I'm low at the moment. Very low. To be perfectly honest, I don't think I've ever actually been lower. I recognise this and acknowledge that it is coloring my thoughts and impressions fairly strongly at the moment. But this morning I think I hit the bottom of the barrel so far.
One of the things that I think complicates issues is the standard dissociation that comes with PTSD. I can associate with things, often quite strongly, but it takes a while. And it takes effort, a lot of it reciprocal. So at the moment I feel much like the footage we've all seen of sharks cruising through schools of fish off the coast. The ones where the shark ends up swimming alone, surrounded by thousands and thousands of fish, but unable to touch or connect with any of them.
I currently feel my ties. If I'm perfectly honest, the ties are all thats holding me around from a full reset. The family and friends that are around. They're slim ties, think spun silk, but strong. To pull on them is to disappoint those people around me who care, and I hate disappointing.
I'm sure there are upsides to where I am at the moment. I do get to attempt a soft reset of sorts as to where I want my life direction to go. It's been an expensive price to pay: I'm currently over thirty, all of my job qualifications count for nothing, I'm divorced and I'm living alone with my two dogs. When I have my kids I spend most of the time just trying to survive and not to disappoint them too greatly. At this stage, I certainly don't spend most of the time with them enjoying them (although I do hope that day comes). I'm unlikely to ever return to a "normal" job. Most of the changes with PTSD are permanent and they won't change back.
So yeah, I'm low at the moment.
I can happily lose myself for hours in my art. Or, oddly enough, singing along in the car. Reality inevitably comes crashing down at some point though. And I'm starting to get over the fight. I'm starting to get over the push to get out of bed. To get out and walk the dogs. I have days where I'm even struggling to get myself as far as the studio or the kitchen.
I'm starting to get over the bone-crushing, aching loneliness.
Saturday, 5 March 2016
Thursday, 31 December 2015
Dreams
It's said that a dreamer never will always wake the moment before they die. It seems the same does not hold true for the realization that the dreamer is dead.
One of the characteristics of PTSD is intense realistic dreams. Not exclusively bad per se, but realistic. And even a middling dream of intense realism is a dream in which one generally doesn't wake feeling rested from. A number of the medications I'm currently on are to help me sleep overnight. For the most part to stop the associated adrenaline dump from the realism.
Well, last night I died. Or, to be more specific, last night I realized I had been dead for some time. Without giving a specific blow-by-blow account of the dream sequence (which doesn't make an enormous amount of sense, being a dream and all), I knew I was getting in to a legal argument of some description. I was being escorted by my advocate, talking about various things. After a completely indeterminate period of time, I was lead back to a body slumped, sitting, on the floor. My body.
The realization that one is dead, and has been dead for untold months, is a strange feeling. It is full of melancholy, buffered with discontent. There is regret, and there is intense sadness. There is, surprisingly, no anger. Merely resignation and mild surprise that its taken so long to realize that I've been dead all along.
I don't want to get in to dream interpretation. I don't want to overanalyse this. But it hasn't been a good day at all and the kids have borne the brunt of it. I woke this morning knowing that I was dead and that I've been dead for an unknown period of time. Unusually, its after midday and I'm still struggling to come to terms with it. I keep going to cry over my own loss and the world is colored very blue indeed.
A dreamer may not remember dying, but it seems they can remember knowing they're dead.
One of the characteristics of PTSD is intense realistic dreams. Not exclusively bad per se, but realistic. And even a middling dream of intense realism is a dream in which one generally doesn't wake feeling rested from. A number of the medications I'm currently on are to help me sleep overnight. For the most part to stop the associated adrenaline dump from the realism.
Well, last night I died. Or, to be more specific, last night I realized I had been dead for some time. Without giving a specific blow-by-blow account of the dream sequence (which doesn't make an enormous amount of sense, being a dream and all), I knew I was getting in to a legal argument of some description. I was being escorted by my advocate, talking about various things. After a completely indeterminate period of time, I was lead back to a body slumped, sitting, on the floor. My body.
The realization that one is dead, and has been dead for untold months, is a strange feeling. It is full of melancholy, buffered with discontent. There is regret, and there is intense sadness. There is, surprisingly, no anger. Merely resignation and mild surprise that its taken so long to realize that I've been dead all along.
I don't want to get in to dream interpretation. I don't want to overanalyse this. But it hasn't been a good day at all and the kids have borne the brunt of it. I woke this morning knowing that I was dead and that I've been dead for an unknown period of time. Unusually, its after midday and I'm still struggling to come to terms with it. I keep going to cry over my own loss and the world is colored very blue indeed.
A dreamer may not remember dying, but it seems they can remember knowing they're dead.
Monday, 14 December 2015
Kids
So, I've just finished off another weekend with my kids and its another weekend in which I've been completely, irredeemably and irrevocably defeated. Knowing that this weekend I had the kids from the Thursday night meant that the "anxiety" started from roughly the Wednesday. The compulsive need to plan out everything, from food to activities. Compounded by the distinct unpleasantness of knowing that I'd never get everything planned the way it needed to be. Without fail something would end up going wrong. And as soon as things start going wrong, I start struggling.
Thursday night went well, for a nice change. The kids were happy with dinner and, despite the huge storm cells moving over (of which the older two are terrified of), they ended up in bed mostly on time.
Friday morning was a different story. One of the most insidious aspects of PTSD is the way it steals your sleep. And in stealing your sleep, it steals your waking hours also. My night times, even on a good night, are filled with a fever dream aspect. Everything is vibrant beyond comfort and its not unusual to wake feeling as though I haven't rested a minute. This gets hard when the kids are thrown in to the mix (my oldest is 5). There is no opportunity to shake off the terror of the night, no opportunity to fortify myself against the travails of the day.
Friday night I took the three of them out for dinner. Nothing particularly special, except that its hard with the three of them. And again, after the nights, as soon as something small starts going wrong it snowballs. And then snowballs some more. And then I'm yelling at the kids in the carpark of a McDonald's because one of them is running off and my three year old is busy exerting his independence.
It's a pattern which is repeated throughout the weekend. There doesn't seem to be a moment when I feel in control, when I feel like I'm comfortable with my own kids. I love them desperately, and they constantly tell me how much they love me. Yet. I feel like I'm failing them. I try to utilize playdates and social events so they're not stuck at home, but some days I have the kids and I can barely talk to them without breaking in to tears. Its not other peoples' job to have the playdates with me, its not their job to help me raise my kids. So it feeds further in to the failure loop that seems to characterise so much of PTSD.
I then spend the first half or longer of the next week getting over my own kids.
Meanwhile, I continue to hold faith in that it does get better.
Thursday night went well, for a nice change. The kids were happy with dinner and, despite the huge storm cells moving over (of which the older two are terrified of), they ended up in bed mostly on time.
Friday morning was a different story. One of the most insidious aspects of PTSD is the way it steals your sleep. And in stealing your sleep, it steals your waking hours also. My night times, even on a good night, are filled with a fever dream aspect. Everything is vibrant beyond comfort and its not unusual to wake feeling as though I haven't rested a minute. This gets hard when the kids are thrown in to the mix (my oldest is 5). There is no opportunity to shake off the terror of the night, no opportunity to fortify myself against the travails of the day.
Friday night I took the three of them out for dinner. Nothing particularly special, except that its hard with the three of them. And again, after the nights, as soon as something small starts going wrong it snowballs. And then snowballs some more. And then I'm yelling at the kids in the carpark of a McDonald's because one of them is running off and my three year old is busy exerting his independence.
It's a pattern which is repeated throughout the weekend. There doesn't seem to be a moment when I feel in control, when I feel like I'm comfortable with my own kids. I love them desperately, and they constantly tell me how much they love me. Yet. I feel like I'm failing them. I try to utilize playdates and social events so they're not stuck at home, but some days I have the kids and I can barely talk to them without breaking in to tears. Its not other peoples' job to have the playdates with me, its not their job to help me raise my kids. So it feeds further in to the failure loop that seems to characterise so much of PTSD.
I then spend the first half or longer of the next week getting over my own kids.
Meanwhile, I continue to hold faith in that it does get better.
Thursday, 5 November 2015
Broken
I can remember the exact moment I shattered. For anyone who has never dealt with PTSD before, that may seem like a strange choice of words, but I assure you it is not. There is no other way to describe it. Like a glass dropped from a ten-storey building I shattered. The component parts of my life, my very identity, flung away like so much sharp detritus; scattered to the winds, to continue slicing raw wounds at every unwary step.
I don't have a lot of memories of the twelve months preceding my break. I have even fewer of the twelve months afterwards. I do recall descending in to the sort of movie-realm fractures of reality in the three days after my break. The desperate struggling to reconcile to myself that "no, I'm OK. I just need another hour to get this under control." The inability to eat, and when I did eat the inability to keep anything down. The inability to sleep more than twenty or forty minutes at a time. The inability to stop crying. The inability to stop seeing death, everywhere I looked. The overlay on reality of visceral horror.
I recall thinking that this couldn't be happening to me. I refused to countenance the idea for nearly three days. After three days I conceded defeat and was admitted to an inpatient psychiatric facility. That was nearly two years ago.
Still, on a daily basis, I feel guilt. I feel guilt over what I've put my family through. I feel guilt over the type of father my kids are going to grow up with. I feel guilt over the things I can't do, even when I desperately want to. I feel like I've failed - everyone from myself to the organisation I used to work for. Worse, I feel like a failure. I didn't take what life tried to throw at me. I couldn't take it.
I don't say these things to garner sympathy. The fact is I can write fairly well, and that enables to me say what I want to say. I say these things because I have come to realise that these feelings aren't unique for people who have PTSD. I say these things because I can say them, and I hope that in doing so it enables those with PTSD to realise they're not alone. I also hope it provides a bit of insight for those without PTSD.
I've been dealing with this for nearly two years now. Most every day has been a struggle of some description, but I honestly believe that things are getting better. I don't think I'll ever be the person I was before, and that does make me sad, but I do believe that I can do more now than I could a year ago.
This blog is not going to be particularly structured. Its hopefully going to act as a public outlet for my thoughts and experiences and, with a bit of luck, myself and others will gain some insight in to this whole condition. I hope is that, over the course of writing this, I'll come to see myself as something other than broken. I suppose we'll wait and see!
I don't have a lot of memories of the twelve months preceding my break. I have even fewer of the twelve months afterwards. I do recall descending in to the sort of movie-realm fractures of reality in the three days after my break. The desperate struggling to reconcile to myself that "no, I'm OK. I just need another hour to get this under control." The inability to eat, and when I did eat the inability to keep anything down. The inability to sleep more than twenty or forty minutes at a time. The inability to stop crying. The inability to stop seeing death, everywhere I looked. The overlay on reality of visceral horror.
I recall thinking that this couldn't be happening to me. I refused to countenance the idea for nearly three days. After three days I conceded defeat and was admitted to an inpatient psychiatric facility. That was nearly two years ago.
Still, on a daily basis, I feel guilt. I feel guilt over what I've put my family through. I feel guilt over the type of father my kids are going to grow up with. I feel guilt over the things I can't do, even when I desperately want to. I feel like I've failed - everyone from myself to the organisation I used to work for. Worse, I feel like a failure. I didn't take what life tried to throw at me. I couldn't take it.
I don't say these things to garner sympathy. The fact is I can write fairly well, and that enables to me say what I want to say. I say these things because I have come to realise that these feelings aren't unique for people who have PTSD. I say these things because I can say them, and I hope that in doing so it enables those with PTSD to realise they're not alone. I also hope it provides a bit of insight for those without PTSD.
I've been dealing with this for nearly two years now. Most every day has been a struggle of some description, but I honestly believe that things are getting better. I don't think I'll ever be the person I was before, and that does make me sad, but I do believe that I can do more now than I could a year ago.
This blog is not going to be particularly structured. Its hopefully going to act as a public outlet for my thoughts and experiences and, with a bit of luck, myself and others will gain some insight in to this whole condition. I hope is that, over the course of writing this, I'll come to see myself as something other than broken. I suppose we'll wait and see!
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