Lighthouses
I burnt dinner in the crock pot today. I went to happy hour after work and then to the movies, and came home to a house smelling of burnt beef and my cat meowing for me in the dark. If I had to describe this week, it would be burnt beef.
It's interesting that I can tell people my history, they can even calm me down when I am going through it, but the moment they see this "behavior" up close and personal, that it's directed at them, I feel cut off, trapped, and lost at sea. My PTSD is flaring something fierce, and I am going to try a new treatment method to get better. But most of the time, I feel really unheard. I don't know if my flair for the dramatic or biting my tong is what does it. I don't feel safe in my own skin, and I am supposed to open up and talk about it. I don't know how to fix it, and when I ask for help, the door shuts in my face or people are just too busy. I get it. We all have lives to live. But I can't be the rock anymore, and my mood isn't holding up to life.
So I will say it one more time. PTSD isn't something I can control. Mine looks like bipolar because it's complicated. I can be happy and laughing one minute, and then angry, silent, or in tears the next. It's tied to memories that are stuck in the brain because of traumatic events. One coming up this month, the death of Christopher Lee Hanson, better known as Stitch, at the hand of the man I loved at the time, Jonathon Michael Killoran. I have blamed myself for years for it. I am willing to let that go, but I am still grieving, and I don't know how to let that go. (They call this depression). The terror that comes for me in the night, the looking over my shoulder to make sure I am not being watched, the amplifying of faults real or imagined, and the way situations can send me into full panic mode if it reminds me too much of some past event is still with me.
I try not to focus on it. I have so much to be thankful for. But I feel like I am trying too hard to be with people, and I don't know how to quit. I feel like every dream of family I have is too good to be true, and that sucks because I desperately want a family. They tell me I try to hard. I don't think so. I just get comfortable enough to talk about the pain, and then it pushes people away because I can't deal with it, and I don't know how to hold onto them and love them when I am in pain. I wish I could find a dream that I can't break.
And that's when Thor comes and yells at me loudly and tells me he's still here. I lift my eyes from this screen, and I see a house furnished with gifts from all sorts of people who love me. I try to remind myself that I am not alone, even though I do not know how to ask for help when my emotions feel like they are drowning me. And I tell myself to hold on until the doctor's appointment in just 20 days. I soak in the happy moments, hoping that this monster called depression, this scar called PTSD, will not come back ever again, and I try to stay one step ahead of it. I am failing in this endeavor tonight. But if you worry about me, I will feel guilty for upsetting your peace. Nice little trap, isn't it? That's why we don't talk about it. How can we?
People will tell me that I am so strong. I know the truth. There's a cat that will get me through this night. I will be back in the gym tomorrow trying to exercise this thing into submission, and there's still homework to be done. I am thankful to everyone who has cried on the phone with me, gotten me through dark nights, and reminded me to hope, to keep my head up, and that life is worth living. Your lights are bright in my heart tonight as I wait for this storm to pass. You are my lighthouses.
It's interesting that I can tell people my history, they can even calm me down when I am going through it, but the moment they see this "behavior" up close and personal, that it's directed at them, I feel cut off, trapped, and lost at sea. My PTSD is flaring something fierce, and I am going to try a new treatment method to get better. But most of the time, I feel really unheard. I don't know if my flair for the dramatic or biting my tong is what does it. I don't feel safe in my own skin, and I am supposed to open up and talk about it. I don't know how to fix it, and when I ask for help, the door shuts in my face or people are just too busy. I get it. We all have lives to live. But I can't be the rock anymore, and my mood isn't holding up to life.
So I will say it one more time. PTSD isn't something I can control. Mine looks like bipolar because it's complicated. I can be happy and laughing one minute, and then angry, silent, or in tears the next. It's tied to memories that are stuck in the brain because of traumatic events. One coming up this month, the death of Christopher Lee Hanson, better known as Stitch, at the hand of the man I loved at the time, Jonathon Michael Killoran. I have blamed myself for years for it. I am willing to let that go, but I am still grieving, and I don't know how to let that go. (They call this depression). The terror that comes for me in the night, the looking over my shoulder to make sure I am not being watched, the amplifying of faults real or imagined, and the way situations can send me into full panic mode if it reminds me too much of some past event is still with me.
I try not to focus on it. I have so much to be thankful for. But I feel like I am trying too hard to be with people, and I don't know how to quit. I feel like every dream of family I have is too good to be true, and that sucks because I desperately want a family. They tell me I try to hard. I don't think so. I just get comfortable enough to talk about the pain, and then it pushes people away because I can't deal with it, and I don't know how to hold onto them and love them when I am in pain. I wish I could find a dream that I can't break.
And that's when Thor comes and yells at me loudly and tells me he's still here. I lift my eyes from this screen, and I see a house furnished with gifts from all sorts of people who love me. I try to remind myself that I am not alone, even though I do not know how to ask for help when my emotions feel like they are drowning me. And I tell myself to hold on until the doctor's appointment in just 20 days. I soak in the happy moments, hoping that this monster called depression, this scar called PTSD, will not come back ever again, and I try to stay one step ahead of it. I am failing in this endeavor tonight. But if you worry about me, I will feel guilty for upsetting your peace. Nice little trap, isn't it? That's why we don't talk about it. How can we?
People will tell me that I am so strong. I know the truth. There's a cat that will get me through this night. I will be back in the gym tomorrow trying to exercise this thing into submission, and there's still homework to be done. I am thankful to everyone who has cried on the phone with me, gotten me through dark nights, and reminded me to hope, to keep my head up, and that life is worth living. Your lights are bright in my heart tonight as I wait for this storm to pass. You are my lighthouses.
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