Tag Archives: ptsd

Epiphany

I was sitting here tonight, trying to keep myself safe, because the urges have been strong tonight, writing and reading poetry, when all of a sudden I had an epiphany (at least, it felt that way).

All night I have been caught in the crossfire between the rational and irrational sides of me, wondering how I can make the incessant desire to kill myself disappear. I started with music, with music blaring in my ears, I wouldn’t hear the thoughts, right? Wrong.

Next I messaged the friends I knew were most likely to still be up at this time of night. After no response, I turned to the fridge for help, more specifically, the alcohol in the fridge (I rationalized by telling myself I wouldnt take my meds tonight, because I know not to mix the two).

None of it seems very rational, does it?

With a couple beers less in the fridge, I turned to the next thing that usually helps let the thoughts pass on, writing. Two unpublished, and one published poems later, I started to feel a little better.

Where is the epiphany, you ask? Well, after posting the latest poem, I started reading other blogs. It turns out, I’m not the only one feeling this way at the moment, so I left some comments of encouragement – things I would like someone to say to me, when I am like this. The epiphany came afer receiving replies, advising I had helped them feel better. The thoughts disappeared instantly, and all of a sudden, the last eight years flashed through my mind, and I realised helping someone else always gets me out the other side.

Let’s hope I don’t have to rely on that realisation too often.

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Buckle Up

It is day 14 on the new meds, and I have a whole new level of compassion for animals shot with tranquiliser darts.

Today is the first day I have had real trouble making my muscles move. I would be more than happy to sit in a corner and stare at the wall. This is a state of being I do not enjoy, and I do not like. Part of me is rebelling. Part of me knows the rebellion will be short-lived. The knowledge does not bring comfort.

There is also anxiety rising.

People who don’t know the old me, who have only seen the confident, competent me, are seeing my weakness, and it is making me uncomfortable. It won’t be long before excuses are made to avoid contact, and distance themselves from me. It is already happening. There is nothing I can do about it.

I feel beaten. I feel like I have lost the battle. I feel like the last 3 years of growth, the 7 years of intensive work before that, and the 20 years of work before that, have all been for nought. I may as well be right back at the beginning of the process. I hope the feeling passes, or I may end up right where I was 15 days ago, that led to me being here.

As always, it is a never-ending cycle.

I am tired. I still have no reserves to draw on. I have no one who has any real understanding of where I am at, or what it is I need. Yes, I have people who care, but for the most part they are still saying “just get over it” in the back of their minds and under their breath. If only I could. I would give anything to get over this instantly and permanently.

Instead, I have to meet me where I am at, hold my own hand, and walk beside myself to either the other side of this, or to the end. I don’t know what the final outcome will be, all I know is that I need to buckle up and hold on as tight as I can, because it is still a rough road ahead.

New View

As always, it has been quite a while since I have written here, but as time goes on, I have less and less to write about, in regards to my childhood, and my journey so far. But this post is relevant. It shows just how far I have come.

It was six years ago, yesterday, since I last saw my father, and last heard his voice. Yesterday, was the first time I have thought about June 28, 2012, in terms of my father and it being the last time I had seen him. Until yesterday, I had always thought of the date as the anniversary of the day my daughter, who was 14 at the time, showed me she had more strength than her mother, and pre-recorded her testimony for the trial. It was the anniversary of the start of her always blaming herself for my father’s death. It was the anniversary of the day I would name as the day my hatred of my father surpassed any previous hate I had felt by a thousand-fold – how dare he put my daughter through that!

But yesterday, I viewed it as the anniversary of the last time I saw and heard him.

The day is burned into my memory.

My daughter and I had been staying in a motel for a week leading up to that day, because there was a possibility the session would be moved forward. We were on edge and nervous, because we knew my father was also in town. On June 28, 2012, we went to the court house. My mother, step-father, brother, sister-in-law and niece met us there. We were asked to wait in the foyer in front of the court rooms. I immediately had a panic attack, because I knew my father was going to walk past us. I was terrified of seeing him.

Thankfully, the court staff were understanding, and found us an office to wait in.

Then my daughter and I met with her PACT support worker. By the end of that meeting I was falling apart emotionally and psychologically, and physically was not too far behind those. Going back to the office without my daughter, knowing what she was about to do, was too much for me to bear, as a person and as a mother. I knew in my heart my daughter was so much stronger than me. And in the time she was in the court, I came to understand I was not going to survive giving evidence and being cross-examined. It would cost me my life.

When it was over, and my father had left the building, we left the office and waited in the foyer to give my father time to leave the area.

At the front of the foyer was a wall of windows. I glanced out them, and my heart stopped – my father’s car was parked directly across the road, facing the building I was in. Almost simultaneously, I heard someone call out my father’s name. Moments later, I heard my father’s voice. My knees buckled, there was a roaring in my ears, and the ground tilted beneath my feet, at least, that is what it felt like.

That was the last time I heard him.

His conversation seemed to go on for hours, but eventually he walked across the road to his car. He got in and sat there, while making a phone call. again, it seemed to go on forever. Finally, he drove away.

We all went downstairs, and stood on the footpath while we discussed where would meet next, and my father drove past.

That was the last time I saw him.

And that is what I thought about yesterday.