Stress manifested

Stress has a way of getting the better of you. Whether you have PTSD or not, stress is never a good thing. But I have noticed that if you DO have PTSD it is always present. Very few things in this world can make stress go away for me.

This weekend I was lucky enough to be able to work in my shop again. My hands hurt, my back aches, and my eyes are heavy. But it is all worth it, when I am in my shop working away, creating, everything else just seems to not matter.

This I found out today is not always a good thing.

I was able to spend a few hours working today, I started to restore this bar we have, and I was working on a gift for someone. I have more projects in the works but I chose to catch up on the bar, and start a new one instead. So for a few hours both today, and yesterday I was stress free. That does not however mean I didn't have stress.

I realized that when I work in my shop, I have created a space for me to be stress free. But as soon as I leave my shop the stress is there waiting for me like "B", it is curled up sleeping at the doorway. When I am done working for the day, the stress and my dog coming running back to me. I am assaulted with a wall of worry, doubt, fear, and nightmares I forgot were all mine to bear.

Then I spend the night trying to wrestle them all back into place, all that stress needs to fit back into its nice neat little package. If it doesn't it spills over, and I lash out. All of that hard work I put into maintaining is for naught. Then I hide from those I lashed out at, out of shame, and guilt.

The guilt is unbearable, I am red with embarrassment, and small in courage. I do not mean to shout or yell. I grew up in a house that always had yelling, I like a quiet house. A peaceful house. I hate how I am the one that snaps sometimes and destroys the peace in my house. I hate that I am the source of the madness, and purveyor of my disorder. I am the "dis" in the "order" that is my life.

I yell and I shout, and get angry before I can think as to why I am doing those things. Even later I do not know why I do them. I am my own worst enemy, I am the destroyer of worlds, and the defiler of peace.

I can no longer hide away in my shop, my fortress of solitude. I have to find a way for everything to work, to flow. I can not just leave my stress at the door, and let it wait there to be welcomed back when I have finished ignoring it.

What to do...

What to do, indeed.  

I got laid off today.

On the eve of the darkest day yet, I was informed that tomorrow will be my last day the company I have been working for for over a year now. It is so very few that we find a job that we truly love. I love my job, the people, the work, the security.

I have talked before about how people with PTSD do not do well with uncertainty, we do better with structure and routine. Part of that is because when we see a routine we know all is well, it makes it easier to spot the odd duck out, the one following us. It's like this:

101010101012101010101

Pretty easy to see the odd one out right? Well that is how it is for people with PTSD, but instead of 1's and 0's we the small red head with freckles on her nose walking her dogs on the right side of the rode. We see the Latin FedEx guy going north on his route, we see the old man sitting in the park feeding pigeons, and the three older women that speed walk in the park waving hi to him as they do every morning.

Now when there is something out of place, say a new Mercedes parked under a tree. There are those that would think, "wow that's a nice car", those with PTSD do not think that. At all. No, instead we think, Black, four door, Mercedes, chrome trim, one drive, male 25-35, sunglasses, no plates just dealer plates, John Hine (random dealership), etc.

You get the point. (And yes not everyone with PTSD does this, but A LOT do.)

So even though we all do this, and it may seem crazy to others that we do, it makes us feel safe. Tomorrow will be my last day driving the two hour commute to work. Tomorrow will be the last time I see the blue Hyundai with the little old black lady behind the wheel, with the licence plate 02 Blue (still have yet to figure out what that means).

Tomorrow will be the last time I sit in traffic with the terrible driver from Debbie's Delites (not the real name of the catering place, but seriously they suck at driving and made me never want to order their services).

Tomorrow will be the last time I see all of the cars I have spent a year making sure the pattern was there. I do not like that. But it isn't the traffic I don't like, cause God knows I hate that!!! No it is the security I found in the routine of my daily commute. For four hours a day, I wasn't in control of anything, but nothing was amiss either. For four hours a day I could go with the flow and the flow was the same every day.

I will miss the security, and the routine. I was in a good place, I was in a good job. Tomorrow we will see if I can maintain a little longer, and keep living life even when the stressors are too much to handle. Tomorrow I will be tested.  

Today was the day I've been waiting for

If this post seems lost or hazy or even confusing I apologize up front.

Today is the day that I have felt brewing, I have sensed it for over a week now, everything is to much to take. The birds chirping outside, the sun shining on my face, the wind through my window as I drove home. All of my senses are too much today. I am constantly reminded of my events. I have yet to have a flashback, but I feel them on the edge of my mind.

I am jumping at everything, and everyone one. Everything is scaring me, as if it were the first time I have ever laid eyes upon it. I do not recognize my own image in the mirror. My anxiety is racing, dragging my heart at 1000 beats a second. My hands ache, and my body is sore. I want to run away, and hide in the nearest darkest hole. I want to fight everyone and everything that gets near me, and I want it all to go away. I want, no I need someone to make it all go away.

I am strong, I know this, but I can't do it today. I want it all to end. I want that barrel in my mouth, and I want that ringing to signal the end of the pain. End of the nightmares. The pain and self loathing are beyond palpable, I test the bitter filth of my own lacking. I can smell my own nerves curling in the heat of my own misery.

Every sound is the sound of shots fired, or explosions in the distance. The sound of the neighborhood cats howling at each other are like sirens in desperate need to thrash my mind on the rocks of my past. Dogs barking, doors slamming, my ears are assaulted with violent memories. My eyes fight to close as I drive home, the flashing of lights, and reflections are causing me to ride the carousel between the here and now, and the then and gone.

It is all just too much to take today, I have fought the good fight for a long time. I will survive this day, even though I truly do not wish to.

Stay strong, even in the days like this. 

The difficult days

Days that my mind races, I find it hard to write a post  that is clear and coherent. My last post may have been fine for some, but for myself I feel it was clouded, and a bit confusing. It's days like that that I have to look back, and remember what it was that was so distracting. Today I was so tired from the weekend, I slept a lot. My mind reeled at the idea of being awake, and alive. Just the idea of being a productive member of society was too much for me today.

I cared for nothing, I wanted nothing, I felt nothing and reveled in that.

For some reason or another I was, and still am not ready to face the outside world today, or tomorrow. I will, however, get up tomorrow and dutifully (B sensed my failing mood and decided now was a good time to interject) and woefully shower, get dressed, and drive to work. Where I will do my best to maintain, try my best to keep it all together.

I read stories, and see ads for people with PTSD who have gone missing. Some are found, some are even found alive. Others are not found at all. I think on these people and I wonder if they have an answer I have yet to discover. Those that are never found, the ones that go missing, and stay missing. Do you think they found themselves, and are happy somewhere? I like to think so, I like to think that maybe they couldn't keep it all together, like maybe they couldn't maintain in a society that is as backwards as ours. So instead of fighting it, and being forced to hop on the medication train, they find their own peace.

Wishfully thinking I know. But I think if we dwell on the negative then it spreads to the rest of the world. But if we remain hopeful, and we keep a positive out look, maybe someone some where will be effected the same way as with negative thoughts.

So as always remain hopeful, find someone to talk to, even if like now as I am, you are unable to. Find someone and yell through all that guilt, and shame, and anxiety. Someone is out there that wants to listen, wants to help. Even if that wall of memories and guilt are so thick you can feel the tangible weight of them crushing your chest, find someone to talk to, do not go silently into the night. Fight with all that pain and sadness, use it as fuel, and help others, and yourself.

Stay strong. Stay above ground for one more day. 

Lazy Sunday, hardly (what it looks like when I write and I am not here)

Today started like any other, and if you like me have insomnia, today was actually just a longer yesterday. I was up late, 4 A.M.-ish, thoughts racing, worry over flowing, and tension on high alert. I laid in bed, with the S.O. sleeping soundly next to me, B was as usual curled up on my side, and her (the SO's) new kitten and its bothersome brother playing between us.

After several hours of balancing my attempt to sleep, and the animals needing attention, I passed out and woke up at 7, I was instantly alive, and aware. My S.O. was a little hung over, so she was in no mood to get up :) But she hopped up and made an amazing breakfast as usual. Then I set off to work, I was still tired but I had to keep fighting.

Friday after work, I felt my own demons rising, I knew that it was only a matter of time before I would have issues. I can't be the only one that can sometimes feel the wave of depression, or anxiety, or that darkness that comes with PTSD. I dealt with it Saturday as best I could, I stayed ahead of my demons. I was on alert, but on alert for my own fears more than anything.

I set my mind to a task, I difficult one, one that I had never done before. The idea is simple:

Find a project, any project. Woodworking, sculpting, something to do with your car. Anything you've never done before. Find a picture, and do it. That's it. No research, no training. You dive in head first and focus on it with everything. And then you find a way to make it more difficult.

For me it was woodworking, I have done woodworking in the past but this was something new for me. I had to build something I would never make any other way, and I had to use as little materials as possible. So from Saturday morning to Sunday night that is what I did. I discovered things about myself, and I fought the demons by giving them no quarter in my mind.

Since I have started this Blog, I have come to realize that if I go back and read my other posts i can see when I was most effected by my symptoms. I have noticed that because I write about them, I tend to dwell on them more, and I allow them to wreck my vision of the world around me. PTSD comes like waves, it is always there, but some days are worse and some days are better. Just like the waves they can turn on us and throw a storm our way.

I have been doing really well lately, I haven't had any nightmares, or moments of paranoia. I have been sleeping well, and even my mood has improved. But like most waves they leave and then return. Friday my tide was on the rise. I fought and I found a way to push the waters back. My body is sore, my mind aches, and my soul feels tired, but I can say that I won this battle.

I am tempted to call this a "prolonged attempt at aversion", but for now I am going to hope that I really did win this time. Because if I didn't then I must prepare for it's return.

Caregivers and service dogs

I am lucky enough to have a caregiver in my life. She is there to take the brunt of my PTSD symptoms and tell me it is going to be OK. She is also my SO, she does what she can for me. She cooks, she cleans, she makes sure to yell at me when I forget to take my meds, or when I forget to text her that I made it to work. She takes care of the things I tend to forget about. She doesn't support me financially, she supports me emotionally.

She is there to remind me that even though I have seen some stuff, that not everyone else has. This may seem like a small thing, but I assure you it is not. If you have read my previous posts then you know how all this started. If you haven't let me catch you up.

All of this started with American Sniper, the movie. It triggered a huge episode, and I was a complete @55 hole to the people in the theater, all because they clapped. I thought I was maintaining through the film, but when the credits rolled, and the audience clapped, I lost it. I had a break down that night, and all of the my PTSD demons were released. I was unable to speak, I was unable to do anything I just remember shaking a lot, crying, and my SO/Caregiver handing me my service dog and taking charge. Calming me down, and since she saw that I was unable to talk about it she made me promise to write about it.

Flash forward to today.

So now I have this awesome little service dog, that comes and checks on me every 5 mins whenever I am writing and sleeps right next to me until I pass out. I have an AMAZING caregiver that makes sure I am OK, and handles the stuff she loves and makes my life easier. But it isn't just about cooking and cleaning. She is always on me, in a good way, to make sure that I am not going down the road I was going down before we met. She is there to easy the frustrations I have with life. A lot of the things in modern society I just don't get. I won't go into them, cause then I'll get distracted and go on a rant again. She handles all the stuff I would not do if I were on my own. I wouldn't cook, I love to cook, but if I were alone, or in charge of that I'd get pizza. or sushi every night. Cleaning, well not gonna lie on that one, I have never been good at that. I tried to use the swiffer thing the other day and some how made a bigger mess. She laughed it off and told me to go write.

Anywho...

We met shortly after I tried to kill myself for the 3rd time.

There is always a high after trying to kill myself, no a high like you feel from a drug, or an emotion. More of a high like, things seems to make sense and work out for me. After my third failed attempt, I was urged to get help by family members, and I did. I felt I had to, I was almost ashamed to the point of depression that I had failed. I felt I had to get help to try and redeem my failure. But I got help, I got on medication, that is working wonders for me. I got the help I needed, and I did what everyone was doing I swept it under the rug, and carried on. I was broken inside, like an engine with a cracked block, running on no oil. I was maintaining, and I was feeling like things were working out.

But I wasn't getting better, I was maintaining, yes. I was fighting a fight I had ignored for so long that I forgot that it was even something you do. My PTSD was attacking me and I was losing. I would put the smile on, and I would tell everyone I was good, but I was and always will be a terrible liar.

When I say this I am being honest and truthful, PTSD was taking me down that road once again. I was thinking and plotting, and planning my own death. All just to make it end, to make the nonsense of life disappear.

Over time, I got more help, and more help. I told others what I had done, and they told me what they had done. Together we realized that we weren't alone. I talk with my best friends everyday now. People I have been to war with, people who I would go to war for, and people who I wish I would have gone to war with. People with PTSD, just like me, people who are fighting the same fight I am.

PEOPLE. Human beings that have been where I have, or are where I used to be.

Now I am not a social butterfly. I am the guy that will go to party, or dinner party, and have to take a nap half way through because social gatherings are exhausting for me. I work 8 hours a day, and commute 4 hours a day, I am up from 4 am to 9 pm. I don't need naps. But if you stick me in a social situation I am done for, expect me to disappear cause I will.

But since my service dog, "B" (yes that is her name), and my social butterfly SO/Caregiver have helped me, I have recovered. There are still days when the thought of suicide graces the darker corners of my thoughts. But I am now able to fight the battle that rages within, without having to remember the water bill is due, or that the dog needs to be fed. Because of my support system, I am able to write, heal, work, and live. My Caregiver does not give me care, she does not take care of me. She gives me the ability to find the hope in life, and chose to live life.

I know it sounds crazy that paying bills or remembering to feed another animal is hard. I know it does. But when half your mind is stuck reliving terrible events 24 hours a day 7 days a week, night and day, awake and asleep. Some how that stuff slips by, BUT when you have a caregiver, or a support system that says "hey, I got dinner, just go take a moment to collect your thoughts, and remember to pay the water bill." HOLY SNOT ROCKETS! That right there, that is a breath of fresh air. Because I still, after almost 10 years can not fight this battle and make mac n cheese.

I can't.

I am a fully grown man, I have a career, I have hobbies, I have responsibilities. But if my mind is taking a trip down PTSD blvd, that is what I am doing. That is all I can do. My caregiver makes sure I don't forget that there is a here and now. My service dog brings me back to the here and now.

Thank you to everyone who helps and supports those with PTSD, we are trying, I swear to you we are. We just can't find our way back all the time. Be that anchor for us, and I promise you, you will see how strong we can be. Remind us to take a moment, come back home, and we will fight for that home til we have nothing left.

Thank you to everyone that has given me hope in his fight. Thank you to all my brothers and sisters in uniform for going down that road.

Until Valhalla, brothers and sisters, until Valhalla.  

Time for a rant

One of the symptoms of PTSD is irritability and out bursts of anger. Now I was going to write about other stuff. I was really, I promise I was. But I had to run to the store, and I used the SO's car, not my own that has the antenna removed from the radio. My SO's car has all the bells and whistles. Bluetooth this, and sub-woofer that. It is beyond irritating for me. I drive it because after 2 hours of traffic I am unable to drive my manual car.

Ok so back story complete, moving on. So I was pulling out and the stereo was on a different station than what I had left it on, now I know its not my car and that shouldn't bother me. And it wouldn't have except she listens to her spotify on her phone. So there should have been no reason for the station to change.

But it did, and that bothered me, it bothered me because it was on a random station that plays "The Biggest Hits of Today!". Now if you're old enough to remember when MTV was actually Music TV and music had a purpose, and a meaning. If you're old enough to remember when songs had a message, or if you can even understand that songs can have a meaning then you can understand why I got irritated.

Music today is garbage. Its pathetic excuses for adults yelling incoherent nonsense over techno beats, rhyming words with the same words. I don't know why, I don;t really care why either, but "todays" music bothers me, it makes me very angry. No offence to anyone when I say this, but:

Dear Nikki Minaj, nigga does not rhyme with nigga. Saying it 20 times in a song does not make that a song. Or a rhyme. Or a rap. That is not how songs work, please go away. Thank you.

Today's music is a trigger for me. I hear the inane and misdirected "Idols" of the music industry and I get angry. I get angry because there was a time when we sang songs, or listened to music that meant something. And today's "hits" are glorifying things that should never, ever be glorified.

"I'm in love with the Coco" REALLY? This is the message you want to tell the world, tell your children, tell your friends? There was a day when we used to kick the shit out of crack heads, and put them in rehab. Now we give them a record deal? WTF?!



  

Life is a funny thing

I was talking with a friend recently, she has PTSD as well, and is in the service. Now her PTSD is the cause of other things unrelated to her service. But she has the same symptoms. I have seen her jump at loud noises, I have witnessed her vigilance, and I have seen her insomnia get worse.

Now I am not going to go into details of her life, but I would like to take a minute and talk about what we talked about. When we have PTSD stress is every where, and effects every aspect of our lives. Whether its the stress of our demons, or the stress we are unable to cope with now that we view the world differently.

Her stress was building. When we have PTSD we find it difficult to talk to others, because of the way we view the world. I read a study recently that stated that those with PTSD view the world, and the problems of their life not in first person view, but in a dislocated (almost) third person view. So when we need to talk to people about the troubles, or the stress were having, we find it hard to connect or express ourselves. We find it difficult because on a certain level the issues in our life aren't happening to us. They are happening in our life, but we are unable to express them as a personal thing.

That I find interesting. As well as enlightening.

I have said it before, and I'll say it again. I am not in love with life.  But I love my life. That statement now makes sense to me, as to why I say it. According to the study, I have dislocated myself from life, and now instead of being in life, I am with life. I have realized in my short life, that one can be in, and out of love.

We all know this if you have ever loved another, and you no longer know them. The same is true for life. We can be in love with life, as well as out of love with life. But we can still love the life we have, I am not in love with life, but I love with all of my life.

Stress can make life hard, and when we have PTSD it can be hard to think clearly. We can tend to think life is a terrible affliction and the only way out of it is to end it. But I have had an eye opening moment this week, and I have come to a realization.

For the longest time I would fight tooth and nail. Blood, sweat, tears would mark my path in life. I would push against everything, and everyone making my life the way I thought it should be. The way I wanted it to be. But as I grew older, and hopefully wiser I realized 99% of the stress I was having life was created and nurtured by me. I had the nice car, the swanky sea side apartment, the fancy job, and a house full of stuff that I thought you should have as an adult. 

Now I am practically stress free. I say practically because my old habit still come and go, I still get the stress of normal life but I push it aside now. Now when I am thinking clearly and I am able to manage my PTSD, stress is just a mild irritant. I try everyday not to worry about bills, bills don't care about you. My nice car didn't care about me. My apartment by the ocean didn't enjoy the view of me. Now that I have none of those things, I am not creating stress in my own life. 

I have a house I live in, and it is free of clutter. I don't have the big TV, or leather couch, or fancy pots and pans. I have my recliner, and my office desk, and a workshop. I didn't spend a lot of money on them, I was given them or built them myself. I have an older car, that breaks down a lot.

But I am content. I am happy. Life has found me, and I have found my purpose in life. The struggle is over. I am not a rich man, my account hovers right around zero, but with my friends, my family, my writing, and this blog, I am a rich man. 

Bills come, and bills go. Cars come, and cars go. But life, life can be hard, and it can be easy. Life can be something you're in love with, and it can be something you fall out of love with. Or life can be something you love, you love with, and something you cherish. Stress is not part of life. It is the result of us fighting life, trying to make it what we want. 

Find your purpose, I found mine, and my life is free. Stop fighting it, stop creating stress making your PTSD worst. PTSD and bills don't mix. PTSD and stress mix, but only result in poisoning your life. Take a moment and meditate on your life, and find your purpose. Fear is not your master. PTSD is not your master. Stress is not your master. Find your purpose, and find your life.

When we deny our purpose in life, we dance with the devil and play with insanity- E. Pepper

For the followers and regulars.

As of late I have made a change to my blog. I have stopped advertising it, and spending endless hours sharing it.

That doesn't mean that I have stopped writing or taking an interest in the readers of my blogs. It means that I no longer have it in me to tirelessly spread this blog around. If you've ever jumped on the self marketing train you know what I mean. I feel that close to 70k views in my first 3 month of writing is an achievement I can be proud of. I learned more then I thought I could from my first 3 months.

I have met so many amazingly strong people. And I have gained a new respect for old friends that I had no idea were fighting along side me. I even made an impact in my life, my family, and myself.

For that I am deeply thankful and will continue to write. This blog is not ending anytime soon, nor is my fight. What is ending though is the work involved in it. I am shifting focus from reaching people, to reaching with people.

Thank you to all who have and will continue to walk with me down this path.

Stress can kill, and be killed.

Sometimes in life we are able to manage stress, sometimes we laugh it off. Other times stress can bring us to the brink of sanity, and leave us there to titter.

Today was a day where stress was something in the middle for me.

My job is on a contract basis, and that contract is ending soon. I haven't had a call in months for an interview, and I am submitting my resume for up to 80 jobs a day. My tire blew out yesterday, not just pop and I had to change it. Oh, no. Something ripped a hole in the side wall of the tire as I was driving to a doctors appointment that I was 2 hours late too, after it taking 4 months to finally get. I was late because after I spent 10 mins changing it and putting the spare on I pulled back out into traffic and the spare tire came off the rim.

Amazing luck right? lol

Well I woke up today, with all that on my mind, and I went to work. Then it hit me, in two weeks time, I will once again be jobless. I had some money saved up for this, but with missing work and bills piling up it disappeared, magically.

I have had some dark thoughts today, but the stress hasn't made it impossible to function. Now that I am thinking clearer, I am able to think back and realize that as stress increased, so did my symptoms of PTSD. I know this seems like pretty common sense things here. But that is just it, when PTSD has you, there is no such thing as common sense. Because common PTSD sense says that THERE REALLY is someone following you. Common PTSD sense says, "Yes they are talking about you, they are plotting against you". Your logical voice can yell and scream all it wants, but it won't win.

All that bad luck, and all that stress, and I didn't lose it. I didn't break down. I wanted to, oh I wanted to so bad. I still had thoughts that if I ever shared I may have eyebrows raised, and have my medication increased to a steady drip of tranquilizers lolol

But I didn't give into those thoughts. I set them aside and made them wait their turn for my  attention. The demons had to wait their turn today. I was beyond exhausted when I left work, I had spent my day racing to get things done, and fighting my demons. Physically, and mentally I was not able to carry on. But I did.

And I will. Each day is a new battle, and each night is a new victory. Every night I make it to my bed, and lay my head down, I know I've won today. If you've read my previous posts you'd know how partial I am to my pillows. Every day I wake up and my first thought is "here we go again".

"Here we go again."

What a powerful phrase, here I am again to wrestle my demons one more time. Here I am again standing above my scars, and wounds. Here I am again, today. Here I am again, ready and willing. Here I am again breathing, and spending my time alive.

So here's to all your "again's". May we share them for a long time coming. May we wake up everyday after our tires explode, and our jobs end. May I always be able to connect with you and write. 

The day I became a man

We are all presented with choices. From the first choice we make in the morning, to the last at night our day is filled with "what if's" and "coulda been's".

I remember the day I realized I was a man. It wasn't the day I lost my virginity, as some men consider their coming of age ceremony. No, the day i became a man was the day I realized I had made a decision that was bigger than myself. A decision that would not only effect others, but effect my entire life. The day that you make that decision on your own, and never look back. That was the day i became a boy.

I made a decision, a choice, and I did not  look back. As a child things like "take backs" and "do overs" are common place. Things like "I don't like this" matter. When you are an adult, there are no "take backs" you deal with the choices you made and you roll on. There are no do overs, you do it right the first time, or you try again and again til you do. As an adult it doesn't matter what you like or don't like, there is only what you HAVE to do to survive. No one is going to hold your hand.

But today, as a man, I claim my "Do Over".

I am not asking for it. I am taking it. I am not requesting it. I am demanding it.

I have made terrible choices in life, some have even been awful and hurtful to others. I have trampled people I saw as weak to get what I want. I have used people to get ahead, and to better myself and what I have.

I am laying my "Do Over" card down on the table, and I am calling it in. I don't want to redo all of my past mistakes, I don't want to relive all my nightmares. I don't want to go back to school, and change my major for a 4th time. No, I am claiming my "Do Over" on life, it is my time to live. It is my time to stop making decisions that are hurtful to others, or myself. My do over is a do over on myself.

I am choices to do me over, to grow past my past, and leave my PTSD where it should be. In my past. I am claiming my future for myself. Every day i talk with my readers, and I realize that we are all in need of a "Do Over".

We all wish we could go back and make our events never happen. Well, we can't". We can't be un-raped, we can't be unbeaten, we can't be un-scarred. But we can be un-burdened, un-effected, unrelenting.

I remember the day I became a man, but I also remember the day I became the new me.

Today. And everyday after this.

It is simmering, once again.

I feel it again. That burning itch, that heroin addiction like craving for it. My mouth salivates for it. My veins itch for it. My flesh craws for it. My fingers curl, refusing to be anything but balled up stones. My eyes have dropped the lense that fuels it. I see red, and its getting deeper.

It is my rage.

I was doing so well. I felt so normal for once. I was writing more, I was posting more. I was taking my meds like I was supposed to, I was even taking risks and trusting people. Why is this happening?

What is this growing inside of me?

Didn't they fix me? Am I so broken I can never be fixed?

How much space can I ask for til I am no longer over whelmed? How lonely can I be til you are happy? how miserable must I be to make you happy?

Must I grind my teeth and starve to feed your hunger for my misery? My I claw at my own skin, and break it to quench your thirst?

What must I do to make you leave? Tell me and it will be your, I swear it.

I can not harbor directionless rage within me, my walls can not hold it. What has come over me is not who I am, I am suffocating, and drowning.

I am angry for no reason, and every reason. The confusion is spreading, making nothing make sense. The confusion makes every thought frustrating to process, and a struggle to share.

The more you ask what is wrong the more angry I become, because I can not find and form the words to express myself. All I can say is "give me a second", and we both know I need more than that, but that is all I can say. 

I was laughed AT today

Today I was made the blunt of a joke. It has taken me years to get to the point where I am now. The point where I am writing everyday. I may not post here, but I write everyday. I was asked what I was doing with my career, and for the first time outside of my home I was able to say "I am working on becoming a writer."

Up til now I have only said it around close friends and in my own home. My PTSD keeps me from sharing details about myself. In public, or online. I keep details about myself very secret. I keep my life out of conversations, my own family doesn't know where I live. I have a fear that if details are known about me then people can find me, and hurt me. But if I remain hidden to the world, then I remain hidden to the pain. When I was reborn in the army, the first thing I remember them teaching us is OPSEC. Operational Security. The lesson was easy enough to learn, any details the enemy finds out about you the easier it is for them to defeat you. Travel plans, favorite bar, mother's name, future station after you PCS (Permanent Change of Station).

That lesson carried on into the civilian world, and then some. There are details of my life I keep from everyone. No one knows everything about me, they can't, and won't. I keep people close enough that they feel connected, and far enough away that I am able to control the flow of information about myself to them. My life story can be written by no one person.

Opening up today, to two strangers, was beyond a challenge. I felt the words slip out before I had a chance to stop and sift through them. I was unable to analyze my thoughts to ensure they couldn't be followed back to me. I said it, again though. The first time I said it, I was shocked, the second I was hating myself for saying it again.

"I am working on becoming a published writer."

Before I could finish my sentence the laughter started. I was poked and prodded, I was judged, and I knew what was coming. The stream of questions, I had given these strangers the keys to a vault I had kept a secret, and they laughed all the way to my core.

But something happened, I didn't crumble. I didn't die, I was attacked, but I lived. As they were laughing, I stood there, and I had an episode. The trigger was an odd one, it was the accent of a middle eastern man. My hands tightened, blazing sweat ran down my face, and my vision went white. I was in a store room, full of pallets of boxes, they were gone. Replaced with the warm tan colored towers of the Mosques, the boxes were now stones piled high, the voices and laughter were now the prayers blasted across the landscape seven times a day. Everyday.

They called it a hobby, and laughed. But I was no where near them, I had taken the fastest flight to another land. A land I have been to far too many times. A land everyone in that room had been. Then I was shot back, back into my body, back into that store room.

A small laughter came from the dark recesses of my mind.

A laughter I have not heard in many years. It was me. It was my laughter.

It was the same laughter I had before I joined. the laughter that would fight to escape whenever someone used to tell me, that I was too fat to join the army, or too dumb to get a degree. It was the laughter of a challenge being accepted. I may be fat, I may be dumb, I may even be too broken to live up to your standards. But there is one thing I love, and that is a challenge. And there isn't anything in this world that can stop me from proving you wrong. I was told by the recruiter I was too fat for the army, two months later I showed up 90 lbs lighter. I was told I was too dumb to get a degree and make it in life, I have a Bachelors in Computer Sciences with an emphasis on Networking, and an Associates in Graphic Design. My mind may be shattered, and I forget way too much but I live on my own, and I take care of my own.

Their laughter was met with my own, they trampled my dreams, they betrayed my trust. That was OK with me, I just got the motivation I needed to watch you choke on those words.

I bid you all a good night, I have midnight oils to burn, and a challenge to defeat. 

Helpless romantic

I can't remember a time when I wasn't having a lurid love affair with life. I am either higher than I have ever imagined, or I am wanting to end my time with my mistress for the last time. When it is good, my god is it goooood. But when it's bad, watch out.

Like a bad relationship with another person, we have our good times, and our bad times. I romanticize how beautiful life can be, and I exaggerate how much of a b*#@h life can be as well. When life is good, I want to take it all in, I want to roll in the sheets with her until early in the morning.

But when my mind gets too comfortable for its own good, it turns on itself. Memories surface, fears grow, and my heart races. In those moments I can not stand the sight of my paramour a moment longer. I can not bare the weight of life upon my chest and I wish that each breath is my last. When we are at odds, when the taste of her lips upon my mouth is bitter, I spat upon man. I crave the burning of the world. I feel terrible for being one of the ones that made it back. I feel awful for being one of the ones that couldn't endure. Morose, doesn't touch how I feel when life and I are in a lovers quarrel. The world is not even dark when I hate life, it is a dull boring gray. My distaste for life is the only color I see. It is the only beauty I can see in an ocean of gray.

When life is good my heart swells for those I see in pain, and I reach out to them asking to help them. Asking to be of service to my fellow man, so that together we can share in the bliss that is life. Some days, I find myself just breathing, just focusing on the simple act of inhaling. And I realize that, that feeling is peace. Pure bliss. I want to share that with others when I am in the throes of passion with my mistress. There is no pill, no medication that cause give you the love for life. You have to find it on your own. And find it I do, and Find it I shall, again and again. Life my be my fickle mistress, she may be my ill-tempered lover, but I am addicted to the drug that is life. 

Medication may keep the darkness at bay, but only we can choose to love life. Only we can choose to seize the day, and make life happen. Going to work everyday, sitting in traffic, sleeping in on the weekends, watching 19 hours of Netflix IS NOT LIVING (I know that last one hurt, I do loves me some flix of the net lol). None of that is seizing life, grabbing her by the shoulders and breathing her in with ever fiber of your being. 

Life may have shown you her darker side, and now you have been granted the scars of PTSD. But that doesn't mean you have to run. Charge forward, and make your life your own. Show life that you are as much in love with her, as much as you have been hurt by life.

Dedicated to those we need

We all meet people everyday, I know it sounds terrible :) But we do, whether we want to or not, we still interact with new people everyday. Some of those people come and go, like a leaf drifting down a river. Others effect us positively and negatively.

Those who effect us positively quickly become those we love and trust. When we have PTSD, that is a rare thing for us. We love like any other person, but we trust so little. When those we love and trust are on our side, we are unstoppable, even if we are having a bad day. During those bad days, the ones we love and trust cause us to hold onto hope.

But when those we hold dear turn on us, or leave us, we are left with a void. A growing, self consuming void. That void can lead to darkness, and dark thoughts. When these thoughts take hold it can be hard to see through all of the pain and self loathing. It can be hard to see the light. 

It is so rare to find a support system that we fight for the ones that may or may not be healthy for us. We can confuse love, with the love of the drugs (the chemicals in our system that are created when you touch someone you love, not actual drugs) they give us. We can confuse our feelings of being alone, with our feelings of missing them. 

This is not meant as a warning, or a deterrent from meeting new people, or meant to cut out the people you know now. It is meant as a commentary on the relationships we have, and can continue to have that may not be the best for us. A person that is good for you is the one that yells right back with you when you're lost in a bout of rage. Not yelling at you, but yelling to get through to you. The ones that fight for you, not with you. 

While I was off my medication, I was able to see who that person was. It was the person standing there in line at the VA, yelling at the doctors when I was so beaten down. It wasn't the people beating me down, or yelling at me. It was the person who knew who I was, and knew I was in a bad place. These are the people we need around us. These are the people who can be our life raft in the storm that is PTSD. 

Find these people, love these people, trust these people. Never let them go, and cherish them. 

Not really about PTSD, but sorta

Ever since I was a kid, after reading Fahrenheit 451, I have had a love affair with the idea of being a book. If you've read the book you know what I mean, if you haven't let me break it down.

In the book Fahrenheit 451, firemen don't put out fires, the burn books that they find hidden in peoples houses. Books are outlawed, deemed an unsafe prohibited item. So the people of the world, carry on and live life's full of empty headed nonsense, and mindless simulation of drugs, alcohol, fast times, and bad TV. The main character, is a fireman, and over time he finds a book and comes to realize the world is a broken place. He ends up on the run when they find out he has a book, and he runs into hobos, or migrant homeless people. Now these people do not have names. They've given up their names, for the titles of the books they have memorized. So there is a man called "Moby Dick", and another fellow named "Great Expectations" and so on and so forth.

These people become the memories they hold. The memories they carry, are how they are identified. We all have memories we carry, and we are all trying to get rid of them. We are all trying to find a way to process the feelings, and emotions those memories give to us.

What if...

What if the memories we have of our trauma are not scars, but our bodies yelling and screaming that we have to share them for future generations?

What if just like in Fahrenheit 451, our memories are there to preserve vital information, for others to carry on and learn from?

My love affair with this idea has caused me to read like in someway there was a cure for a disease I had, hidden in the pages of libraries. But I think this love affair also caused me to realize that the memories I have, as painful as they are for me, could be more painful for others. So instead of like The Giver, and passing my memories on so that someone somewhere could stop the flow of pain to future generations, I kept it inside. 

Yes I know I write about it, and I share it. We all know that words can influence emotion, but can they share pain in such a way as to ensure that it stops. Not only for us, but for everyone else. Can we truly share our fears, and frustrations, and nightmares to stop others from making the mistakes?

I do not know the answer to that question. But I do know this, since I was a child have chosen Old Man and the Sea as my book. When dark days come that is the book I think back on, that is the book I carry in my heart. That is the book I will be known as, and just like Santiago, I will keep fighting until the current takes me home again. 

It's the little things

We spend our days filled with tasks, errands, work, all self imposed. All these things through the day, we chose to do them. Instead of realizing that the "kids need to get to soccer practice" is not a need, but a task we have given ourselves to fill a void. We fill our lives with stress, because in some way it is easier to do that, it is what "normal" people do.

My perfect day, as I am sure yours is as well, is when I get up with the sun. I get up brew some coffee, I look out over the land and I take it all in. I sit in my chair out front and I watch the world come alive, as my dog sits next to me watching for cats. Her favorite past time. After the sun comes up, I go inside where breakfast has been made by my SO, I eat thank her for the meal and then go to my workshop and toil around there creating whatever pops into my head. After a few hours of that I come in grab a snack, and sit down to write for a bit. When I have drained all my creative juices, I grab a drink, and relax outside watching the sun set. Once I am recharged I write some more and then get cleaned up and have dinner with friends that my SO has made for us.

Now I have been told my entire life that this is impossible, because you need to work to pay your bills, and you have responsibilities. You have to go to school, and then to college, and then to work for 30 years then you can do all that. Once you've conformed to the way everyone else is doing it you can do what you want.

I say all that because recently I have been having car trouble, it causes me to get home entirely too late to write, or work in my shop. In fact it has caused me to have just enough time to eat, and then take the dog out. Where I would pass out in a chair in my backyard. Now I am not a car guy, so I did what everyone else would have done, I googled it. Now I love our google overlord, and welcome the google skynet app (Joke, it's a joke lol) But not everything on there is correct. I did my research, I had my search coding down pat, I was on line to find the issue.

The internet told me is was a bad battery, or a bad alternator. It said the battery wasn't holding a charge, either cause of a bad cell, or the alternators voltage regulator was bad and cause the battery acid to boil over. I even took it to a mechanic and he told me the same. So I was stressing about that and trying to get time to get it fixed.

Well I didn't find time, time found me.

My car broke down, and would not start on the freeway. Luckily I was in the slow lane and was able to pull over. For over two hours I tried to get my car to start, waiting for road side assistance. It was 90 degrees outside, no AC, no warning lights, no help. Honking, and cussing from drivers that felt I wasn't far enough over. I got out and pushed my car up over a bridge to stop the noise, and anger from all the traffic at 5 o'clock.

I reached the other side of the bridge, and I found that time was waiting for me. In the middle of this busy, traffic ridden highway, an entire herd of humans, sat there angry. Angry, frustrated, tired, and just sitting there honking.

While I grabbed the ice cold drink I was hoarding my car, in the shade. And I sat there on the bridge, and I watched the sun set, I watched everybody stop and go, stop and go. And I realized something.

Mankind, humankind, humans as a species is not meant to be in traffic. we are not meant to have tasks to fill our idle time. We have to have that idle time to recharge, and imagine, to create, to heal, to mend. To build that workshop, to write this post, to write your novel.

You need that time, because at the end of the day, it isn't your batteries, or alternator that's causing you problems. Its a loose cable, a loose wire that we all forgot to tighten down a long time ago, and now we think its OK to stick our kids, and ourselves behind a desk to do paperwork all day.

It's not OK. It never has been.

Find your sunset, find your novel, find your passion and find healing.