Posts tagged ‘post traumatic stress disorder’

THE SONG REMAINS THE SAME. 

This morning I woke up from a nightmare in which I was getting my children ready for some imminent apocalyptic event. I don’t remember what it was, I just remember speaking to my kids and trying to prepare them, in a detailed way, including instructions on what to do if separated from me, or from each other. They were smaller, younger, more vulnerable versions of themselves, just to add to the ambiance. I was talking to them in a very matter of fact way while in my head I was screaming because I knew it wasn’t enough, wasn’t enough, wasn’t enough and the very bad thing was coming and I couldn’t keep them safe. 


Yesterday I woke up from a dream that left me so disoriented that it literally took me a full sixty seconds, without exaggeration, to work out – first – where I was, but then, when I was. In that order, which is weird. Yesterday disappeared into a bit of a hole that I was unable to crawl my way out of. The level of exhaustion is hard to describe. I read somewhere that people with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder feel so tired all the time because you are basically on high alert constantly. After nightmares all night (I will wake up several times during the night and even if I go back to sleep all I remember are nightmares) I slump into some days. My head pounds, I have chest pains and my limbs all feel like they are made of concrete. My whole body aches with heaviness. Everything, every. little. thing. requires such effort that, even if I can be bothered, a small task can take up most of the day. There are days I can’t even pretend to be a functional human being. 

I guess this is my annual Mother’s Day whinge. Feel free to stop reading. I don’t claim any exclusivity. Everyone has hard days and Mother’s Day is hard for lots of people, for many reasons. Childless mothers, motherless children, women who mother other people’s children, children and mothers who are separated by whatever circumstance. I don’t pretend my list is comprehensive. You all know who you are. 

For some, it will be their first Mother’s Day and for some it will be their first Mother’s Day since. For some, it will be both and that’s just the way it is. What I know is that as soon as Easter was over, literally the day after, shops were full of Mother’s Day merchandise. Mugs and slippers and photo frames everywhere you turn. Brochures in the letter box and advertisements on television and Mother’s Day espisodes of television shows. Choking up my newsfeed in every direction. A constant assault that is impossible to escape. And for me this year the added bonus of a later Mother’s Day bringing it even closer to the anniversary of my Daughter’s death. Two and a half weeks to go. Bonus. 

Would I have been a grandmother by now? I cried on the packed train today, silently, after scrolling past a mother guessing her daughter was pregnant on a facebook post. Bit, fat, hot tears that dropped singly from my lashes and felt like lava carving their way down my face. 

After tomorrow there will be marked down slippers, mugs and photo frames and that is nowhere near as fun as marked down Easter chocolate, nowhere near as fun at all. But the days, even the hard ones, pass. Just a bit slower. 

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Tonight I am baby sitting three rascals of the four legged kind. Two very special babies and the big brother of the little girl Son Number Two and I have staying with us; precious souls all of them and I am glad to be here. 
A friend asked me to edit her manuscript recently. I cannot possibly put into words what it meant to me to be trusted with that task, but it meant so much. It worked for me on a number of levels. 
I have friends I can text random things to and they will meet me where I am. I recently went to see a performance of live theatre. It was an incredibly moving adaptation of The Diary of Anne Frank hosted by the Western Australian Academy of the Performing Arts. I’ve had lunch in the quiet, leafy grounds of a University and laughed at my Daughter Number Two and my Sons. I have felt the relief of cool nights after just warm enough days. Videos of small boys and big dogs that melt my heart. And, you know, marked down Easter chocolate. 

The best of times and the worst of times. 
For the rest of my life; the best of times and the worst of times. 
Safe onward travel x 

TELL ME, WHAT’S FEAR TO YOU? 

Trigger warning: This post deals with domestic violence, suicide and loss. Safe onward travel x

– A Day in the life of my PTSD and me.

My telecommunications and Internet provider is experiencing difficulties this afternoon. My mobile phone has been intermittently unable to make or receive calls and my internet is dropping in and out too. I am trying, trying, trying not to completely lose my shit.

And I am failing.

After venting to my facebook friends (during a brief period the Internet was actually working) I know that it is definitely a network problem. Not exclusive to me and so I shouldn’t take it personally. But it is personal. So very personal.

The walls are closing in a little bit and I cannot focus on anything for too long. My thoughts are jumbled.My chest is tight and my breathing is shallow and I can feel a headache coming on.

I walk to the beach and I sit, watching the waves hit the shore and the sun sink slowly towards the horizon. I play Fletcher Pilon’s – winner of Australia’s Got Talent 2016 – album ‘Banjo’ through my headphones. The sea helps, the music helps, the warmth of the slowly sinking sun helps because I feel chilled even though it is a warm day. It all helps and I am trying hard to relax into it but my chest is still tight and my head hurts more.

So still I try. Try to re-establish control and restore my equilibrium. Try to take deeper breaths. Try to stop the rocking I suddenly notice I am doing. And writing everything down helps. Mindfulness, yeah? Grounding myself in the moment. I can feel my heart banging around in my chest. I hear the waves crashing on the sand. I take some photos of things that appeal to my eye.

  
This must all sound an over reaction. Phone companies have issues. Shit happens. First World Problems. But today, after I first noticed my lack of ability to communicate with the outside world the Internet kicked back in briefly and multiple messages from my seventeen year old son filtered through. “Mum, I need my Medicare number please” “Mum, are you there? Do you keep hanging up on me?”

Walking along the waters edge I notice several feathers. Further still I see what I think at first is a dead fish, being pushed back and forth gently by the waves on the very edge of the water. Then I am closer and my sluggish brain returns my gaze to it until I realise it is a wing of a bird. Ripped and torn; it’s white, white bones spilling out and the feathers gently ruffled by the ocean. I recoil as my mind starts to kick in reflexively, and make suggestions about how that wing came to be there. I don’t take any photos of the wing. But it is too late. It is too late for me and for the bird no longer flying. The wing is there anyway, in my mind’s eye. And my mind throws up the picture every so often, like a macabre Viewfinder, shuffling images as I walk.

  
I manage to get through to my son. He is having chest pains. He is heading to the GP. He is young and fit and healthy and I have no reason to think it is anything more than a pulled muscle from teenaged hijinks. So says my rational mind. He has friends with him. This is good. They are good friends. I have good friends too. I am lucky. And yet my chest still feels like I am buried under concrete.

I play the same album, over and over again. I listen to the lyrics, letting each word wash over me. When my internet kicks in I check facebook and see what my friends are doing and try to relax and try to feel normal and try to feel real. I run the sand through my fingers and feel the coarse grains. The sun is losing it’s heat. There is a sailboat on the horizon.

My son has his appointment with the doctor. She says his heart rate is a little elevated but he seems ok. She advises rest and if the pain gets worse to go to an emergency room. I manage a call that actually connects and I hear my son tell me this in his own voice. I am relieved. But my own chest stays tight.

  
I hear the counsellor ask me earlier today “When do you have a rest from this stuff?” And my voice answering “It is with me always. Always.” And it is. To varying degrees in a million ways which can be heightened by anything, or by nothing.

Not being able to contact loved ones by phone does me in. There is the illusion that they are right there, right there at the end of a phone call or a text message. I don’t wait patiently for responses. It is agony for me! All hail read receipts! And I know, better than most, that it is only an illusion. That each and every time I physically let someone leave my sight it may be the last time I see them. Life happens. But having them on the end of a phone line is something, because I can’t handcuff myself to everyone I love indefinitely. Even if I could, life would still happen. I know the security of having them at the end of a phone call is only an illusion. But it is a beautiful illusion and it is all I have.

  
On the night my beautiful daughter was murdered I rang the mobile phone of her killer dozens and dozens and dozens of times. It was turned off. I didn’t understand. It was never turned off. They were meant to be at the movies though, so maybe the film hadn’t finished yet? I didn’t understand.

On the beach, in the present moment, a gorgeous chocolate brown and caramel kelpie trots towards me. The largish stick it is holding pulling the edges of it’s mouth into a happy grin. It trots right up to me. The orange of the sunset ringing it’s silhouette in a golden glow. The chocolate dog comes right up beside me and then sits down. It stays with me for the few seconds it takes it’s human to catch up and then it trots happily off again. And I give thanks for the chocolate dog who let me touch it’s soft, warm fur and who stopped to comfort me because dogs know, they really know.

On the night my beautiful daughter was murdered I rang the mobile phone of her murder again and again and again for hour after hour after hour. It stayed off. I couldn’t work it out. It was night time and there was still no answer and I started to ring hospitals because the only horrible conclusion I could come to was that there must have been an accident. But there was no accident. It was not an accident.

The sun is touching the horizon now and soon it will dip beneath it. A man sits thirty metres up the beach singing to his crawling smiling baby and watching the setting sun. It is over three and half hours now, since this internet issue started and the service is still dropping in and out. The sun is half sunken and the wind picks up and the waves, like the days, keep rolling in.

  
At about twenty past eleven on the night my daughter was murdered, after I had called the police to say my daughter and her murderer were missing I called the mobile phone again. And my daughter answered. I asked where she was and she said she could not tell me. I asked her yes and no questions – I heard her say to her murderer “She doesn’t understand”. The phone dropped out at her end. I could still hear my daughter but she could not hear me. They were driving through mobile reception black spots. I hung up and rang again. My daughter answered! I kept trying to ask questions that might give me a clue. I asked if she was coming home and she said no. I didn’t say “I love you” because I couldn’t say goodbye. And then the phone dropped out again. She could no longer hear me.

I heard my beautiful daughter’s voice as she said, not screamed, just said “Please Dad. Please Dad. Please Dad.” Over and over again. Still calling him Dad. And then I hung up so I could call the police back to let them know Sam was answering the phone. When I tried to call her back there was no answer.

  
Later, when I got my phone bill and read the witness statements I realised there were probably only seconds between my hanging up the phone and the car my daughter was in hitting the rock face wall on the expressway. When I heard her saying “Please Dad” she was begging for her life as she hurtled towards a rock wall. I just missed hearing the impact and I am glad for that. Because for half an hour longer, until the police car pulled silently up in front of my house in the dead of night, I still had hope my daughter was alive.

The sun is long gone. The light with it too. Who knows when the telephone service will be fully back on line. My limbs are stiff. It is getting cold. I am shivering. My phone battery is almost flat. But while sitting on the beach, writing this, I have begun to breathe a little easier. A chocolate dog, a giggling baby and waves that keep on rolling in.

Sam is with me always. Always.

  

IT’S CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT AND SOMETHING EVIL’S LURKING IN THE DARK.

IMG_7855

Trigger warning: Trauma, loss, grief, PTSD.

As predicted it has been a very crappy week. Tomorrow I will be heading off on a plane to the wedding, which for me is a very good thing. Life affirming. Can’t come fast enough really and just in the nick of time. Because of the stress I have been under my nightmares have ramped up a bit. Not surprising really and tedious definitely, but that is life. My life, to be precise.

In the early hours of this morning I woke up with a start. That doesn’t really do it justice. I woke up unable to breathe with my back arching up off the bed as I desperately attempted to get air into my lungs. I frantically searched beneath my pillow in the dark with my hand for my inhaler, my heart hammering so hard that it felt like it was breaking through my ribs before falling back inside my chest cavity with a thud.

I don’t remember the entire nightmare, just that right before I woke up there was a female figure standing in front of me and she set herself alight. I watched her hair catch and whoosh up in flames and her features melt and blacken, her disappearing eyelid exposing the entire eyeball. I don’t remember recognising her as someone I knew but then she wasn’t foreign either. In truth I don’t want to think about it too much or examine her too closely. Maybe she is me but definitely she is my Daughter Number One, crumpled and broken in a crushed lump of metal that used to be a car. The woman/girl in my nightmare is my reading the eyewitness reports and the words of a newly minted police officer as he described the smell of burning flesh. It is seeing the mangled metal remains of the vehicle and the perfectly preserved McDonald’s fries in a bag under the charred mess and mounds of ash of god knows what in the passenger foot well. It is not being able view my Daughter’s body or dress her for her funeral. It is a post mortem report I read and photo’s my solicitor refused to let me see. It is Bali bombing victims all over the news. The figure in my nightmare is all these things and so many more, layer upon layer (like the old advertisement said) of thoughts and the associated emotions that assail me the instant my mind is concious. EVEN as I struggle for air, EVEN as I search frantically for the cold metal plastic combination of the inhaler with my fingers. INSTANTANEOUSLY. DEVASTATINGLY.

And no, it isn’t just a nightmare, or like a horror film, not real, or something I can just shake myself free of. The weight of it clings to me like a tar I can’t wash off. A cloying psychic cigarette smoke that permeates my being; stale and unpleasant and persistent long after the source is gone. I don’t enjoy it. It is not something I hold onto; I try to move my thoughts on. I employ various strategies learnt over long years, purposefully. And yet, here it is, 10pm and my chest has remained tight all day.

I finally fell back to sleep this morning and had another nightmare, I kid you not. Different but the same themes of trauma, pain, loss, grief. Some nights are like that. I’m not here asking for your sympathy. I’m not asking for your understanding – please know how genuinely HAPPY I am that for most of you, this is beyond comprehension. I’m also not asking for your judgement. If I could just move on I would. No one would choose this. And maybe I am weak, who knows? But any systemic vulnerabilities have been caused by numerous assaults on my being from various sources. Because you see, my worst nightmares have happened while I’ve been awake.

All that I’ll ask is that we be gentle with one another, that we be kinder. Because we all fight our own battles. And tomorrow I will try to be kinder to myself.

This morning I read this poem by Greysie. He has his own Greysie’s Poetry facebook page – it is powerful stuff. It’s not always pleasant or easy reading but it’s always real and I like the real. I liked this. It said it all.

“Scared.”

I crept in while you were sleeping,
Laid waste to your mind,
I woke you up screaming,
Pain is all you’ll find.

I am always in your body,
Chewing on your soul,
Sleep is just a fantasy,
To destroy you is my goal.

As you woke in tears,
Another nightmare in your brain,
I’m already plotting further,
How I will drive you insane.

Keep you awake for hours,
You to scared to go to sleep,
To scared to close your eyes,
I intend to make you weep.

All the while surrounded,
With your friends who can not see,
That I’m tearing you apart inside,
I will never set you free.

I eat you inside out,
I will kill you in the end,
I am your enemy,
You will never call me friend.

I eat just under the surface,
So no one else can see,
All the while you in agony,
Terrified by what is me.

I am the Evil Clown,
It’s you that I taunt,
I’m hidden just around the corner,
It’s you that I will haunt.

I’m a door left open,
That stops you in your tracks,
I’m that tightening of your chest,
You can never just relax.

I’m the shadow walking past you,
That no one else can see,
That scares you to death,
I am you, you are me.

We are one until your end,
As that reality does sink in,
I am your Evil Clown,
I’ll tear you open from within.

You will never have respite,
This painful sorrow will never end,
There is nothing you can do,
Your brain will never mend.

I’m the blood that you still smell,
I’m the epitome of terror,
I’m horror after horror,
I am your forever.

I’m just around the corner,
I’m waiting just for you,
To terrorise you further,
There’s nothing you can do.

Written 21.7.14

Safe onward travel. Sleep tight x

Like a Candle In the Wind

We find a place for what we lose. Although we know that after such a loss the acute stage of mourning will subside, we also know that we shall remain inconsolable and will never find a substitute. No matter what may fill the gap, even if it be filled completely, it nevertheless remains something else”.        — Sigmund Freud

A friend sent me this quote. I like it. After almost nine years I’m thinking perhaps Siggy knew his stuff. On this at least. You can debate his other stuff at your leisure and get back to me.

Another quote for you, from another friend; “Not every day is PTSD day!” And not a truer word was spoken although some days it remains an uphill battle. Our experiences undeniably mould who we are to a certain extent, but the aim of my game is to not let myself be defined by them. I read this post from Lori, in which she talks about her own experiences with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Once again it echoed closely my own. I emailed the link to several people. “Look at THIS! THIS is how I feel!”.

But people are complicated, man. Just as I don’t want to define myself by PTSD or depression or traumatic events in my life nor do I want others defining me that way either. If I’m upset about something it’s not necessarily because of the diagnosis’ I have. My perceptions and reactions may be a bit out of whack but that doesn’t automatically nullify any thought or emotion I, or anyone else with mental health issues, has. Even if my reaction may be out of proportion that doesn’t mean it has no basis. I don’t use my issues as a get out of jail free card, or feel they entitle me to bad behaviour, just that sometimes I might need more understanding. But you know what? Sometimes EVERYONE needs more understanding. EVERYBODY has their off days. Not just us card-carrying members of the crazy club.

I’m not perfect but neither is anyone else. I should cut myself a break sometime and remember that.

“I’m selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.”  ―    Marilyn Monroe

Objects in the Rearview Mirror May Appear Closer Than They Are

Gotta love the days when you wake up to find you’ve scratched your face to ribbons. A change of medication earlier this year has meant that I am back to actually getting some sleep at night. Good. But as you know, sleep comes with nightmares attached. Not so good. Just reinforces thoughts that have been a theme of the last 24hrs. There will never be a time when I am ‘over’ the repeated rape and murder of my 14y.o. daughter by my husband and father of my sons. I don’t mean that I spend my days wallowing and wailing, that’s not how I choose to honour her memory. But it is a constant. It is what it is. The best I can do is learn to live with it, and really the only thing that achieves that is the passage of time. So, not anything to do with me at all.

No strength on my part, no skill, nothing to be admired or emulated. The only thing I have done is manage to outlive my daughter. And that’s just a matter of timing.

I’ve got to get out more….

So, last night I had another nightmare within a nightmare. No wonder I feel exhausted when I wake up! On the plus side last nights dreams weren’t quite as cryptic and I guess I feel that if I am working through any issues while I’m unconscious then theoretically it should save me time while I’m conscious, right?

I’ve got alot going on at the moment, both inside and outside my head.  You would think the stuff outside- including two beautiful boys with special needs, one enchanting almost two year old girl, a grandparent with alzheimers who I’m helping my sister  find a residential care placement for, a newish romantic entanglement of the long distance variety, an ex-husband I still care for…….where was I? I had to leave to change a delightful poo filled nappy. Oh, yes, I was thinking that the everyday glamour of my life would dull down the roar from inside my head. But it doesn’t.

I am an introspective person by nature. That has really only been magnified by depression and PTSD. I watch reality TV and read trashy magazines because they produce a soothing white noise effect in my head. A friend I was speaking with last night says the internet does the same for him, and I’d have to agree. That is partly what this blog is about, as the title suggests it is space for me to dump what is in my head.

I feel like I have entered a new phase in terms of personal growth and that is probably what the intensity of my dreams is about. This can only be a good thing, even if it is leaving me feeling a bit strung out.  Anyhow, the ‘real world’ calls…….later!

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