting down my weapons and any mean of defense and surrendering to the demons that are continuously chasing me.
When I sleep, they win. I don’t have a choice. And in the morning, when I wake, I’m left to clean up the mess they’ve made. I have to gather my mental defense, my "wounded soldiers", and beg them to get back up and continue their battle. Most mornings I eventually succeed at this, although it may take a few hours to do so. Some mornings they are simply too tired to fight back. They may let demons slip past their front line and it takes everything I have to beg them to turn around and chase back after those demons.
And on very rare occasions (and by very rare, I mean maybe once a month) I just have to accept the fact they they’re just too tired and that any attack on my brain I may have that day will just have to be taken without a fight. I simply put up the white flag and vacate my mind.
On those days, I’m standing right in front of you, but nothing’s there. I’m just a shell of a human being because my entire body knows to simply shut down and run on auto pilot to get through the day. At the end of days like those and on similar days in which I have a break of triggers that slip through, I collapse on a couch in a fit of exhaustion. I can’t think, I can’t move.
Tiredness, is a strange feeling for me. Its not often I have the pleasure to be too tired to think or too tired to have a wandering mind, even too tired to not let the fear keep my eyelids peeled wide open. There are only a few instances that’ll happen, the first being the days that I’ve had to fight extra hard (or give up in trying altogether), the “fifth night” in which I’m severely sleep deprived, or in which I feel 100% safe and comforted (usually by the presence of someone else).
I could write 50 pages on sleep alone, but at the end of those 50 pages the truth is, the only person who will fully understand the devestation devastation of “I didn’t sleep last night” is another person with PTSD. It goes so much deeper and has that much more of an effect on a PTSDer than the “normal” human being. I can tell you that I awoke at 3am with such horror that I forced myself to stay awake, too afraid to fall back into the hellish trap that sleep gave me. Imagine if your worst nightmares were the truth. Imagine if your worst memories were mixed in with those nightmares, constantly reminding you of how unsafe and unfair the world can be.
I open my eyes and try to focus on the room in a hast of confusion. I know exactly what my room looks like in 1997 and where everything is supposed to be but what I’m seeing doesn’t match. I jolt upwards in a panic and survey my surroundings repeatedly until my current life, 14 years later, starts to slowly enter my brain. I’m not at my childhood home. I am… living with Michelle. She is talking to Jaydon. I slump back into my bed and continue to try and sort out what my current life consists of from all the other memories and thoughts that are running through my head.
Hours later while I’m at work, trying to focus on the duties of my job, my body has still not physically caught up to my thoughts. I can consciously say to myself what year it really is and that the events of my dreams never happened but my body thinks otherwise. It whispers one word that keeps me feeling like I’m waiting for the starters gun in a race: "run!".
My dreams are different from yours. I don’t often dream of fictional situations that make me giggle when I wake up. Instead I dream of people who have passed away and situations that either have occurred or I fear will occur. My dreams are actually real life nightmares that tear me from sleep only to taunt me by letting fear engulf my entire being.
People with my kind of PTSD spend there entire day keeping their brains in check. Every sight, smell, sound, feeling is a potential trigger that can send you into a fit of rage or leave you huddled in the corner shaking uncontrollably. Every waking moment, I’m fighting my largest battle but the very minute that my sleeping pill takes over my consciousness, I’m literally setting down my weapons and any mean of defense and surrendering to the demons that are continuously chasing me.
When I sleep, they win. I don’t have a choice. And in the morning, when I wake, I’m left to clean up the mess they’ve made. I have to gather my mental defense, my "wounded soldiers", and beg them to get back up and continue their battle. Most mornings I eventually succeed at this, although it may take a few hours to do so. Some mornings they are simply too tired to fight back. They may let demons slip past their front line and it takes everything I have to beg them to turn around and chase back after those demons.
And on very rare occasions (and by very rare, I mean maybe once a month) I just have to accept the fact they they’re just too tired and that any attack on my brain I may have that day will just have to be taken without a fight. I simply put up the white flag and vacate my mind.
On those days, I’m standing right in front of you, but nothing’s there. I’m just a shell of a human being because my entire body knows to simply shut down and run on auto pilot to get through the day. At the end of days like those and on similar days in which I have a break of triggers that slip through, I collapse on a couch in a fit of exhaustion. I can’t think, I can’t move.
Tiredness, is a strange feeling for me. Its not often I have the pleasure to be too tired to think or too tired to have a wandering mind, even too tired to not let the fear keep my eyelids peeled wide open. There are only a few instances that’ll happen, the first being the days that I’ve had to fight extra hard (or give up in trying altogether), the “fifth night” in which I’m severely sleep deprived, or in which I feel 100% safe and comforted (usually by the presence of someone else).
I could write 50 pages on sleep alone, but at the end of those 50 pages the truth is, the only person who will fully understand the devestation devastation of “I didn’t sleep last night” is another person with PTSD. It goes so much deeper and has that much more of an effect on a PTSDer than the “normal” human being. I can tell you that I awoke at 3am with such horror that I forced myself to stay awake, too afraid to fall back into the hellish trap that sleep gave me. Imagine if your worst nightmares were the truth. Imagine if your worst memories were mixed in with those nightmares, constantly reminding you of how unsafe and unfair the world can be.
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