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.

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.