Fucking March

I tried to read this book on PTSD called "The Body Keeps Score." Long story short, it's really interesting, but keep triggering me so I didn't make it past the second chapter.

The past few weeks have me thinking a lot about the title though.

Last week, for the first time in a long time, I had a full-on, full body, out of control, panic attack. I was hysterical. Will held me while my body was wracked with sensations from events I wasn't actually experiencing. I screamed and screamed.

I sort of took it lightly. As lightly as one can take something like that. It's not like this is new, just not something I've experienced in a while. My panic attacks over the past few years have become something I can manage. This, was a whole different animal. Still, when the my body stopped shuttering I made a joke about Will's snotty shirt, picked up, and went on with my life.

It happened again today.

I texted my ever-patient husband and said: The number of times I've had to tell our children "I can't. I'm just not ok today" makes me feel like complete shit.

I'm not even going to lie to you guys. I poured vodka all over it. I just couldn't go through that again. I couldn't be completely stripped again so soon. I couldn't face the panic.

I've been ripping myself down. Why? Why are you falling apart now? What the hell??

Maybe it's the looming dissertation defense.

Maybe it's the 30 different projects and responsibilities.

Maybe it's the ever-fucking-present terror that your 4 year old will die at any second.

Maybe it's the constant fall-out from trying to help a shattered 12 year old grow that no one sees.

It's probably all of that but in the end... the body keeps score.

Fucking March. It's going to be a bad one.

Until next time....