PTSD

Do I publish this? Isn’t the crazy that happens in your therapists office supposed to stay private? I don’t know but I’ve come this far. I don’t want anyone to ever feel as alone or insane as I do so here’s the latest chapter in my journey in grief.

I have PTSD. I sat here and stared at that sentence, like maybe seeing it in writing would make it make sense. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder… I have a disorder. In part this new knowledge is a bit of a relief, an explanation for why I couldn’t seem to track with anyone or anything else, for my virtual dysfunction, hysteria, memory gaps, panic attacks, jumping at every sound, massive emotional swings from numb, inaccessible and distant to crippled by pounding tsunamis of pain and memory, for the uncontrollable flashbacks and the persistent nightmares. “I thought this was just grief” I told my therapist “No, this is grief buried under PTSD.”  She said “the first thing you need to know is you are not going crazy.” She said these words trying to hold my gaze, trying to make me believe them. “Do you feel like you’re going crazy?” “YES!!!”

I grappled with this new knowledge, trying to make it settle in my befuddled head. It still hasn’t. What does this mean? I have post traumatic stress disorder… does that mean I don’t have to live like this for the rest of my life? It can… but treatment for PTSD is exposure therapy. My stomach turns just seeing the words. It means I have to walk back through those two and a half days, step by brutal step. I have to look at them. I have to expose myself to them. Oh God.

We tried this week, after less than ten minutes I was curled in the fetal position on her couch sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe, head pressed so hard against my knees my forehead hurt. My man was there with me. I can’t even imagine what it was like for him, walking through a nightmare that actually happened and seeing me reduced to a virtual animal.   

I’ve read a lot written by bereaved parents. I often feel that they are the only people with whom I can connect but even here I felt a disconnect. They talk about it. They talk about their child’s death. They talk about the day, the hours, the hospital room, the clothes their little one was wearing. I had wondered why I stood outside this experience, why I could not do this. Now I know.

Do I have the strength to do this? I honestly don’t think I do. We’ve been told I’ll likely get worse before I get better. That almost makes me laugh, worse? I suppose I could reenter the near catatonic state of the months immediately following Damon’s death but I’m not even sure that would be worse. 

Still, I’m terrified…