Category Archives: PTSD

It got better

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Today is better. Thank you all for the support yesterday. I think the heat was initially triggering, and then going from being around a great group of people nearly every waking hour for a week to being essentially alone was a bit much for the system, the peeps.

A special shout out to K for the unexpected reach out from yesterday’s post. Thanks for helping me get grounded again. It’s what I needed.

There was a bit of dissociative sleeping last night, but it was fairly tolerable.

I got to Doc’s office, and the moment I saw him I knew that something was awry. I barely sat down when he informed me that my insurance company was requesting documentation for all of my May sessions for payment consideration. Apparently, the last time this happened with a different client the company did not pay for the sessions. He looked very concerned.

Then I was gone. Just gone. The world started to narrow on me. Doc started to sound like he was far, far away. The fear of having to find the money to pay him for those sessions, and the fear of no longer having the insurance company pay for the bulk of the sessions terrified me. It was like the floor dropped out from under me.

I could hear Doc calling my name, but it was like he was calling me softly from the next room, instead of right in front of me. I knew he was trying to reach me, but I could not respond. I wanted to respond, but was unable to do so. Then this voice I did not quite recognize came out of me, and started crying, crying and talking about not wanting to be here.

The voice was somewhere between belonging to Belle or Ronnie, I’m not sure which. Doc asked me, ” Who is this?” I did not know, and Belle/Ronnie said so. This voice somewhere around 8 – 9 years old was freaked out about being alone, as she often was as a child. She talked about being alone in the dark. She did not like the dark. Even writing this is making me feel anxious.

Doc then reassured us that we would work something out regardless of the insurance company, that he wasn’t going anywhere. He then asked if he could speak with me, and the voice said sure, and I was back. I was there the whole time, just aside during the interaction.

Doc asked me who came out. I told him I did not know. I could not tell if it was Belle or Ronnie, specifically because the darkness reminded me of Belle, but the age reminded me of Ronnie. I got the impression he either did not believe me, or was confused by what I said. Hell, I’m often confused by the whole thing myself. Even tonight I’m still not sure who was out this morning during the session. The rest of the day I had that feeling that one has when they had themselves a good cry, tired and embarrassed.

The day improved after that.

Father’s Day, be gone

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Father's Day Cake 2009

I recently wrote about my father, and I find myself thinking of him again on this day. I remember Father’s Day 2008 when I reached out to him, and he was drunk. He had wanted me to reach out to him, but when I did he was unable to be present in the conversation because he was drunk. This experience sent me on a drinking and acting out binge of my own. A few months later, after I entered sobriety, he sent me a chapbook of poetry. I really did not look at that book until a few weeks ago.

His drinking is so painful to me that I can’t have a relationship with him. I wish there was some way to work around it, but there isn’t. I get too messed up in my brain when I can see and hear his sickness.

I want to write more, specifically I want to write about the few good memories that I have of him. Today I want to remember the good of him, the part of him that resonated with me.

But, alas, I cannot. It’s hard enough to write this small blog post, and it has taken me an inordinately long time to do so. I’m foggy, and in and out of being present. And so, Dad, I’m sorry that I cannot do better than this post in your honor today. I hope we cross paths again before one of us leaves this earth. I miss you, and I still love you, even though you have a hard time accepting my love. It is there.

(Photo credit: Jim, the Photographer)

Whoa to you, Mr. Lame Date

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I really liked Mr. Lame Date. Of course, I did not know he was a lame date at the moment I became smitten with him. I won’t even call him a boyfriend because it was so short-lived. But it was passionate and, like many relationships in the early stage, full of promise. We had a lot in common, he made me laugh, and those boy-next-door looks of his did not hurt.

Inevitably, once you get past the fun pleasantries at the initial stages you have to start sharing the some of the real-life less than ideal crap that we have floating around in our lives. My floatie is my PTSD and Dissociative Identity Disorder. His is his ex-wife that has schizo-affective disorder.

After becoming close in a relatively short period of time he texted me today, yes, you read that right, he TEXTED me to say that he needs to “apply the brakes.” He finds me intelligent and “awfully interesting” (such an odd phrase), but he’s not ready to deal with someone who has similar issues to his ex-wife. Well, I didn’t know that PTSD and DID were similar to schizo-affective disorder!

It is sad to me that he’s made a broad generalization about my mental illness without knowing a whole lot about it. But, for me, the worst part is that I had him over to my apartment. I let very few people into my apartment, but I let him in because I really liked him.

So, Mr. Lame Date, to sum it up, you’re a first-class jerk. You knew I rarely let people into my apartment, but you persuaded me to have you over, and I allowed it. I allowed myself to get close to you, and incorrectly assessed you as one of the “good guys.” I was wrong. And perhaps most importantly, I regret giving you 4 of my freshly baked chocolate peanut butter cookies. You are so not worthy of such fine baking. Procurement of fine baked goods under false pretenses will inevitably backfire into bad karma.