Papa Tango Sierra Delta

     Seems I have PTSD.
I've had it since somewhere between Jan 1, 1976 and Dec 31st, 1977. I'm afraid that that's about as close as I'll get to an exact date without checking with my parents, and that simply isn't going to happen. That means I've had it almost 40 years. I still can't quite wrap my head around it sometimes:

     Since I was ~4 or 5 yrs old, I've had something wrong with me that's normally associated with combat soldiers, urban police, and firefighters. It's hard to explain, but it's almost like I feel that I don't 'deserve' the diagnosis, that I must have something else wrong with me and I'm just not trying hard enough to find out what it really is. That there's not enough damage.

     I don't know what, or how much, damage there's 'supposed' to be, but I'd like to think that your average soldier/police officer/firefighter would agree that sexually touching a ~4-5 yr old child is pretty messed up and that it's wrong. So, I guess I do. The difference is when they have a rough day, people tend to lose their lives. I lost mine on a rough day 37 yrs ago, and I've been trying to get it back ever since.

     There's only ever been one person with whom I could imagine speaking about it, but we lost touch before my diagnosis. I guess it's just as well. His nightmares involve small children being tortured and threatened with death. In mine, I'm the one on the ground, looking up at the guy with the weapon. I don't know that we would have been able to talk about it after all, assuming we were ever to re-connect. Besides most people don't really think of a pillow as a weapon... unless you have one pressed on your face, keeping you from breathing, from making a sound.

     Once upon a time I wouldn't have been able to type those words, let alone get through it without tears. Yet, here I am, tear-free, typing them. While I know the diagnosis isn't a panacea, that this isn't a magic thing that makes bad things go away like a big final boss in WoW, it's nice to finally have a logical place to start chipping away with more specialised tools.  Until now we've been doing talk therapy, learning to communicate, learning to recognise triggers, practising what to do when I feel a panic attack coming on. Stuff has been working, but I think we've felt that there was still a piece that didn't quite fit. I literally made the decision about what to do while I was in the shower.

     I realised that everything has been symptoms. Even the things that, when dealt with singly, looked like totally different diagnoses. Why on earth would I have 2 professionals who both tentatively, almost trepidatiously, give me Bi-polar diagnoses when they seemed to be more certain about everything else they diagnosed, which were the same things when comparing the 2 professionals? It didn't seem to make sense to me that we keep addressing it, plus the inattentiveness (possible ADD), the communication issue, plus that random element that noone could seem to put their finger on. The one thing about which both Drs. agreed, with the same certainty and vehemence, was the PTSD. So why weren't we tackling the PTSD.

     Then I thought..."because you've been avoiding it. That's why."
I didn't know that's what I was doing. Because I kept refusing to recognise what I'm dealing with as PTSD. I don't know if my feeling of 'unworthiness' was the main factor, or if it was because admitting I had PTSD meant I really was a 'victim' of someone else's abuse. I've always tried not to refer to myself as a victim. It's not a word that elicits pathos much anymore. Now it's usually a term used with contempt, derision, accusation. It's become an epithet one flings at someone we think is trying to 'pull one over' on others, or trying to play The <insert attribute here> Card. I didn't want people to have any more reasons to roll their eyes at me as I believed I was giving. If I wasn't a 'victim', I'd look stronger, like I was able to brush it off, 'cause I'm a tough cookie.


     I finally broke down and did some reading about PTSD to see if I was even on the right track. I'm sad to say that I was cynical enough that I was braced for disappointment. Turns out I might be on to something, whether I like it or not.

     Sadly, there are symptoms of PTSD that are almost exactly like the symptoms of long-term childhood neglect.
(From the Mayo Clinic website:)

Intrusive memories

• Recurrent, unwanted distressing memories of the traumatic event
• Reliving the traumatic event as if it were happening again (flashbacks)
• Upsetting dreams about the traumatic event
• Severe emotional distress or physical reactions to something that reminds you of the event

Avoidance

• Trying to avoid thinking or talking about the traumatic event
• Avoiding places, activities or people that remind you of the traumatic eventNegative changes in thinking and mood

Negative feelings about yourself or other people

• Inability to experience positive emotions
• Feeling emotionally numb
• Lack of interest in activities you once enjoyed
• Hopelessness about the future
• Memory problems, including not remembering important aspects of the traumatic event
• Difficulty maintaining close relationships

Changes in emotional reactions

• Irritability, angry outbursts or aggressive behavior
• Always being on guard for danger
• Overwhelming guilt or shame
• Self-destructive behavior, such as drinking too much or driving too fast
• Trouble concentrating
• Trouble sleeping
• Being easily startled or frightened

     I know it sounds a tad dramatic, but that actually is a pretty good summary of my childhood and about 1/2 of my adult life. It totally explains a lot of the reactions I'd have to things that happened to

me. Every time my dad laid a hand (or foot) on me, he was making it worse. Making me feel like the only safe place to be was curled up in a ball in the corner, not making any sound, not getting in the way, something kickable. I would always blame myself and pray that I'd be a better kid the next day. 

     Every time I'd have horrible nightmares, or fall off the top bunk and end up bleeding (no rails...why on earth would anyone in my family think of safety rails?), I'd wake up looking for help or comfort or reassurance that I was safe... and I was usually yelled at, or mocked by the others who lived with us. Sometimes I'd be stuck watching my mum and her man fucking like horny teenagers on the living room carpet, right outside my room. RIGHT. OUTSIDE. (I am not exaggerating.) 

     I didn't want to be home. But I was miserable at school too. I felt like I didn't belong anywhere, that nowhere was safe, and that everyone you trust will hurt you in the end, like that's what my dreams had been about, showing me why I didn't fit in, that I wasn't going to amount to anything, that nothing I ever did was going to matter, and that I really was going to be a waste of space like people kept telling me. 

     I was 9 when I started thinking in depth like this, staying up late at night unable to sleep because my Evil Brain was letting me relive everything I'd done wrong that day, that week, that year. When you're a kid, every mistake you make seems big. They seem even bigger when you're always waiting for a shoe to drop somewhere. In the dark. Alone. Knowing tomorrow probably isn't going to be any better. A 9 yr old who tried to tell her mum that she wanted to go see a shrink. (I was 6 when I knew what a shrink was, what it was short for, and that I might like to talk to one because she/he would be getting paid to listen to me if I talked about being scared all the time.) 

   I should also point out here that my father often used to 'joke' (when I'd try to engage him) by saying "here's a dime, go call someone who cares". He made it clear that he didn't want to be around me much, that if he was going to spend time with me that I'd better keep up or I'd be left behind, that I was a pain, that I was too expensive, that I shouldn't talk back, that I was really cramping his style, and I was only entertaining when I was cute. He was even meaner when he was drunk. 

     What did you think about when you were 9 yrs old?

EDIT: Sorry this is so rambling. I'm still processing things, myself. I started therapy with a PTSD specialist and my 1st visit was going into my mental health history. It was... intense, to say the least. 

Apparently there's going to be at least 2 more visits where I'll be answering questions (and hopefully not crying) about my past. When I have to get into specifics, it's REALLY hard not to have the events replay in my head. ("Let's go to the graphics!") It's pretty tricky to stay coherent and and cogent when your sinuses are filling like bathtubs and your eyes are stinging from the saline assault. But, I have to start somewhere. It's the only way to lick this. 

Hi, my name is Zoe and I'm tired of PTSD kicking my ass. I think I'd like to start kicking back now.

Hello Darkness My Old Friend or "So Many Cracks. So Many Tendrils"

Over the past few years (>3yrs, <10yrs), I've noticed that 'something' happens when Autumn hits. I don't know if it's actually because of the change of seasons or just a colossal multi-year fluke, but the Dark Side of my Brain really seems to insinuate itself into any little cracks in my armour.

Back around '93 or '94, I lived in a duplex in a mature neighbourhood that developed around Currie Barracks. We had conifers everywhere, everyone's yard(s) had them, many of them planted in the early 50's. Some were planted without care for how big they'd get or how outspread their root structures would get after a few decades, and we found out the hard way that one had grown out too close to the house's foundation.

We found out during a MASSIVE hail storm that sent some cars down the street, hilled roads became mudslides, and we found out that we had a 4 ft-5 long crack in the wall at the lowest point of the house which was also the 2nd lowest point in the immediate 10 block radius around our house. (The lowest being the playground across the street. It disappeared completely during the storm.) The crack had been started from the outside, by the large spruce in front of the living room picture window.

While having someone come in to assess the damage, I found out that the tree never should have been planted so close because 'hairs' from the tree would wrap themselves like fingers around miniscule cracks and chinks in the poured foundation and as the hairs grew into root shafts (and then larger) that they'd eventually form little fulcra, slowly, microscopically wedging the concrete apart. Once big enough, and enough of a path of least resistance had been created by inherent weak spots in the concrete and the force of the growing roots, the whole thing would crack and the crack would get longer in the direction the roots grew.

While I always knew that this was how things worked from a biological standpoint, I'd never really thought of it in terms of real life. I'd seen pictures of ruins, I'd visited weather- and time-ravaged historical landmarks, and you could even see where various biological elements had added to the decay of the structures, but I'd never really paid attention to the process except for 'hey look, there's moss growing on this thing'. Even though it was really 'hey look at this organism taking it's sweet time gnawing on this shack'.

A few years later, during which I took a lot of vacations to the Midwest, I noticed all the buildings that had huge walls of ivy crawling up their sides. I remember thinking how cool it looked, how it kind of reminded me of Vancouver or Montréal, because Calgary just didn't have the climate for that kind of coolness. Everything's cold and yellow and brown by October. I love Calgary. I don't love the brown. Lots of yellow and grey and brown. 

While outside having a smoke (I still smoked back then. EGADS do I miss smoking; I hate missing it.) outside a bank in Park Ridge, I was looking at some ivy that was clinging to the side of the bank and how it was going russet and scarlet as the weather changed. Despite the weather getting colder, I could see little tiny hairs, like teeny naked fiddlehead greens appearing at the end of a gothic floral arrangement. Some weren't any bigger than a really bad hangnail.

They looked like they were rock climbing, like they were wearing fuzzy flannel pyjamas and that it was just plain fuzzy friction keeping them up there. Well, that *is* kinda how it is, but I was still so struck at how nature works, how tenacious biology can be, how powerful taking the path of least resistance can be. The whisker-thin hairy sprouts made me think of the flooded basement, of the large crack that let in ~5,000 gallons of filthy water.

There was a point to all of this, I swear. 

I think of my brain and my Dark Brain (I need to come up with a better name for it. I'll have to think about it...)  as walls and tendrils.  My brain will just sit there, minding its own business, and over time I'll feel little bits of Dark Brain slithering in there. A tendril here, a smidge of root there. Slowly casting a pall over my brain that I don't notice until some very cold drafts have blown in. All I can do is clean up the mess after someting finally gives.

I wish I could say "Oh, it just hits me all at once." because then it sounds like I had no way to stop it. 

When I say "No, man, this shit's been creeping around in there for a while" I get the very distinct impression that there's subtext in that statement that, though completely unintended, is potentially damning. 

"For a while..."

"So, if it's been doing that for a while, why don't you just go see someone."

If only it were that simple.

I don't know what causes these tendrils.

I don't know where they are all coming from. 

I don't know where they're aiming for.

I don't know how to stop them.

I don't even know how many different sources there are. 

I don't know what they all look like. 

Some are interconnected. 

Some are singular.

Some are knotted badly.

Some are dying on their own. 

Some are getting gnawed away at by time/experience/therapy/medication/acceptance/support/love. Sadly, there aren't as many of this last one as I'd like. 

The only thing I know for sure is that they're always there. That much I can feel and know with absolute certainty. 

Now it's Autumn, and it's time for the tendrils to start working their way back in some more. It's times like this when a particularly pissy bout of PMS, or a really bad day of traffic, or an unusually somber news article will just set me off. Not cry. Not yell. Not rant. 

Completely lose it. 

And, of course, losing it makes me lost it even more because now I'm furious at myself for losing it in the first place. 

If I'm lucky I won't get a panic attack. 

I'm not usually very lucky.

You've not truly lived the sad suburban life till you've shut yourself in the house for a week to avoid people, then buckled into yourself in the throes of an attack so bad that you've literally forgetten how to breath, all while trying to dish up some food for your cats. 

I've been curled up on the floor in the kitchen, my cats hiding in the living room because I'm wailing. 

At everything. 

I'm sure I'll delve more into that, but what starts it all off...

The tendrils.

These aren't delusions, or death/dying ideation, or emo cutting thoughts.

These are things that have actually happened, most long long ago, that replay in my head. 

Thing is....it's EVRYTHING.

Every thing I've ever done that wronged anyone living with whom I've had contact, who I can remember (even if only by face or a nickname), at any point in my life, from my earliest memories. 

e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g.

ever bully someone?

you sure?

Ever shove someone? Ever say something mean about someone and they found out? Ever disappoint someone, for ANYTHING, at anytime? Ever fall short of yours or others' expectations? Ever do something that got completely misinterpreted/misunderstood? Ever get falsely accused of anything and then didn't defend yourself? Ever realise you did/said something stupid/careless and can't make amends or apologise? Ever do something you regret at all, regardless of the severity?

Add them all up.

Every single one you can remember, even if all you can remember is the reaction or the aftermath. Oh, and make sure your brain has decided that all things are equal in that you can feel as bad about a slight as you would for a serious infraction, and that you will think of them with equal frequency and with equal damnation, always defaulting to the worst possible reaction. 

Oh, and there's no rhyme or reason as to which memories are going to trigger which others, so the same ones may come up multiple times BUT the truly vile ones have a greater chance of coming up more often and in more combinations.

Now play this in a loop. Well, not a loop so much as a constantly running program that grabs elements of one bad experience and finds others with similar key aspects, going through a thought cloud of brain bile. 

Think of it as a Pandora for all the real nasty that can be contained in one's person's head about every last not-good thing they've ever done in their life.

Full surround sound, full HD colour, constantly running, going through all the possible permutations. You can maybe even still smell sweat, taste adrenaline tin-foil mouth, feel the closed-in feeling you had at the time it happened, whatever 'it' is. You may even get nauseated, claustrophobic, hysterically sad, sour-angry tummy, you may realise you're crying and can't stop it. Or maybe you'll get so stuffed up from crying that now you're so congested that you can't breath properly, which then triggers more claustrophobia and all you know is that under covers in a warm bedroom in the dark is the LAST place you want to be right now.

Now maybe you realise that you might wake up your partner (or even worse realise that you're alone), that you're crying over memories, that you can't change anything...

Now, try to fall asleep like this.