Much like a
good Tarantino flick or Hunter S. Thompson book, to hell with
traditional story arcs. We will start this story wherever I damn well
please. I'm the fucking train conductor now. Buy the ticket, take the
ride.
I can talk shit all day, but as I begin to write this a fear swells in my stomach, knotting my intestines in a cruel vice of stress and longing to create. My immediate environment is calm and peaceful, by contrast. Crickets chirping, thunder quietly in the distance. The sound of the trains echoing off the rusty abandoned warehouses downtown. My dog snores aloofly in the alcove outside my studio, and my beau snores quietly echoing the dog's sleepy noises from the lazy boy in the living room where Star Trek plays on netflix. Captain Picard's commands to his crew are so often the subject of my lullaby. It has been since I was a kid when the show ran on the air originally. I guess I'm a creature of habit.
This blog has been a long time coming and I will need to get it all out. Even sitting down to the computer to make the account and set up the damn thing has been a point of contention for many weeks. Like a zit that needs to be popped, but is too early to pick. I gotta wait for the whitehead of my courage to form. Or rage cyst, whichever. Probably both. Hopefully I've summoned enough to make this a good popper. Let's hope I don't have to get out the tweezers. But it might get bloody.
So this is it? Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I never saw combat. I was never a battered woman. When my therapist first suggested it, I was stunned. It was as if some kind of barrier was shattered and I could put a real name on what I was experiencing, and that I was not alone in my diagnosis. In the days that followed I started googling everything I could find on the subject. I joined support groups on reddit, facebook, wherever I could find. I lurked on posts and devoured every word looking for some sort of kinship but too afraid to reach out. He might find it.
I quickly realized that I was facing a much larger demon than I had originally thought while sitting in my therapist's office when the words "Post Traumatic Stress" echoed softly off the cold paint and above the hum of the harsh medical office fluorescent lights. I thought I was stronger than that. I had honestly been ignoring the truth for three years, since my move back to home.
That first office visit was the first time I had ever uttered the words "I was raped." Admitting it was very weird. The words sounded foreign, they stuck to my tongue and twisted my mouth. It was my voice that said it but the words came from a small place in my soul that is very tired, sick, and was ready to give up. Those three words opened a massive floodgate of memories, events, emotions and trauma that I had compartmentalized and chose to block out. A floodgate of a whole time period in my life when I was so full of vulnerability, drugs, stress, isolation and naivety that it's a miracle I'm even alive today to write about it. The realization that he was a predator and I was prey was reached that first day of counseling. It's still hard to admit, but it's something I can live with now.
After that first visit, I was driving to a friends house to hang out. She had coerced me to come over saying that maybe a good workout and some time to chill would help me take my mind off things. Driving there I was in a haze. Pulling into their apartment complex, the usual overly careful driver I am, started driving on the complete wrong side of the road. My mind was gone. I was miles away back past the therapist office, through time and space, back to three years ago. I was not focused on any specific time or even, I was just there, in that time of vulnerability and isolation. My mental haze was only noticed by my beau, when he quickly pointed out "Hey babe, do you want me to drive? You're on the wrong side of the road!"
To be honest I don't remember much about that visit to our friends' house that evening. I sat on their couch and stared at their cigarette-burned rug and my tattered pair of blue slip-on shoes piled next to the foot of their coffee table. My own words ringing in my ears "I was raped" still ringing in my ears. I was a victim, how could I accept that? I felt torn apart, broken, isolated and fearful. Putting the "R word" to it criminalized him even more in my mind. Even though he was thousands of literal miles away, in my mind, he was next to me. Even yet my creative anxieties crept in further. He was racing in his silver sports car across state lines and coming to get me because I had admitted it, and somehow he knew that I had figured it all out and had finally told someone.
"Hey! I like your socks! Are those happy little hamburgers and french fries? So cute!" my friend cheerfully quipped at me; noticing my gaze towards the mismatched socks on. Her words unintentionally snapped me to reality like a sudden thunderclap. The kind that rouses one from a dead sleep in the middle of the night. The kind of thunder that shakes your soul and rattles the windows of the house.
"My taste in socks is rather juvenile, and I don't ever really bother pairing them up. Ain't nobody got time for that." I pretended that I was there all along, smiling and nodding, partaking as much of the conversation as I could. Mars? Nope, I've been here all along! Don't mind me or my space helmet, I'm okay. I realized that some sort of emotional floodgates had been opened, and all that I had compartmentalized was starting to come back. It was hard to squeeze back into that mindset and pretend that everything was okay.
My social awkwardness kicked in and I couldn't remember why I had even taken off my shoes in the first place. I started to worry that my friends thought I was weird for taking off my shoes. That night my partner drove us home. I had to take an anxiety pill to go to bed that night.
The next day after the dust had settled and my nerves had calmed, what my therapist had told me had really started to sink in. I was honestly happy and relieved that I had a name to what I had. She also gave me paperwork to send into work for medical leave. This act has been one of the single biggest helpers in my recovery and treatment. Much of my anxiety comes in the morning and late at night, making it hard to keep a normal sleep schedule or function properly to hold down a job.
Every single job, responsibility or activity that I have ever had in my 26 years of life I have always quit in one fashion or another due to stress and anxiety. I have a fantastic job now that allows me to carry full health insurance for only working 32 hours a week, so I'm already at a reduced schedule to help my anxiety. The medical leave I have allows me to call in up to 2 times in one work week, for a total of 16 hours a week for an episode of incapacity. My therapist and my psychiatrist signed documents describing my PTSD, anxiety, and depression very vaguely(as to not reveal too much medical information) and then fax it to my employers. This resource has seriously been a godsend in the last few months, especially as I open old wounds and deal with flashbacks, nightmares, insomnia, panic attacks, and severe physiological symptoms. While that tends to keep me broke, my mental health, for the first time in my life, is a main priority.
So this brings me about to my current state. I've been in therapy for about four months now. I see my therapist once a week and my med doctor once every 8 weeks. I feel that I'm making some progress but I also feel rather like I'm in a stale mate with my fears. I have to overcome the fear of the pain from opening up old woulds and poking around. I have to get over the fact that the past is in the past and cannot hurt me anymore. While that task will probably take me years, my first visit to the therapist really seems like a logical starting point to write a memoir or blog as such. I guess it's the starting point to my recovery. I will tell my story here. I don't even care if anyone else in the whole world reads it but me. I'll tell it in pieces and chunks or by subjects, I don't know. It's not for anyone but me anyway. Hey at least I got brave enough for a first entry, right?
