The PTSD Fog

Tags

balancing act, funerals, handaball, Healing, nightmares, Parental Units, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, PTSD Fog, Shift, shuffle, sidestep, waiting

Been coming across some interesting PTSD-related blogs of late. Including the boys over at Operation PTSD (looking out for war veterans) and Teresa’s blog: My Embodiment (Misadventures and Adventures of a Psychotherapist in Yoga School).

A recent post (**potential trigger warning**) of Teresa’s has inspired some self-contemplation about the “lost years” of my own PTSD induced fog.

Have a look at my Timeline page. Under 2006 and 2007, there are almost no posts. And the reason for that is simply that I barely remember anything from that time.

Jason from Operation PTSD wrote:

Most people who are affected by PTSD will initially recluse into a world of their own leaving everyone around them searching for answers.

And that was me.

Untreated PTSD is like a 3D tactile, sensory and enveloping version of acid reflux on a loop, wherein your trauma repeats on you frequently, engaging ALL of your senses. Sometimes multiple times a day.

Can you imagine living every day of your life in terror of your own mind?

The following is about as much as I can remember of that time…

I didn’t want to think, I didn’t want to sleep. Or rather, I wanted to sleep, but without the nightmares (they eventually went away and then I just wanted to stay asleep – I often slept away whole weekends).

I didn’t want to do anything or be seen by anyone. When I wasn’t at work, I was a hermit, living alone and not going out, except to the corner store for more ice-cream or DVDs. I forgot more than I remembered. I couldn’t manage to get anywhere on time. And I absolutely couldn’t stop crying for the life of me.

I remember wishing away months of my life. I’d think things like “another six months or so, and I’ll be okay”. I wasn’t though. Healing from PTSD doesn’t really work that way.

Some people are amazed I didn’t take medication. Maybe I should have. Maybe it would’ve made my life a little less stressful.

But the truth is I didn’t see a doctor post-assault, because I was too ashamed. I also didn’t know there was anything to go and see a doctor about as I didn’t understand what PTSD was, or that someone like me could end up with it.

Eventually, I think I learned to coat myself with a layer of protective numbness. The Fog. Maybe this is nature’s way of medicating a person from the horrors? And right then (whenever “then” was) is when the Fog really set in!

The Fog was insurance, protection.

It was hard to remember to buy food to eat, let alone anything more important. However, during this time I was also being bullied at work, had bone graft surgery, a crazy neighbour and a mother who almost got me arrested! Stressful much? You bet!

There’s one thing I managed to do pretty well in that time: keep it together at work. I’ve now shared my story with a handful of ex-workmates and they’re amazed. One response was: You always seemed so happy, smart and confident!

Heh. There you have it. Externally, I had an excellent cover story working for me. I needed it desperately, to keep the Fog in tact so life didn’t hurt quite so much. And I think I know where I got that from: the Parental Units are experts.

Something that punctuated the ongoing sameness (apart from the above mentioned) was my grandfather’s passing in early October 2006.

It was just a month after his 85^th birthday, when Dad had driven an hour each way to pick him up (he refused to move after my grandma died even though he was far away from family).

For some reason, I felt inspired to take a few photos of my dad with his dad, arms around each other – they were the last photos ever taken of my grandpa.

He died at home, his heart finally giving out as he made his way from the bedroom to the living room, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown.

At a family conference the next day in my grandpa’s living room, I somehow agreed to speak at the funeral on my dad’s behalf because he said couldn’t do it without breaking down. I don’t know what made me think I could, either.

But maybe this is just what my family does by default? Shift, shuffle, handaball, sidestep… we wrap what’s really going on in layers of silk, never really looking at it directly. It’s possible to survive like that for a while, but not forever. At least, not for me anyway.

The day of the funeral I arrived early because I wanted to say my goodbyes in private. I was nervous because I’d only seen one other dead person before – my grandmother. In contrast to her plumped and pristine condition, my grandpa looked small, shrunken and stone-like.

Sitting in a chair, I could just see his forehead over the top of the coffin while I said mantra and prayers. Perhaps it was my numbness but while in the presence of his body, I felt incredibly peaceful. Here was someone who’d lived a full and happy life and now he was done. There was no lingering energy of his presence. And in a way, the nothingness was soothing.

Thing about my grandpa was, he never wished away any of his life. Even once he’d lost his wife – the love of his life – he still made the most of his time, socialising, flirting with dental nurses and maintaining a perrenial twinkle in his eye.

But that was then.

I kissed his frigid forehead, wishing him well in his travels as I tried not to look at his shrivelled and sunken eyes.

Of course I didn’t get through the service without tears. They were too readily available. And after, I was back to dealing with the balancing act between the Fog and dealing directly with PTSD.

But I guess in some ways I was glad to have an “acceptable” reason to cry in public for a few weeks. Because I couldn’t always control it, and I’m pretty sure that a lot of the grief I was feeling was as much about my own life as it was for my grandpa.

~Svasti

The art of non-conversation

Tags

Adoption, Family, gut instinct, Hugh Jackman, irony, non conversation, Parental Units, spitefully angry people, whipping girl

This post grew out of a comment I left over at RB’s blog on a semi-related topic.

My rant started as a reply to her post before veering off into my own insanity:

At least you have conversations with your parents where they ask questions about you and your life…

I briefly mentioned last Sunday in my previous post.

Hadn’t seen my nieces or sister in a few weeks, and was invited over to check out the newly renovated bathroom.

Also, eldest baby niece was moving out of the cot and into her Big Girl Bed. A seminal moment in any young girl’s life, in need of witnessing for sure.

I was warned the Parental Units would be there too, but I thought that’d be okay with me. Sort of.

You see, my parents and I still haven’t moved beyond the ill-fated three months I stayed at their place last year on returning from Thailand. It was a bad mistake. Monumentally bad.

What’s worse is that neither of them are talkers. They don’t ever want to discuss things, not unless I agree to take the starring role of Whipping Girl, where they get to list all my ill-gotten faults.

And they really don’t really go in for the whole self-reflection thing…

So. We’ve had a kind of stalemate since then. To the point that when I was drowning in depression and unemployment earlier this year I didn’t hear a word from them.

It’s especially bad with mum though. She can barely contain her resentment, she can’t even look me in the eye and talks to me in this tight, pinched voice – the one she reserves for people she can’t stand.

Dad has his own passive-aggressive tendencies, but they play out quite differently. He’s still nice-ish to me, mostly. Just horribly detached.

Woke up Sunday morning and almost rang my sister to cancel. But I wasn’t sure if it was gut instinct or laziness speaking.

Turns out it was the former.

Rode le bike to the train station, got on board, only to find out several stops along that there were ‘disruptions on the line’. Buses were replacing trains most of the way.

At that point, I did ring to cancel but apparently dad offered to ‘drive me there and back’ so I could still make it for lunch. Thought that was pretty nice of him, and quite unexpected really. I had no way of knowing then, that the return trip would not only be late-ish but that they’d drop me at a train station far far away from where I’d been picked up. Nice touch, dad.

‘Course, on the trip to my sister’s place (thank goodness my older niece was in the car too), we managed some conversation. I asked him about his imminent retirement and related plans, what he’d been up to. He managed to ask me about work.

Dad: So, how’s work?

Me: Pretty boring, just like I last told you. I’m still looking for a permanent job; don’t want to end up unemployed again come December.

Dad: Yeah that was a pretty bad time.

Me: Yes, it was! [Funny you mention that since you and mum sorta ignored me the whole time…]

Well, that kinda exhausted the topic. On to talking about my nieces and my sister. Apparently, mum is giving my sister our nan’s crystal cabinet since mum already has one.

I pretty much wanted one thing of my nan’s – a tea cup, plate and saucer set. There were three sets that my nan, sister and I used to use regularly at nan’s house for tea and biscuits. It’s just one of those irreplaceable childhood memories.

Dad: We brought down the crystal cabinet for your sister. If she doesn’t want it, then we’ll just sell it on eBay and she can have the money instead.

Me: Right… so, what happened to the tea cups?

Dad: I don’t know, you’d have to ask your mother. [He *knows* about the crystal cabinet but *not* the tea cups?!!]

Me: I didn’t want anything of value. Just something that was part of my childhood memories.

At which point the topic was changed like a TV channel.

But later when everyone was sitting around, it surfaced again.

Mum: Gee, you should have said something and put them aside. I don’t know where they are now.

Somehow, my mother conveniently forgot about the conversation we had when I was helping her sort things out (nan had been moved into nursing care). She also apparently forgot that she told me to leave the cups there for now, and we’ll sort it out later.

Dad: There’s things there that belonged to your other nan [the one I wasn’t close to].

Me: That’s not the point. I have nothing of *this* nan’s now since R [uncle] has cleared the house out.

At which point the topic was changed. Again.

Conversation shifted a few times. Then, my sister mentioned a two year old-ish boy in the same playgroup as her two year old-ish daughter. And how it was extremely clear already that he’s downright-dyed-in-the-wool camp.

Mum: Well, you know Hugh Jackman is gay. He and his wife both are.

Stunned silence. In which dimension is that an appropriate response to what my sister was saying?

Right then, I hadn’t put two and two together – mum absolutely hates anyone who’s adopted a child (her firstborn was adopted against her will in the late 60’s).

Me: You just can’t say that. You don’t know for sure unless you have first-hand eye-witness evidence.

Mum: Oh, I *know*. My friend knows someone who went to school with one of them… (mumbles into silence)

I say nothing more. Why? Because you can’t argue with crazed and spitefully angry people.

Moral of the story…

My parents don’t know much about what’s going on in my world, nor do they care to enquire. They can, on-purpose, make sure I don’t get one of my nan’s tea cups.

But my mother knows for CERTAIN that Hugh Jackman is gay.

~Svasti