PTSD is a bitch. It is a sickness that lives in your heart and mind and soul and there is no cure beyond time, understanding, compassion, support, and love…all of which are in too short a supply these days.
I have had a lot of time for introspection lately. Too much time, really. Between the wakefulness thanks to nightmares and my own general introspection any way, coupled with this year’s crippling events, I have had more than enough time to delve deeply in to all the things that make me who and what I am. This is rarely a good thing. I cannot say, yet, whether this has been a good thing recently, either. Though I have come to some conclusions.
I recently did something that has, to date, been one of the three hardest things I have ever done. I sat down and wrote all the things I could, at the time, think that I love about someone. It is much harder than it sounds. I have often thought about it before, and when I did, I often found myself snapping back to the present with my mouth agape, eyes unfocused and staring in to memories past, lost in the swirling swarming events I hold close to my heart. I can no more put in to words the emotions these memories evoke than I can adequately explain the emotions of giving birth, swinging from flesh hooks, adopting a child out, being beat by your spouse, escaping death. They are all things that have no words, in any language, to really explain. Though some of those I can explain better than others. Love, fear, loss..these emotions will never be adequately explained, and they are the three that make us do the most fucked up things. They make us stand when we should flee, they make us flee when we should stand. They make us give when we should take, they make us take when we should give. Or in my case, I don’t really feel fear so much, as I have written before. I have found my fear response tends to go in to pure on “fuck you, I survive” mode where I go incredibly cold and calculating or I skip right over fear in to straight up terror. Either way, I don’t run. Ever, so far. I face it. Then I face it again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And I keep facing it.
I am the type of person who, if I don’t want to do something, if I “fear” it, I have to do it. Period. Regardless the consequences, I have to do it. Yes, I know the consequences. I know the chances of me being hurt in some cases are pretty fucking ridiculously high, but I have to do it. Sometimes, as I told a friend last night:
I don’t care about much, but I’ve lost nearly all I DO care about this year. Sometimes you gotta throw it all out see what comes back.
I have read so much over the past few days about depression and suicide. It has long disgusted me how we, as a people, will band together over a situation short-term, yet go back to our petty ridiculous squabbles so quickly. I most certainly have my own very strong thoughts about both depression and suicide, as I have survived depression so long, and have known so fucking many people who have killed themselves.
I cannot tell you when I was diagnosed as bipolar, which used to be known as manic depression, which used to be known as blah blah what the fuck ever. A lot of people have it. So what? Every person on this planet goes through periods of depression. It is a part of life to have high and low points. Some of us are lucky/blessed/whatever to have more highs than lows, some of us are unlucky/cursed/whatever enough to have more lows than highs. Some of us are intelligent enough to realize our perspective changes the situation for our own good, regardless what happens. I cannot tell you when I was diagnosed because, as with most things in my life, I simply do not remember. Head wounds, what wonderful things.
…Or maybe, more to the point, making myself sing, even when everything in me wishes to scream.
Three days ago, 22July2014, I drove through a rainbow. Yes, through. This is not even scientifically possible, yet it happened. It happened quite clearly. I have never actually seen the end of a rainbow in my entire 34 years. Rainbows are the dispersion of light through water in the air, so you should never be able to drive through one, as your perspective would keep you seeing the rainbow ever in front of you. Even seeing an “end” is highly unlikely, though if you have a clear view for a long enough distance, it would be possible. Where I was driving, the visibility was .. let us say what happened should not have been possible, but happen, it did.
I have seen several things in my life that should not be possible. It does not really matter which things. They happened, they are done. I do not read horoscopes. I do not look for signs. However, I have noticed that sometimes things present themselves to us that seem to, upon later inspection, foreshadow later events. After driving through the rainbow, I texted someone who is, despite no genetic link, my brother. I told him after that, I was surely to die or win at life. Funny, that. I have not yet died, but the next day proved… another small death of sorts. And I have suffered so many of those in my life.
It’s funny how, being classified as bipolar, when I get stressed enough, I stim like someone with autism, asbergers, Tourette’s, etc. And yes, I’m spelling shit all sorts of wrong, and, at the moment, I could give two fucks or a shit less about that or grammatical errors. I have been having fairly intense stims somewhere around an hour. For those of you who suffer from any psychological prizes (hey, let’s call it something fun, instead of a disorder!!), you know how utterly motherfucking god damb exhausting they can be. Just…life-draining. And when I stim, I tic like a motherfucker. Scratching, rubbing my fingers, hitting myself, rocking back and forth,openingand closin gmy mouth,s ieltn screams, rapid blinking, rapid eye movement, tapping, sometimes sounds.. I get a nice lovely run of the stim spectrum. LUCKY ME. Thankfully, it’s only when I am incredibly super HOLY FUCKSHIT stressed the motherfuc out. And I have been..
This time of year is always pretty fucking tough on me. Starting at the beginngin of July through about the first week of August. I adopted a son out the day he was born, August 4th, 2004. And starting about a month before, I just………sink. I sink beneathe the waves of.. everything. Sounds, tastes, touches, feels. thoughts, breaths, leaves, colours, life itself. I have to keep busy. God damn, do I have to keep busy. I will cut a fuckin gentire yard with a god damn pair of scissors if that is absolutely all I have I can do to keep busy. Today, I rearranged my entire livibng room. That may not seem like much, but I had to vacuum and spray for spiders, too, because I have apparently gained an infestation of cute cuddly wolf spiders. Absolutely adorable, not lethal to most folks, but their bites suck big bulbous elephant balls. And I don’t like things randomly crawling on my face for me to squash. Yes, this has happened. And these motherfuckers are fast as hell. Look them up. Shoo, spider, you belong outside. Assholes. Anyw ay. This involved moving one 32″? television that is somewhere around 75-100 pounds off a 2′ high stand across the room.. rearranging 2 oversized loveseats and an oversized couch, moving two old-school studio speakers (the 4′ tall heavy as fuck type), the tv stand and putting a 42″? 75″ television back on the fucking stand. Alone. While dodging fucking spiders and keeping the kid busy. Whereupon I also found a tote I forgot about, seeing how it was cleverly disguised as a side table (don’t ask) and I found old birthday cards. And pictures.