PTSD and Me

I'm going along just fine, having an ordinary day.  Suddenly I'm flipping out, stomach aching and armpits sweating, as I tool along 2 miles under the speed limit behind the idiot in the car in front of me. Does he not see that there are 100 yards of empty road between him and the car in front of him?  Does he not see that the light is changing and we'll sit at the corner forever until we get the green?

I get past him, not really cutting off the bus in the right hand lane, and I'm first at the intersection. NPR is giving the traffic report instead of telling me a story and I'm furious.  I'm only going to be in the car for 13 more minutes; don't waste my time with useless drivel.  The reporter returns and tells me that Zuccotti Park has been power-washed and the tents can't go back up and some fool is screaming about changing something but I'm not sure what it is because the blood is rushing to my ears and I can barely hear.

Such is life after trauma.

Waiting for Gabby's interview was stressful, watching it was tearful, and the day after has left me raw and exposed.  Our stories are so similar that her revelations feel like my own.  When I share my thoughts with you they are my thoughts and only the ones I filter get through to you.  Last night, Gabby pointed to areas that are still tough for me.  She looked awful and bruised and "beaten up" in her husband's words and I look at my own suffering spouse and he's not on Douglas right next to me... he's back at the hospital looking at me, entubed and bloody.

For me, the hospital was a safe though sleepless place.  I was scared but I was in the right place for any problem I might encounter.  Everyone was nice to me.  Everyone was worried about me.  I was drugged.  When I was discharged I could feel every mile away from its security blanket  falling away from me and leaving me bereft.

Those who love me and saw me in that first week have a very different experience of the place.  Those who saw me when I came home have no experience of it at all.  Everyone with whom I might possibly find companionship has a different experience and none of them are mine.  It's a very lonely place to be.

I feel sorry for myself because I'm limping and I'm mad at myself because I'm whining.  I want to visit G'ma but my hip hurts so I drive by and don't make myself get in and out of the car and walk down her hallway and reply when she asks me why I am limping.  I feel guilty, then I'm aggravated, then I'm furious.

There is laughter and there are tears and there is stress - that's life.  This is something entirely different.  This strikes at the id, the scary piece that runs out of control and puts me in places I'd rather not go.  Mine runs in the lane next to my normal side; I feel myself screeching and I feel myself watching in amazement.

It's very odd, denizens.  Very odd indeed.