Poem: Anxiety, Another Day

It is the still raw scar upon the skin

constant irritation, ceasless excoriation –

pummeling, eroding from within

tattered doubt in its wake and whim.

Yet I reach out, for the oils promising to sooth

and gingerly, tenderly, applied

or carefully imbibed they oft do;

please, I whisper, please heal soon.

 

 

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Deep Fried Mars Bars Pt 4: The Strangers in My Head [CN/TW]

The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.

John 10:10 (NIV)

This post discusses intrusive thoughts associated with PTSD. Intrusive thoughts are also associated with other mental health issues including (but not limited to) OCD,  Body Dysmorphic Disorder, depression and ADHD.  

It has been a really difficult couple of weeks dealing with a bombardment of Intrusive thoughts.  It started a couple of weekends ago at work – a comment made by a customer on the telephone: a nasty, unnecessary comment which maybe some people would be able to ignore, and which I don’t doubt some people would excuse or justify in some way.

It was enough though. More than enough, and it is only in the last day or so that the severity of them has started to lessen again.

It is hard to describe what it’s like. The best analogy I have found so far is that it is like waking up in the morning to find a stranger in your kitchen, offering you a cup of coffee and an image of some appalling awful thing happening to someone you love. Worse, this stranger is telling you that this awful thing is something you are going to do. (No, it does not help to know that you would never do it).

Then you find another stranger in your bathroom, and this one offers a different image of something really horrible, being done to you by someone you love.  (And no, it doesn’t help to know that the person you love would never ever do such a thing).

And as you walk around your home you find that your house is full of strangers, all offering up different grotesque, vile images until there is nowhere you can go; even closing your eyes and pulling the duvet up over your head does nothing except make you feel totally alone with all these strangers, who seem to really really want these awful things to happen, because they wont shut up about it.

Those strangers steal everything: energy, emotion, sense of self, feeling, words – until inevitably, you break down, melt down, screaming and crying in a desperate effort to purge yourself of these … well, for want of a better word, demons running around your head and your house wreaking havoc.

Which, of course, doesn’t work, and all the demons are still sat around your table, eating your food, making a mess and plastering those horrid images everywhere you look.

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Those images – all of them, every single last one of them – are lies. Black, twisted ugly lies whose power is rooted, not in their falsehood, but in the veneer of truth that they steal from the past trauma(s) which have given birth to them.  These lies are not just meant to rob me of life, and of love: they are meant to steal those things away from the ones I love too.

For if I were to believe those lies, (and sometimes it is very hard not to), then I would tell my children I could not be their mother. I would tell my family I could not be their daughter, sister, niece, aunt. I would tell my friends that I was no good for them, I would tell my lovers that I am bad and a waste of time. I would live my life in hiding – and in fear.

I would (and sometimes have) push my friends, my family and my lovers, as far from myself as I possibly could, because the single biggest lie those intrusive thoughts tell me is that pushing them away from me is the only way to protect them.

But of course, by pushing them away, I am doing the very opposite of protecting them.

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Some days, most days, faith is all there is: not even religious faith – just a basic, hanging-by-a-thread-faith, that somehow, one day, or one little step at a time, there will be one less screeching demon with its vile images running around my head tomorrow.

Music helps – if music be the food of love, the play on (and on, and on please). Books don’t help (I love to read but simply can’t focus), but writing can – not poetry though: I need a quiet head for that. Increasingly, looking at paintings and photography helps. Anything really, that takes me out of my own head and takes focus off the thoughts and images that so belittle and undermine me.

Anything that stops me being so afraid to love.

Shadows and Ghosts and Deep Fried Mars Bars: on living with PTSD [CN]

What my brain looks like.
What my brain probably looks like.

 

I have been quiet for a while. Over the last couple of months I have stayed away from twitter and Facebook, and spent most of my spare time at home, avoiding people and life as much as I can. I am no longer a happy introvert. I am an unhappy hermit.

I have PTSD.

It’s very early days – diagnosis is recent. Assessments are being done, what treatments and support will be required are being evaluated.  The path to recovery has barely started, but at least now I know there is a path.

So I hang on, between the appalling sleeplessness, the incessant noise in my brain from flashbacks I cannot control, that tight constriction in my gut from the anxiety and fear, the mind numbing worry of how I might cope financially if I have to stop working, and the nerve shredding panic every day as I keep working. My short term memory is non-existent. Processing information and communicating is non-starter. The world appals me.

My brain might as well be deep-fried Gouda. Or perhaps a deep fried mars bar.

It was triggered initially last year, and I was only barely coming to grips with the fact I might need some serious help when events in May this year triggered a whole new episode. Now my thoughts ricochet like a pin ball, backwards and forwards between one shitty memory or other, drenching me in images that leave me shaking like a bad Bond cocktail.

I have never been more grateful for the wonders of modern medicine – the little white pills that are starting to provide some measure of calm in this storm, and oh! the joy of actual sleep. I crave sleep. If I had the choice right now I would curl up under my duvet and sleep through this whole damn thing.

So I hang on. I am not the first to walk this path – there are many (too many) out there who walk, and have walked, this way before me and I tell myself that this is something I can survive, because others have survived before me. This is a land filled with too many shadows, too many ghosts, too many memories that I would rather fling out to the farthest reaches of space and never, ever, have to live with again.

The threads that hold me together right now are not as bare as they sometimes feel. Hope holds on, however worn.

My sons, full of love and care and concern, keep my feet rooted to the earth. My faith keeps a flicker of hope and love alive in my breast. Prayers escape from lips like wisps of smoke, and I try and recall that these are the most precious of all prayers. Friends and family who have coped, and continue to cope, with so much, inspire me: you have such courage, such faith!

For those who have been kind enough to stop by and read this blog for the last few years – thank you, and please be patient with my silence.

I haven’t left. I am not leaving.

“I know that the whole point—the only point—is to
find the things that matter, and hold on to them, and fight for them, and refuse to
let them go.” ~ Lauren Oliver