Scream, Edvard Munch

i’ve been fighting through this PSTD nightmare for a little over 2 years now. and, in retrospect and via intensive therapy, i now realize that i’ve been fighting through this horror for years. the difference being that, in the past, i was able to function quite well as the coping skills i somehow developed as a child continued to work into my adult life.

of course, band-aids eventually wear out. the tear in the skin — or — in my case — the wounds to my psyche/soul — will not heal with fantasy band-aids. …even if Hello Kitty is etched into the plastic casing of the bandage. so, at some point starting around 2001 the band-aids began to fall off not too long after i put them on.

and, just around the time i was finally getting my life to a place where i always dreamed it would be — the band-aids just stopped sticking. and, now, at this moment in my life i can’t even seem to pull the decorative bandage out of the box to cover up the bleeding battle wounds.

i’ve been stumbling about — most of the time in a disassociative state which leaves me feeling afraid, confused and alone. most annoying is the conflictive way i find myself feeling: my love, my family, my dearest friends and strangers often seem totally clueless that i am falling apart and freaking out — i’ve learned to hide things so well that people very often can’t tell that i’m having any sort of problem. when, in fact, i very often feel like i’m either about to pass out, die or just vanish as i am speaking to someone. tho, the blackouts have slowed down a great deal in the past year — I still find myself losing time.

i might be sitting on the sofa holding Little Bagel at 10am and then suddenly find myself putting away groceries at 3:16pm with absolutely NO MEMORY of ever having gotten up from that chair with Little Bagel at 10am. Nothing. And, then, walking into the bathroom trying to find one of my “band-aids” to calm down only to discover that I somehow have gotten a hair cut and there is a bag with two new vintage shirts i must have purchased at my favorite thrift shop. i go on line to look at my bank card activity — and, YES, i made a charge at the thrift shop and the hair place. i check the the stuff i was stocking in our kitchen and it would appear that i picked up everything B and I discussed needing to be purchased — tho, maybe i bought too much of something. i sort of float outside — and, YES, there is our car. parked all safe and sound.

and, then, i usually end up curled up on the bed flitting between worry and naps till it is time to pick up B at his office downtown.

i usually feel sad, sullen and moody. i have to push every inch of energy in my being to make my “normal” voice — which has always been energetic and positive in tone, i have to focus on actually chatting and hearing what he has to say about his day or worries so that i will be able to remember them.

and, then, like last night — i practically pass out from exhaustion (tho, i did nothing at all yesterday even remote to activity) have a silly dream about double-headed snakes in my parents’ bed from when i was a child — wake up all sweaty and confused. slip out of the bedroom to the living room where i feel the odd need to search for snakes and my father. after i do this — knowing how “insane” this need is — i then lie on the sofa. Little Bagel has followed me out of the bedroom and climbs up on the sofa with me. i think to myself:

“it is 3am and i will NEVER be able to fall asleep”

next thing i know it is 6:44am and time to get up. i feel sick to my stomach. i start to go on my “normal” routine of driving to the coffee shop and then to the beach — but then i realize that i only have $4 in my bank account and the disability account is currently at a negative balance. so i make coffee here. it doesn’t taste good to me. i fight the urge to get sick.

i do my best to act up-beat and attempt to discuss my nightmare as if it is just strange and kind of funny. B kisses me goodbye and tells me he loves me, i return that. then, i do my best to drive home without freaking out.

i get sick when i get home. i lay on the sofa for a couple of hours.

how much longer will life be like this? is this even a life?

of course it is. and, of course i will get through this. i’ve certainly gotten through worse — but, at some point, the human runs out of energy to cope. the general lack of purpose to my days — inflicted by my inability to ever know if i will be capable to actually doing something

— yesterday a simple trip to Best Buy to return something B had purchased turned into a real over-the-top-drama when as the young person was initiating the return into the register i began to pass out. suddenly it seemed as if half the store staff was around me and i had been brought a chair and a can of soda. i was able to convince them not to call 911 for an ambulance. thinking as quick as i could i expained that i am diabetic (which of course i am not) and that i had forgotten to eat breakfast — they brought me a candy bar. after chatting with the store manager i left — then i heard a woman calling me by name — she had the return receipt, my wallet and my keys in her hands.

so, today, i sit inside the apartment feeling lost, hopeless, alone and sick to my stomach. it is a perfect san francisco day — the sun is out in full, there is a sweet breeze blowing in through the open windows. i should go to the beach with Little Bagel. …but, i just don’t have the energy and worry that this could be one of those days when my grip on her leach might fail.

tomorrow is therapy day number 2 of the week. the first day was canceled by my therapist due to illness. so, in fact, tomorrow will the only day i have therapy — if she is feeling well enough to be back to work.

sometimes it just gets so old. and, i often find myself thinking — “at what cost?” …how much have i damaged my friendships, my professional future, my body — and, most importantly my relationship with B?

…and i become almost paralzyed with fear and worry.

so, i sit and try to at least fit a “band-aid” that might get me through to the time tonight when i crawl into bed.

some days it is almost impossible to be positive or find hope. …this is one of those days.

my therapist and shink feel i’m making/having some major break-thru’s and that i WILL beat this but it will take more time and therapy. …no one wants to give me a time line. impossible to do they say. …so they tell me — one to two years. in the meantime i receive something in the mail telling me that i can now access coverage from medicare.

this is not the “place” i was meant to be as i slip into 43 years of age. no. not at all.

life is not easy, but it should not be this fucking hard. …and there is no other adjective that expresses this situation or this feeling. plain and simple — this all so totally fucking sucks.

but, on i go. looks like this band-aid has Barbie on it. 80’s malibu Barbie. …well, if one must be nuts — best to be nuts in a malibu barbie kind of way. am i right?

…and i’m too lazy to check for my spelling/grammar. fuck it.