I have moved on.

This Blog is no longer active. I have moved on to other things.

I would like to take this time to thank everyone for the support during my time with this blog. The support was life saving. Thank you again.

If you would like to follow my current projects check out my links below.


https://www.facebook.com/OfficialElijahPepper/

Here I post updates for my projects, and connect with people who enjoy my work.


https://elijah-pepper.squarespace.com

This is my new site, I have a blog running, and post other writing of mine.


https://instagram.com/pepper.elijah

Here is where most of my poems, and proses get publish, I also engage in writing challenges with other writers.


And last but not least is my Patreon site, here I will be posting, either weekly, or monthly aditions to an on going story, as well as Patreon only content. If you feel like you want to support me, please do so, it would mean the world to me.


https://www.patreon.com/ElijahPepper


Again THANK YOU SO MUCH for the support. You and every read here is why I was able to move on to bigger and better things. 

Trust

I trust so few people, this is a fact. An unfortunate one.

If I were to meet you in the street one day, my first reaction would be to assess you. Your physical presence, your emotional state, your vocabulary. Anything and everything that makes you, you.

I would see how you stand, how you move, I would listen to your words, and the words you use. Not just the words you use, but also how you use them.

I would watch your hands, the adept nature with which you use them would tell me more about you than you ever could.

All of these tiny cues would tell me exactly who you are and what you are capable of.

But none of that could ever tell me if you are trustworthy. So by default, you would not be trustworthy.

Now I know that this is not healthy, or wise. But it is necessary, in the mind of someone with PTSD. The survival mind is not one of logic, or reason. But of one of self preservation. I write because of self preservation, I talk about my thoughts and feelings because of my need for self preservation. I distrust the world because of this.

My logical, grounded, reasoning mind tells me not to do that. It tells me to trust those, until proven otherwise. But I retreat, and I watch. I watch you until the evidence says I can trust you. I remain silent. But when I determine that you can be trusted, I test the waters, and I open up.

Everytime I do this, it feels like I am walking into the gates of hell. My body flushes with heat, pain radiates in my muscles and bones. I feel like I am going to die. All of that, just to tell you my name. In my paranoid thought process, every bit of information you have on me, is enough to ruin me, and my way of life.

So when I was asked how someone without PTSD, gets someone with PTSD to open up, the answer took time. It took time for me to think about it, and finally admit it to myself.

Trust, and time.

But time for the one with PTSD, they have to accept that it is time to open up. They have to trust people, not just those around them. But people in general. If I trust you, I can talk to you. If I don't trust you, I won't talk to you. At ALL. Ever. 

What I'd like to say, but can't

I would like to tell you that I have been busy, writing. Blogging, and discovering myself, and a way to deal with PTSD.

But I can't.

Yes, I have been writing, and blogging, but I haven't been posting. I write up posts and then my own fears and doubts manage to move the cursor to delete instead of publish. As the days marched on since my last post my world has grown cold, and dark.

My PTSD, or my event, was not caused in War. War did not help it get better. It in fact made it worse. The main event, the very second I remember my life changing, I was in South Korea. I was drunk, and I was lost.

I tried to find my way around, I was alone, I shouldn't have been. I had no idea where I was, or how I'd gotten there. The blackouts were coming like the tide. It was dark, I remember being in an industrial part of some town. I remember getting out of a cab, and walking away. I remember the lights not fully on, like they were warming up to turn on. But they never came on, the street lights just hummed, a slow warm off yellow color. Enough light shown for me to see the streets, but no definition. No detail. It was either that, or I was far more drunk than I remember.

I remember walking, slowly sipping on the Soju bottle I had gotten from one of the blackouts. I remember seeing a red door, not movie red. Where it is painted in stark contrast to everything else, so your eyes are drawn to it. No, this door was faded, if had a blue sign on it, Korean letters were painted across it. I couldn't read it.

I remember thinking it looked like a cafe in the town outside where I was stationed. I thought if it was that same cafe I knew the owner and I could get a cab. I opened the door, and I walked up the stairs.

Ah, it was nice to be on familiar grounds again.

I crawled up the steep steps, hands on both walls in the slim hallway, up the stairs I went. I reached the top, and I smelt smoke. The bitter stench triggered my hands, and they went for my own pack in my pocket. I lit a smoke, and stopped for a minute. This was not my cafe, I did not know anyone here.

There was a table in center of the large room, a young man sat behind it inspecting clothes. To each side of him there were four rows of tables with sowing machines. Children stood behind the tables, working fabric into the machines. Boys on one side, girls on the other. Boys wore stained white underwear, no more, no less. Girls the same, but they were allowed small tank tops. With every child's head shaved it was the only way to truly tell them apart.

Dead eye glazed over crept up at me, cigarette in my mouth, bottle in my hand. Back down the eye slid. Back to work they went, scabs inched up their legs, like the lines of a ruler. The man at the table looked up, and said nothing. He picked up a cane leaning on the table, and smack it hard against a table on his right. The children flinched, their little hands quickened. The cold staring man, went back to work as well.

I was nothing to him. These children were nothing. He felt nothing.

Around the corner came a second man, a man of equal threat to these children. They noticed his entry, but showed no sign of slowing their work. With him he held the hand of a young girl, hair had been let to grow out, it was still shorter than normal. Tears streamed from her face. She held up her underwear with the other hand, blood flowed between her shaking knees. Her top was ripped, and shout at me, it told me what had happened moments ago.

The man, rather slender and tall, smiled and greeted me. Dragging a small puff from his cigarette, he twisted and leaned into the small child. Blowing smoke in her face as he tried to kiss her. She fought and screamed. Crying, she fought this monster. His tongue flicked out, lapping at the smoke and her small face. He enjoyed the pain and misery he spread.

My body shook, my cigarette dropped, never once being puffed on but all ashes. I dropped my bottle, it shattered. The slender man, slapped the small girl away, blood flowed freely from her mouth. Angry words in a language I didn't understand flew everywhere.

This is where in movies the hero comes to his senses and fights to save the day.

I wish I could say that, but I can't. I remember reacting, and everything going blank. I remember hearing the bleeding girl scream once more. Than I don't know.

I tried to find that red door once more. I tried to remember the blue sign. I tried to save them after I came to, I tried. And I failed. I failed to save anyone. I let them be hurt, and exploited. My inability, my intoxication, and my inaction has caused me to dream of the small girl getting raped, and beaten every night. The slender man laughing and breathing smoke in her face, all while the cold eyes of the undead children watch on in unchanging empty emotion.

The two men uncaring, so much so, that my very presence wasn't enough to alarm them. The casual nature with which they handled the entire situation left me empty.
   

Russian Nesting Dolls and PTSD

PTSD can be overwhelming, anyone with it can relate to that. What I think the hardest thing to convey is the world we all live in now, after our event, or events.

Since I started this blog, I have tried again and again to explain that. This time I want to try and explain the inner storm.

The easiest way for me to convey it is, as the title states, with Russian Nesting Dolls. Here is a link, in case you don't know what those are. We as human beings are the outer most layer, the layer everyone see's and understand.

That is the layer we show to the world. That is the layer we are proud of, we show emotion with. We experience life with.

But below that is a layer that is similar to the outer, but it is a raging storm, formless, racing, and bottled chaos. It is the layer we were given with our events. A nice parting gift. Now unlike a nesting doll, PTSD and the emotions that come with it, are not always the same layer.

Your inner layers switch between all manner of feelings. Anger, rage, frustration, depression, guilt, fear. Not fear as a state of mind, but as an emotion. Fear brought on by a conscience memory. Fear as a fully invested feeling.

Anger so hot, and boiling you can feel your face on fire and forget all sense of self. Anger that has no real target, no real end goal. Layer upon layer anger is fueled by guilt, guilt spiraling out of control because of grief, and sadness. Memories flashing, spinning, raging.

All the while the little nesting dolls sits there, maintaining. On the outside it's finely carved edges shape the whole, its purposefully painted lines draw the eyes away from the seam that is quickly growing.Outside is you, a work of art. Inside is more beauty, but hidden by the darkness of PTSD. All the beauty inside is darkened by our inability to open ourselves up and share the pain.

Instead we stand by, waiting and watching as others pass by, unaware that we open up and have many layers within. We spend so long waiting to open up, that when someone comes along and is curious enough to follow that seam. To crack the seam open, every layer within bursts out.







P.S. I have been traveling for work, so I promise, promise to reply to comments asap.

September

I haven't posted in awhile, and for a reason, not a good one, but there is a reason none the less.

September is a rough month for me, and I imagine it always will be. My sons birthday is in September, from Sept 1st to Sept 30th, I am reminded of his birth. That is a day I will never forget. For an entire day, I rode the high of holding my son in my hands for the first time. If you're a parent you understand this feeling.

For an entire day I was normal, I was proud, and I was relieved. My son was born healthy, and happy. I have not seen him in years. I love him more than ever, but my heart breaks every day. Everyday I miss him, and everyday I think of him. He is my son, and I am his father. For an entire month my head swims with the what-if's.

What if I wasn't like I am, could I change things?

What if this isn't my fault? It doesn't matter if it is or not I will blame myself.

What if he hates me...

I am forced for an entire month to battle my own demons, and the fears I harbor. I grasp onto hope with an abandonment of my own life. I cast my thoughts of anything else aside, because I can process no more than the pain I feel at my lost.

My son is alive, and I hope all is well.

The funny thing about PTSD, and I say that sarcastically, is that it does not mix well with postpartum. When my son was born, my ex-wife displayed symptoms of increasing severity over the following weeks and months. As the high of having a new child wore off for both of us, we began to mix in the cauldron of our eventual undoing. It was neither of our faults, and I hold no grudges, as I hope she does as well.

But we were poison, I freshly back from deployment, she freshly on the rehab train from the rush of hormones and chemicals that it takes to make a human being. Both of us in withdraw. My withdraw will follow me until the day I die, I have accepted that. Her's got worse before it got better.

All of these are things that run through my mind, that weigh on my in the month of September. There are things I sometimes wish I could change. There are things I wish had never happened, and there are things that I know that had to happen. But all of the logic and all of the reasoning can not make things better. All of the hope in the world can not fix your problems.

All hope can do is light the way to the problem at hand, and show you what you can work on.

I am still working through all of that.

I will now, and always love my son. And in a weird way I will always love my ex-wife. In a weird way I have to love everyone. If I can not love people, how can people love me. If I can not ask for forgiveness, and give forgiveness, how can other do the same for me.

September is a month of dwelling on the coulda-been's and the what-if's for me. But it is also a month where my soul cries out for the ones I love, and the need for the love of others.

Remember, remember the 5th of September.
  

Explains PTSD better than I ever could

Disappearring Act

After my last post, the big one, zero, zero, I did something I find myself doing when life gets rough for me.

I dove into work.

I dove so hard I missed entire days, maybe even a weeks worth of my medication. Huge blocks of time went missing from my mind. I still can't remember them. I forgot important things. All while coming off my medication.

Our water got turned off. Not because I didn't have the money, but because I forgot that that was a thing you do as an adult. Now someone without PTSD might ask "How do you forget to pay your water bill? It is due every month." and they are right, it does happen every month. But PTSD knows no bounds of  time, this earth or the next.

As stress increases, and the thoughts and memories claw up from the deep below, time has a way of rising and falling like the tide. Not physically, but perceptually. You may know for a fact that it is Tuesday at 8:42 A.M., but have literally no idea what time it is. You can look at your watch, or your calendar, even your phone, and instantly forget where, and when you are.

I know when I get like that, I am trying everything I can not to break down in tears. It takes all of my physical strength to just stand there, and not buckle. While others ridicule me for letting my water get turned off, as they scoff, and judge me, I am knee deep in a battle within myself. A battle I have fought countless times before.

Now my automatic response to all this stress, and loss of time and space is to dive into the one thing I have always known. Work. I work longer and longer hours. I force myself to drive forward, as an almost physical expression of my inner struggle.

Well it back fired, and forced me to slow my roll. Literally.

I dove into work so hard, I forgot a whole bunch of stuff. Like car's aren't meant to be driven as hard as you think they can. I blew the engine in my car. I ended up "working too much", as my boss put it. I drove too much, I worked too much, I forgot too much, and I missed too much. All the signs were there that I needed to stop, but with a helpless abandonment I drove forward. I fought the exhaustion, I fought the pain, and I fought the memories.

And life kicked back, like a mule.

Now, when that kick to the chest finally comes, and it comes a lot in life now. Time has a way of getting as thick as oil. Dirty, used oil. All that time you thought you didn't have comes back, and gives it all back, letting you remember all the things you did wrong. Reminding you of all the mistakes you've ever made.

My engine blew, my water got turned off, I got in trouble at work, and I neglected those telling me to stop and breathe. I lost track of my life, I lost track of time. I tried to out run my demons and failed. Even those of us that write, or talk about it everyday can forget that. We can not out run the demons within. We can not out run ourselves, or our shadows. My pain is as much a part of me, as my own breath. It gives me life, it gives me strength, it fuels me.

Sometimes in the wrong direction, and for the wrong reasons. 

Aspie, and PTSD (100th post)

Today is my 100th post, and I am proud of myself for it. Not only have I managed to keep a promise and write this blog, but I have met so many amazing people along the way. Even if they were single serving friends (Fight Club reference :p ) I know now that each and every one of you that stop by and give encouraging words, check in on me when I have been a little quiet, or those that left comments on the posts, or my Google+ wall. You are all to thank for the beginning of this journey.

So thank you all, thank you so much for the support.

Today is a a special day for me, I am going to try and break the cycle PTSD has thrown me in without a fore warning. The cycle is one of being closed off to everyone and everything. So afraid to open up and be hurt again that you close up tight, and close yourself off from the world. Because if the world can't get in, you can't get hurt, again. Right?

Wrong. Very wrong.

When we close ourselves off to the world, we are hurting the world. The world is a darker place without us, those who have survived our events. Those with PTSD are a special breed, we are all the ones that world has seen fit to be able to survive abuse, physical/sexual or otherwise. We have survived war, rape, the ugly of the world.

We are the strong, we are the powerful. We cannot hide ourselves from the world, a world that needs us. Needs us to show them how to survive. This blog is my attempt at sharing, at guiding those who are on the dark road before us all. You are not alone, you walk among others who are there for you.

As promised, today I am going to attempt to open up and share more of my soul. Share more of myself, I am handing the keys to my castle over to you.

In one of my previous posts I mentioned that I felt disconnected. I went on to talk about how as a child I felt that way, and how now as an adult I fell disconnected as well.

The disconnection I feel now, as an adult is brought on by my PTSD, I walk through the world watching and observing as if I were a visitor of this world. Many of you can relate, I am sure.

But the disconnection I had as a child was different. To say that I was socially awkward is an understatement. I remember my brother and sisters making friends like it was nothing. I remember them walking into school, and running off to their friends and going about their little lives. I could never understand this. Most of my adolescent life, I had one friend. My brother. Yes I had people who were friendly to me, and I returned the favor, but never any friends.

As an adult this doesn't bother me, as a child I never gave it a second thought. I did not connect with people, I was more comfortable reading a book, or playing with computers. Not on computers, this was before the internet was everywhere, back in the dial up days. The first computer I remember owning had a 3.5 disk drive. Yeah, if you don't know that is old. I would spend the hour and half, my mother let me use the computer, a day compressing data, trying to get more than the maximum 3.5 MB on those disks.

I had a telescope as a child, I built tree houses, made bows and arrows. I had summer jobs, I read and I read. When I was a child they just called kids like me strange, or anti-social. I was the kid everyone wanted on their science project, but never wanted to talk to outside of the class.

I was born different, and thought nothing of it. I was born with Asperger. Asperger's is amazing, at least I think so, it is a form of autism. But I see as my own super power. The left and right sides of my brain communicate in such away that the line between the two is blurred. I am able to understand concepts, ideas, equations, theories with ease. But as with all super powers there are down falls. Social and emotional ques, are my kryptonite (superman's weakness for all you non-nerd types).

Since I was a child I thought I just did things that other people refused to try doing. I was good at math, and couldn't understand why others weren't. I was fascinated by science, and computers, and reading. As I grew older, it dawned on me that I wasn't like others.

When I was a child I the other kids would call me an "asshole", or "heartless", I even got "Why can't you just be normal, like everyone else?". When I was in high school, I tried to be like everyone else. I would watch people, and study how they interacted with each other. I would go home, and spend hours trying to mimic the facial expressions of the kids I saw that day. I would copy the tones of the words they used. The inflections in all the wrong places, would drive my aspie mind insane.

Why was everything a question in high school? WHY?!!

Well I played the mimic, the copy cat for as long as I could. My dad would take time out of his day to talk to me, just me. He would try to tell me that "No man is an island", I still remember this phrase, because even to this day it doesn't make sense to me. Of course no man is an island, that is silly. But at the same time every man (and woman) that has ever been is an island. We all die, and go back to the earth. So literally every dead person is an island, and every living man is just waiting for his turn to be an island.

He was trying to tell me that "No man, can survive alone", I didn't understand that fact until I studied social and physiological studies. The scientific fact that social interaction is required for life, is what got through to me, not my dad's words of wisdom.

I lack the ability to read social and emotional ques. That has lead people to call me names like "heartless", when I am confronted with a problem, I try and solve it using logic. When I was in high school, the logic I possessed said to mimic those who wished for me to be more like them. As an adult and now with PTSD, logic tells me:

If I am not like you, that is a good thing, I have experiences and knowledge you'll never be able to understand.

The reason I write is a two fold issue. One being my PTSD makes it impossible for me to vocalize my problems. Two is because as an aspie, a person with aspergers, the written word is easier for us to communicate with. The written word is free of emotion, yes it is possible to convey emotion, but you are still using words that are free of emotion. There is no confusing inflection on any of the words.

When I say that I have waking nightmares, I mean that. No more, no less. There is no mood, or gender or questioning inflection there. So after all the puzzling questions of high school, after all the "you're weird" comments of elementary school, I found my way in life.

I may have asperger's, I may have PTSD, and I may be a very broken man. But after all that I have over come in life I know that there is nothing in life I can not do. I am done trying to be "normal", it is exhausting trying to be like everyone else. I can only be me, and the me that I am, I like. Flaws and all I love myself.

So from now on, I won't be like everyone else. I won't be anyone but me, the crazy, broken, aspie, PTSD self. 

99th post

Today I am writing a bit lost at the moment. My head is in the game, my body is willing, but my mind is wandering. Like a small child all the shiny things are distracting today.

This being my 99th post, I thought I would share my plans for my next post, usually I open my blog, stare that the screen, while I visualize all the ways I can express myself, once I do that, I write how to over come those things.

My entire blog is very raw, there are errors everywhere, and I keep it that. It is a way for me to remember the hurdles I had while writing. Like little invisible flags that say, "hey this, this right here, is when you almost lost it writing that sentence. You remember?"

Yes, yes I do remember.

But tomorrow I am going to try something new, I am going to break my habits. As I write this blog, I keep person information to a minimum, while sharing my soul. My last two posts have gotten a lot of attention. A lot of questions have arisen, some that can only be answered with tomorrows post.

I have an issue sharing my personal information, even with people I love, and call family. Large portions of my life no one knows about. Huge chucks of my life I have kept secret for fear of giving people the ammo necessary to harm me.

My walls are still up, my defenses are still strong. My will still fights me, to pull back, and delete this entire post. My mind screams for me to stop. But if I am to break through the walls of PTSD, I must push myself. I must open myself to the possibility of being hurt, of being weak, so that i may grow and become stronger.

I must fight the anxiety, the nightmares, the waking dreams, the fear. I must fight it all, so that I may over come it.

Now I say tomorrow, because I am not yet ready to open up. I am not yet ready to hand over the keys to my castle and hope that those who enter mean me no harm.

On the marrow, my good friends. On the marrow, we shall rise stronger than before. 

Never quit.

When I was 7 years old, I wanted to be the first man on Mars. I wanted to ride NASA's X-23 Rocket (that is a real project NASA had) all the way to Mars. I used to dream, as a child, of my boots hitting the surface of our red sister planet. Red dust billowing in the airless atmosphere, the sun reflecting off my helm, and NASA patched through my helmet.

"Commander, do you copy mission control."

"Roger, read you Lima Charlie, mission control, over."

Then the long wait for a reply. 

Even as a child I would imagine that NASA would take minutes to reply because of the long distance between Earth and Mars. While in the midst of these day dreams, I would train myself for the mission. I would imagine that if anything happened on Mars I would at some point be forced to hold my breath, if there was a hull breach. Waiting for the imaginary reply from NASA, I would hold my breath. 

Waiting. Counting the seconds. 

As children we have a sense of hope that is invincible. We create worlds without limits, without "can't's", we live in a world of possibilities. 

As we grow older, life tends to think we can handle more. The more we take on, the more we realize that the odds are forever against us. We won't get rich at the Casino's, the odds are literally against us. We take this underlying lesson and apply it to everything in our lives, without realizing.

I am here to tell you, that even in Casino's the odds are not always against us. Sometimes, just like in casino's there are areas where the odds are in no ones favor. In those sweet spots, even in life we have a chance. We have a chance to come out on top. 

We have a chance to beat the house, and walk away stronger and wiser than before. But I don't want this to sound like you have a chance to beat the house, sticking with the casino analogy. In live there is only one "house" you need to worry about, and that is you. You house all the demons, all the hope, and all the angels. You house all the despair, all the malice, discontent. 

When there are no demons within that can harm you, there is nothing that can harm us outside. 

What makes us quit, quit dreaming, quit fighting, quit screaming into the endless darkness, isn't the world around us. It is our voice within telling us we can go no further. Every time we list all the things we "can't" do, we aren't helping ourselves. We are setting up all the road blocks needed to halt our progression in life. But when we say, "I don't know what to do" well that is something completely different. 

"I don't know what to do", is allowing the possibility of success, all while admitting you need help. 

I have over the last few years slowly, and surely given up saying, "I can't". 

Now instead of listing the things I can not do, I say "I will handle it", or "Let's do this", or "let's find a way to get this done." Failure is not an option, failure is something you either sow, or let grow. When we set it in our minds to never quit, to never give up, failure has no place to plant roots. 

Never give up, never quit. Change isn't automatic. We won't find a cure, today, or tomorrow. Or even next week, if we aren't around to fight for it. PTSD is a call to rise up, and find the strength to carry on. It is a call to break down the walls that shot up without our knowing. I am unable to share my life with anyone for fear of giving them the ammo necessary to destroy me. My walls are up, my guard is vigilant. 

But I will be here tomorrow, and the day after, and the week after, because I can not quit. 

I can never quit. I will stop fighting when the nightmares stop. I will stop when the PTSD stops making me fear everything, every second of the day.

Fight with me, stay with us. Never  give in. Never go silently into the night. Leave this world with all f your dreams and aspirations fulfilled. Leave nothing undone, leave nothing un-invented. Leave no story untold, leave no inch of this world or any other ndiscovered. Make our children, and our children's children take up the same fight. 

If fear breeds fear, then hope, and bravery, and courage in the face of those things must breed something so beautiful that my finite mind can not fathom it. 

Never quit. 

Never lie down.

Never go quietly. 

Disconnect

I have tried to remind you, my readers, that hope is always there. Always present, and not far from the pain you are feeling. But... Half the time I am trying to convince myself. Life has a funny way of testing us, of pushing us.

Recently my car was broken into and ALL of my work equipment was stolen. Not too funny, right? I mean that is a terrible set up and delivery of a joke. The "funny" way life tests us, isn't in the events, but in the type of events. In the way we react to them, that is where funny is transmuted into peculiar, the strange, and even odd.

Now in my car, I had tools, wires, gauges, connectors, power tools, even a 300$ juicer that didn't belong to me. They left all of that. They took my emergency cash fund out of the glove box, and my work equipment, and my medication. I work in IT, and an IT guy without a laptop isn't much of an IT guy.

In one night, my safety net, my career, and my medication were all stolen from me.

No my safety net was about 30-40$, not a whole lot of money. But it represented a cushion, in case something happened. Something did happen, I was without my cushion.

My career, will go on, I called work they sent out a replacement, but I lost all my work. Life goes on, just a mild irritant.

My medication, now that is a slippery slope. I realized yesterday that it had been almost a week since I took it. That is getting close to it no longer being in my system, and I have noticed it. I am saying mean things, things I do not mean.

So in one night, fears of being without a safety net, adding in growing irritation, and my anger over nothing all came back. I was asked if I am doing ok, I am maintaining as usual. I am partially dead inside, so that helps keep everything from seeping out. But I feel it a boiling. The truth is I am a powder keg ready to blow, ready to destroy ones own self, and everything around me.

I don't feel violated by this robbery, I don't think like that. My SO was freaked out by it more than I was. I feel like maybe...

Like maybe the medication isn't helping like they say it is. Like maybe life is meant to be hard and disappointing. Like maybe there isn't light at the end of the road. Maybe there isn't a road at all. Maybe there is no such thing as light, and we created it in our minds to have something to hold on to. Maybe I am just fanning the flames of my own destruction with the blankets I keep throwing on the fire of my own raging insanity.

I started writing because I was unable to talk about PTSD, now I do my best to write about the hope we need in the dark times. I try to show people that just because life is always spitting on you, just because your fears and pain keep you chained there will ALWAYS be a better tomorrow, just around the corner.

But as usual, since I was a child, I feel disconnected from the world. Now I have PTSD, I have hope, and I have a raging storm inside, and no way to scream for help. I have demons whispering vile, disgusting, horrendous things in my ear, and I love them all. I have nightmares that fuel my passions. Hope has become a name plate I wear as I check into work. Hope is the pair of glasses I put on each morning, to filter out all of the bad.

Through my hope goggles life seems pretty sweet. Luckily they weren't stolen. But then again maybe if they had, the person who needed them the most would have them.    

It never ends

Just when I grab ahold of hope once more, I get over eager and squeeze too tightly. I hold on and I pour myself into it, even when I shouldn't.

I am not better, I am not fixed. I have been dealing with a building storm. Hoping, and praying to any who would listen. But no reply came, no reply ever comes. My knees bleed, and my hands ache from begging and praying for my old life back. To be normal for one more minute. Just 60 whole seconds of normality is all I beg of you.

But the wailing of the winds are all I hear, empty, cruel winds.

How does one have faith in something that doesn't exist? You fool yourself into believing it. That's how. There is no cure, only a life long curse. There is no magic pill, just the paranoid voices forcing you to swallow your own madness. There is no treatment, just the way others treat you. There is no going home and sleeping it off, only the nightmares that drive you from anywhere safe and warm.

If I could cry, I would rain the icy shards of my shattered soul. My mind own stop running down the river beds of my fears. If I could cry I would know that I were still human. But I can not. I can not cry, the pain within dams up everything within.

Am I no longer human? Have I lost my humanity, that undefinable piece of your soul that makes you like everyone else?

I live in shame, of my actions, and my words. I live in shame that I lost my empathy for my fellow man. I live in doubt of my own sanity. Am I living if I am an empty shell of who I was? Am I worth saving?

On dark days I curse hope for making me believe in something I can not see. On good days I pray to deaf ears that hope is leading me to a safe place. In my heart I know neither are true, and neither are a lie. The world is not black and white, it is a foggy gray.

I am a boat lost at sea with no spot light.

It's funny

I am nearing 100 posts, and I have been so busy lately that I went back and I tried to see if I could clean up my drafts.

I started with the thought of deleting them, but that quickly disappeared as I reread all the forgotten posts since the beginning of this adventure. I catch myself finding a certain fondness for them, more so than the posts that actually did publish.

Some are like a road map reminding me where I have been, and where I want to go. Some are a reminder of darker times, of times I wish never existed, but if I lived as if they didn't I would have nothing to learn from.

My life has been hard, that is a fact. Sometimes it is just as hard as others, and sometimes it is harder than others. But I do my best to remain hopeful, and I keep one thought in mind.

When others say "You never know, man", What they really mean is "You never know, something bad could happen". Now what I think when I hear that, or say that is: You never know, there could be an adventure around the next corner.

Hope isn't hiding in the things we know. Hope isn't that trust factoid you remember from a book you once read. Hope... Hope is the unknown. Hope lives, and flourishes in the unknown. I love the unknown, because I have nothing to fear there. The known is far scarier that what I don't know. I don't know if I can fly a plane, but I am willing to try. I know I can't fly like Superman, I know I can fall like gravity intended. Falling is way worse than figuring out you aren't born with the ability to fly a plane.

My SO hates it when we leave to do a random chore, or whatever, and I ask her "What tiiiiime is iiiiiiit?". When I ask that, my child like wonder is swelling over, it needs to experience the unknown. I want so badly for her to go "OMG is it ADVENTURE TIME?!" But it usually ends up with "Dear God don't crash my car."

She is not a risk taker, I enjoy a bit of risk. Just to find out where I can go, and how far I can take myself. Because in my mind, Hope is a place I haven't found yet. Hope is hiding in the unknown. I am scare, and frightened of the known. I have seen what the world is like when it is at it's worst. If I have seen the worst, than the best must be in the unknown. Even if more horrors and terrors hide in the unknown, there has to be light there as well.

There has to be good there, hope reminds me of that fact everyday I wake up.

Sleep has returned.

As many of you may know, "A friend" partakes in medical marijuana. This "friend" has spent a couple days over the last two weeks, trying to maintain a level head and stay objective.

The goal was to see if noticeable changes were taking affect, and if they were negative or positive.

And from [his] caregivers mouth, "You seem... I don't more Happy. Less jumpy."

Sleep has returned, [He] is able to focus without the nightmares from last night nagging at [him]. Because there are none! No more nightmares!!!

None!!

I... I mean he hasn't had any in almost 2 weeks!!

Now there is all kinds of science that explains all of that, and there are pot heads out there that can tell you the best strains for turning purple, but all of that means nothing to me. I have not had a single nightmare in, I don't know how long since I started getting them.

I don't care about the science, I did all my research before hand, I don't care about strains or names or CBD's and THC's. I may not be fixed, I may not be cured. But I'll be damned if I am not on the road.

I don't want to be one of those weirdos that believes in something that truly isn't healthy for you. Or one of those peace loving, tie dye fruit cake hippies. But I haven't had a sound nights sleep in, going on 8 years. 8 years!!! I have siblings that are younger than that.

I have lived everyday for the last 8 years in constant pain, and steady exhaustion. For the first time in years I can feel my ankle, not just the blinding stabbing pain that radiates off of it 24/7, I can actually think about something other than the aches and pains of my body.

My days are no longer consumed by the nagging desire for sleep, and the endless fear of dreaming. Yes I still have pain, everyday, yes i still have fears and anxieties. I still have, what I like to call "soft flashes" where for a moment I am back there. For a moment I am reliving it. But I know where I am, I know when I am. I am aware of it happening. But I am not effected by them. They are fleeting, and weak. Yes I have all of that still. I am not cured, but I am better equipped to function through all of the battles I have everyday.

There may come a time when I will find myself blacking out again, falling over, or swinging on people I don't recognize. But I know that for now, I will sleep. For now, I will rest. I needed it. I learned my lesson, my battle is not over. But I can take a break now, and recharge my batteries. I've got a long fight head of me if I am going to make it another 50 years.    

There is no snake oil for PTSD

I have been having an amazing month, I had my birthday (Big 30 this year), I am gaining more responsibility at work, and picking up more sites, I have survived the 4th of July (barely). All that and I started a new method for dealing with my PTSD.

All was good, all was well. Or so I thought. My SO/Caretaker and I have been working on catching up on bills, and life, after her short vacation where I completely forgot everything. And let the bills slip. We are pretty much caught up, so it is back to life as normal. With chores, and outings, and our set in stone date night.

Last night we did something for her, and we went to a car meet. Personally, I have never in my life been so board as to watch a bunch of peacocking, living-at-home-with-their-parents, "gear heads" talk endlessly about their cars, and what they did to them.

So to keep all that inside, and not let it out, I smoked a little before hand. When I am surrounded by people, I get anxiety. When I am in a situation that bores me, I get irritated. Combine those two and I will NOT be making friends anytime soon.

So I was "chillin" my anxiety was nowhere to be seen, all the little voices of paranoia and doubt were slumbering deep within. I felt no one watching me, I felt like one of the masses. Aside from my growing boredom I was perfectly fine.

And as you would have it, the peacocks, had to peacock. It started with one back fire from the exhaust of a Miata. The crowds gathered, and the attention starved youngster got a taste of what he craved. So he tried it again, and did it once more. More people gathered.

At first, I was content, I was passive. There was nothing to worry about, I saw it happening, I knew it was happening. I was golden, pony boy.

But it wasn't enough for him, he had to spread his tail feathers big and bold.

The Miata and its owner were thirsty. They drank up the attention and let loose. Back firing over and over again. Faster and faster.

Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!

I was back there. I went from passively ignoring it, to it ripping me from the meet and sending me away.

I did not black out, I did not fall over, I did not cough and gasp for air like I usually do though. This time was different. All of my demons were a flurry, angry and fighting. Like a raging bear awoken from hibernation too early, my demons lashed out. Through the haze that I was in before hand, I was able to stay conscience and speak.

My care giver was at first transfixed as everyone else was with the tuned out car. I looked to her, I tried to say something, but no words came. I saw how slowly it clicked in her mind. It started in her shoulders, I watched as they bunched up and tightened. She said something. I couldn't hear her.

I felt my chest tighten and my breath was taken, I fought to breathe.

"Are you ok?"

"No."

The response came without thought, there was no debate, there was no inner monologue pointing out reason to protect her from everything I was experiencing.

"Did you want to leave?"

"No." There it was again, no thought, just response. It was the truth, I remember thinking, I didn't want to be the reason her night was cut short.

"Did you need to go sit down?"

"Yes." I turned and walked away.

Everything around me was a blur. I remember people talking, I remember "Ooooh no someone's been shot", I can't remember if it was a joke or not, but it stuck to me like glue.

I sat in the car, I shook, I was burning up. I wanted to cry, I felt so weak, so helpless. My hands grabbed for my weapon, my arms kept rising in an effort to look down the barrel.

I had to go for a walk. I couldn't sit there. About my 3rd lap of the McDonalds, I saw my SO walking towards the car. We left, and I felt like shit. I knew it was my fault we were leaving. I had ruined her night.

I shut down on the way home, she kept me linked to this world by holding my hand and never letting me drift too far. But my mind tried to run.

Lesson learned, there is no quick fix for PTSD, yes I found a tool to aid me in my fight. But I am not cured. I thought I was and I let my walls down. I was so hopeful, so thirsty for freedom that when presented with a glimmer of dawn, I dropped my guard and took an arrow to the knee.

A "friend" wrote this post.

I have spent many hours researching, talking and reading about today's post.

That does not mean I am an expert, IN ANY WAY.

I have tried to maintain a personal point of view for my blog up to date. I believe that when dealing with PTSD, the data can be a bit, shaky. I know people with PTSD that range from light to beyond crippling. The later of the two could never be in any study. Let alone leave their own homes. So the data, in my opinion, is a bit "positive". That being said, I would like to say again, this post is my own opinion.

Slowly but surely over the last few weeks, towards the end of my current bottle of medication. I started feeling the stress, and anxiety rise. The paranoia was back. I was back to counting and remembering the LIC# of the vehicles around me. I thought people were following me. This isn't a major thing for me, but I realized I take one road to work. The same one thousands of other people go. So the odds of people going the same direction, for the same amount of time is fairly high.

I have done my best to mask it. I played the role of the good friend, the good son, even the good boyfriend. But inside I was screaming for help. I was no longer balanced, I was riding a wave of exhilaration. But drowning inside.

I decided I would try something, something some of the people that read this will object to, but I don't mind. You're allowed to have your own opinion. As am I, and here it is.

I tried marijuana, not for "recreational" purposes. But I tried it for the medical purposes. I got my medical marijuana card. After sometime, I can say this, this may not be for me, but I can see potential. Now I have smoked before, when I was young and dumb. I enjoyed it then, and I enjoy it now, for different reasons. Yes, I just said I enjoy it, and I said it may not before me. Let me explain.

Now the "I enjoy it" part. That does not mean I enjoy being "high", that means that I enjoy it. I enjoy the way my mind doesn't race, I enjoy the absence of pain for the first time in years. I enjoy, the way I can think without my fears and nightmares slithering around my thoughts. I enjoy the sleep, the sound, sound oh so sweet nightmare-less sleep.

The flip side to that is the fear that comes from people reading this, and taking action against me. I am a responsible adult, I (with the help of my caregiver) live on my own. I struggle with PTSD, and I function perfectly well. I have a career, a degree, and I have hobbies. All of this is at stake when people have negative viewpoints of things they don't agree with, and they act of those feelings. I for one, do not agree or disagree with abortion (I don't think ANY MAN should ever tell a woman what to do with her body, so I object to the idea that a man should ever have an opinion of abortion). But I am not one to care enough to waste 5 dollars on markers to make a sign. While I know other people care far too much, I hope they will continue to read.

Let's move on, as for the "it may not be for me", while it may not be, it may be as well. I have not walked this path long enough to make that decision yet. I count myself among the fairly intelligent, and rather level headed. I am not quick to jump into things, and I always do my research before attempting things. I stray from addicting and damaging substances. I rarely drink, and I am not a fan of medication in general. So I view this as a form of treatment just like any other. I am hesitant, but I am willing to stay non-biased long enough to see if it works.

It may not be for me, because I may end up not liking it, or forming a habit I am not a fan of. I try an limit my addictions to zero.

But it may be for me, and others. I can not say yet. But I can say this. In less than a week every bodily pain, every relived nightmare, and memory... well they've taken a holiday. I have not jumped, or blacked out. Even with the remaining fireworks trickling in from the 4th.

I will continue to report in, and see if I can't figure this out. For now, I think it is safe to say this. I feel normal, I feel like myself before my event.

It is nice. I missed who I was. No, who I will be.

The Bleeding Ghost

I am back, I feel off the wagon, and got the help I needed.

The Fourth of July, came and went without incident. Usually, those of us with combat related PTSD, and even those who don't, we loath the 4th. We fear it, and it tears at us. I was lucky enough this year to celebrate it with friends. It was quiet, uneventful, and I got writing done surrounded by people I feel safe around.

But it was not all good.

The 3rd was my living nightmare. I live in an area where people are able to use fireworks. Whether they are legally, or not that is something different.

Around 3 pm on Thursday, the 2nd, is when it really started. The whistling of bottle rockets started. By night fall, they were all you could hear. At least all I heard. My nerves burned, wanting to run. Wanting to charge forward. I held it together, I maintained.

The 3rd, I woke up sore. I spent the night fighting everything in my past. I always know I sleep poorly when I wake up and the sheets under me are in knots. I woke up, and carried on, I did what I always do. Maintain. But it started around noon, once again. This time there was no whistle.

Just the echoing boom.

Over and over.

Boom.

Boom.

I don't remember much from Friday. I remember picking myself up, over and over again. My vision remained black, all day. Except for the moments where I find my lungs unresponsive to my screams for air. My fingers curled around the ground. Earth, wood, tile. I remember them all, but how I got there. My knees bruised and cut from falling, my brow soaking. My eyes wandering.

My phone goes off, and scares me straight.

It was my SO, and caregiver.

Shit, she is getting off work soon. Panic rose, I had to clean up. I scurried around the house, I picked up what I could remember dropping. I cleaned of my face, and brushed my knees off. I had to hide my weakness. I couldn't let her see what I had become while she was gone. I had to hide it all. I ran to my quiet place, I went to my shop. I worked on anything I could focus on.

Boom.

Boom.

Why am I on the floor again?

Boom!!

Oh yea that's why.

Sweat dripping from my body is ruining the stains and lacquers I am trying to use. I have to stop.

My SO comes in, and I don't remember laying down. But there I am. We leave for a bit, and I am able to find my center. We come back, and she notices that the explosions are effecting me. My body is jumping, and I sink deeper into myself.

As the night goes by, I am getting worse. My hands twitch, and shake. My lips are numb, and my skin crawls. She sends us to bed, but there is no sleeping. There I am once again, trying to sleep with rockets flying over head.

Boom.

Boom!

I get up, and go to my shop. I am so deep inside myself now, I can find peace. I am trying with all of my might to carry on like nothing is wrong. I am texting friends. I am working on a task, and I am doing chores.

It's 1 am, nothing is normal.

I don't know at what time I lost consciousness but when I remember flashes of blood, sweat, saliva flowing everywhere. My mouth was salty, I couldn't speak, I crawled up to my feet, as I crossed the backyard. My service dog, was urging me to stand. She kept reaching under my hand and lifting it with her head. I felt her hair. It was soaked. I dropped tea on her I found out later. I reach for the door.

BOOM!

I am gone once again.

From here I am told I walked inside, and was told to get in bed, but I didn't reply, except for "I cut myself."

I just kept repeating it. I was gone to the world. My service dog was whining, I wasn't there. I was somewhere else. My thoughts raced.

"You should have slit your wrists. If you had, you wouldn't be here."

"You should have taken the chisel and ran it into your throat. You wouldn't be crying right now had you."

"Look at you! You can't function. You're a failure. You are weak."

"You're bleeding? Not enough to make this all go away, finish it. Finish it, NOW!"

My thoughts over powered me, I couldn't speak. I am told, I didn't say anything except, "I cut myself". I am told I went out front, and lit a cigarette. I was told I smoked it, just sitting there, twitching with each explosion.

Then silence rained. My body shifted and jutted like I needed a fix. Like my drugs were running out of my system. I was coming back. I could feel the air blowing cool. I was shaking, but it wasn't the breeze.

My SO said something, that much I can remember. I agreed and started to follow.

BOOOOM!

I am on the ground again. But I am up in an instant, charging towards it, but stop. I remember questioning why I was charging towards it. I remember every muscle pulling tight. I remember feeling my spring getting set.

"Babe?"

"Baby? Can you hear me?"

"Babe, are you ok?"

She touched me and a sprung. I jumped at her.

The bleed ghost was let lose. 

Life got in the way.

I know I have been absent as of late. I am still alive and fighting. I promise.

Life has just taken a few turns and I'm along for the ride.

My care giver went out of town for a week or so, and I started a new job. So I got sucked into the excitement of a new career, and forgot everything else.

Yea, I am writing this post, admitting to my faults. I forgot to take my medication. I forgot to take the trash out. I forgot to pay bills, and my internet got shut off. I forgot to eat. And I forgot to drink water, I work in the desert now. So water is more important.

I am posting this on my mobile now, my caregiver and I are working on getting things back in order. I still don't know when things started going downhill because I was so focused on my new job, and stress was piling up.

I hate the fact that I am helpless sometimes with things that others find so easy.

I am more upset with myself right now, than she is at me. She just rolled her eyes and carried on. But inside I am angry and frustrated.

I'm not lazy or crazy. But when I look back I think I could have done more. I just can't think of what else I could have done. I fear my mind is slipping, and I am losing touch with reality.

I tell myself not to be mad at my actions. Or lack there of. But I am, I am mad at myself. I feel like I let people down. And now my depression is on the rise.

I love my new job, I truly do. So I have my highs and lows. My highs are when I'm at work. My lows come with the two hours of travel to and from work. I spend that time in silence beating myself up.

The medication I am on is working. I haven't had a moment or thought where I considered death as an option. But the silence is my new enemy.

Please don't be mad. I tell myself.

Please don't be mad, I ask my caregiver.

But fear is creeping in, and I fear I am mad, I fear she is as well.

Shouting through walls

I have had two types of reviews on this blog from people who I have spoken with, one being positive. The other was not negative at all, but constructive.

I am going to talk about the second review first, because it is important to me. The second one stands alone, and still bugs me to this day. In a good way mind you, but still it nags at me. I remember the words "Your blog is a muddled rambling, with a message at the end".

Now I'll be the first to admit that those may, in fact, be the wrong words used by the person. I may have embellished the words to be kinder, and more romantic than they actually were. But the meaning is there. And it is loud and clear.

My blog is a bit of rambling, but with a message at the end.

And that is amazing!

That is exactly what it is like in my head. All the time, day and night, awake or a sleep. I used to watch movies that took place in "crazy houses" where actors portrayed a mentally ill person, and they would hit their head over and over again. I never understood that, but there are times now, that I get it. I understand having so much buzzing around in your head that you lose yourself, and the only thing that makes it stop is a good whack to the dome.

That does not mean that I am mentally ill, or admit to being mentally unsound. It means I get having a head full of nightmares, fears, voices of doubt, anger, and all around mental noise. So for that person to say that this blog is "rambling with a message", that means a lot to me. Because it means that even when I am at my worst and I am losing it, I am able to try and show someone what it is like to live with PTSD.

I don't know if it means I am healing, or I am just living. But for me to find the ability to cut through the noise and show someone who has never what it takes to receive PTSD, what it is like inside the mind of some who does. That is a small victory, in my book.

Now about that message part of the review, that means even more to me. Because not only am I able to convey what it is like inside the torrent mind of PTSD, I am able to cut through all that noise and show them, you, anyone, that there is still a human being inside me. There is still a clear, and level headed, responsible person inside. I am able to find that voice, and use it to yell louder than all the demons, I am able to share my world with those who can relate, AND THOSE WHO CAN NOT.

If that isn't a shining ray of hope, I don't know what is.

So for now, I think I'll keep on living with PTSD, and doing my best to shout through all the walls.

A week off is what I needed

So I got laid off, I sorta quit before the end date and I would have been walked off the property. Anyways I have had a week off, and it has been a stressful week. I have done more work in this last week than the last month at my previous job. From paperwork, to taxi-ing people around, and even a few treasure hunts of my own, I managed to stay busy and not sleep the whole time.

Which is what I wanted to do.

But with bills piling up, stress rising, and that new job looming over my head. It is time to get back to work. I have had the time off I needed, badly. But it also gets boring for me. I haven't posted everyday, but I am still sticking to writing everyday. On top of that I completed several projects in my shop. My hands ache, my back is sore, and I am tired.

But it was the break I needed to find my center once again.

Through out this week I have shared my projects, my writing, and my plans with others. The resounding reply was "I wish I could find time, to do stuff like that". Now, YES, I did have a week off, but I think we all need to take a break sometimes and clear our heads. Find time to dedicate to ourselves. Now I am not saying we all just skip picking the kids up from soccer, or not cooking dinner a few nights a week to make jewelry or whatever your passion may be. I am saying, instead of vegging out in front of the TV, instead of wasting time on our phones, or whatever your distraction is in life, take a break.

Years ago, I sold my TV. That's right, I am one of those weirdos without a TV. I occasionally watch Netflix, or go to the movies. But I stopped watching TV, completely. Once I did that, I realized how much time was wasted, sitting there watching the same predictable story lines. Now I create my own. I used to waste hours online, reading, and stressing over the "current affairs" of the world in the nightly news. Now I refuse to watch the news, I truly think it's just another drama fabricated by mass media, but that is my own craziness.

Over the last week I haven't thought of the coming doom, and gloom of the world. I haven't dwelled on the negativity that is forced on us on a daily basis. I have spent that last week clearing my mind, and having as little exterior stimuli as possible. I have focused on interior out put instead. I have meditated in my own way (I'll post about that in a future post, it's saved as a draft). This week I learned, or rather relearned, an important lesson.

Take time to focus on yourself, without the noise. Without the bothersome, annoying input of everything, and everyone else. Let ideas, and thoughts flow out, not in. Take time to be you. We all need it.