Saturday, September 24, 2022
PTSD #1
PTSD pops in when you expect it, for sure. The worst moments, however, are when you do not expect to be blasted from inside your chest. PTSD, isn't just about loud bangs, although those sure fuck you up too. PTSD changes the way in which you walk, act, listen, and speak. PTSD makes you more aware of the changes in voice patterns of others and notice when a pace becomes a trot. Victims are able to latch on to any sense of danger. Survivors learn to work through it and panic attacks happen less often. Do they ever go completely away? I can't tell you.
I heard that I suffered from PTSD from the therapist I saw after being robbed. I heard it from the therapist I found when I was trying to reassemble a relationship, I truly believed I was destroying. I heard it from Kathy.
When I walked into Kathy's office for the first session, I didn't waste any fucking time. I got to the point. I said, "I'm fucking crazy, or my boyfriend is a Narcissist. I am losing my mind." Then it all came out: my father, Zackary, my substance abuse issues, the robbery, my time in Mormon Corp., and again my father. I told her of how I could get angry. Sometimes I just wanted to fucking end it all. I said fucked up things that I didn't ever want to feel inside. I cried, she asked questions, I cried some more. I didn't want to be a bad girlfriend. I needed help so that I could be better. I didn't want to have anything in common with my father. I didn't want to be cruel. ** Did you know that "trauma dumping" is a sign of trauma? Well, the more you know. ** She knew I was obviously a mess and I figured she would tell me to check myself into the loony bin and warn Zackary to run. Instead, she asked me if I was saving any money.
Kathy helped me save myself. It was something I was completely unable to do up until that point. She asked me questions. I could talk to someone. When she told me I had PTSD, I didn't just hear it, I felt it.
That seems like so long ago, and ironically, I cannot say now if I feel worse or better off as I type this out. I think that truly shows how fucked up my brain is. It's why I can't go back out there. I don't trust me. I don't trust men. I have no motivation to.
The reason I started writing this out is because I heard a man screaming with nothing but rage outside my bedroom window. I shut my laptop mid-episode and stopped breathing. I waited. Then I got up, ran to my back door, threw it open and got ready to beat the shit out of any man that was harming one of my neighbors. By then it was quiet. Too late though, because Mr. PTSD had arrived.
This is why I sleep with a baseball bat right by my side.
You can't have us.
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