I am thankful for my PTSD

I am thankful for my PTSD, I know this sounds crazy. But keep reading and let me explain myself.

PTSD is a terrible affliction, it is, I won't lie to you. But as I research it, and write about it, and deal with in my own life I have come to several eye opening realizations.

First, I am not weak. I have the skills, know-how, and interpersonal strength to survive.

This isn't just some bolstering, I mean it. I have had a hard life, and I have lived through terrible times. I know that no matter what happens, I will never have to go through it again, and that if I do have to I can survive it.

Second thing I realized is this: If I survived my traumatic event, all other events are dust in the wind compared to what I survived.

If I can survive years of mental and physical anguish, I can survive the power getting turned off, or late bills, or even breaking down on the side of the road. These things, and all the events that we go through every day pale in comparison to what I have survived.

And third, and final thing is this: Without my trauma I would not be as strong as I am now.

Yes my event(s) have made me someone who has issues. I get angry for no real reason, I get scared, and frustrated, and have panic attacks. Yes I have a terrible memory now, and forget things, important things. And yes I forget to take my medication, when I have it. But all that aside, I am a rock. I am a foundation for others to rely on, other that know I am broken come to me. Because of my past, I am able to have the strength to help others.

My PTSD has opened my eyes and realized that death is around every corner. It's behind every rock, under every unturned leaf. But because I made the choice to live life, and not run from it, I have grown as a person.

To date, I have crossed five, FIVE things off my bucket list, and I am working on so many more. A bucket list isn't meant for when you're old, and frail. It's meant for every second before you kick that bucket. You may kick it at any moment, so why not start now.

So, to my PTSD, I thank you. Thank you for showing me death, for opening my eyes to the darkness in the world, so that I may grab hold of the light and ride it to new, and bigger things. Thank you for beating,and breaking my mind so that I can have the scars that make me stronger. Thank you for testing my mantle and finding me worthy so that I may help others.

Thank you.

Remember you are never alone, we are all in this together. Never forget, never give up, embrace life, and LIVE!

Simple, yet powerful.

Tonight's post is a simple one:

The choice is yours, are you going to choose the right one?

I struggled to post this.

I was asked "How are you today?" toady. This is a question that is pretty common, since we ask it in many forms through out the days as a way of saying 'hello' in the halls at work, with people we don't know.

But it is different when people who you grew up with ask you. When those who raised you ask you, you are taken back, and actually spend a second to process that question.

When I was asked that question, by my dad, it took me almost a half an hour to answer it. I was torn in two. I wanted to shout and scream, I wanted to tear the world asunder, I wanted to watch it burn and pour my pain into it. I wanted to smother all of the memories I have that keep me up late at night. I want the nightmares to fuel the flames that would burn the world to ashes. I wanted to pour my heart out and tell him I am hurting. Everyday I am hurting. I wanted so much to tell him that I don't know how to survive anymore. I don't know how to be an adult, and pay bills, and drive a car to work. I wanted to tell him that I no longer have those skills, that my fear is real, and it has taken his son from him.

I wanted to do that. But I didn't. I couldn't bring myself to tell him I am not who he raised, I am not who I was when I entered this world. That chubby little kid is no more. That son that he watched grow and mature, that son that brought a smile to his face as he watch him have dreams and goals of his own is gone forever. That son that he watched board the plane never made it home.

I tried for over a half hour to be honest to myself, and to him. I was able to muster one word:

Maintaining

That is where I am at in life. I am maintaining. Everything is boiling over, and I am falling apart, I see my life decay around me, and I see the streets calling my name louder and louder everyday. I lie in bed every night fighting back the tears that someday I will see someone else driving away leaving me on the streets. Leaving me there because just like myself, they aren't strong enough to battle the demons.

There will come a day, a day when I am once again physically running from the demons in my head, and I will look upon the cold eyes of those who drive away. And I will look back upon this day, and wish I had the strength to shout that I need help. I will look back and wish that, as the demons whisper, "Run little boy, no one is coming, you have been forgotten once again".

And run I shall, I will be lost to the world, and to myself.

Until then I maintain. 

We all have that one person.

Taken from ptsd break the silence Facebook page

Easily startled. That is what I am going to focus on. We all have that one person that loves to push our buttons. I have that person as well. I am not going to call them out, because I work with them. But everyday about 3-5 times they do everything they can to scare the shit out of me. They think it's funny, and I would tell them to stop but when they are laughing, I am barely able to hold it together. I am falling apart, and ready to explode at the same time. 

Thoughts race through my head, "why weren't you paying attention more?", "You let them sneak up on you, now you're dead". All this while trying to focus on computer systems, and the steps I've taken to fix the issues, or where I am in the progress of the work I have done.

Even writing this I am worried of repercussions, my hands are sweating, and aching. But if I can deal with this everyday, with the fear that if I lose my sh*t at work, and lose my job. I know I can take this same control to the rest of my life. 

We all have that one person, that one person that pushes us to our limits. That one person that on the worst of days makes life unbearable, and on the best of days we find strength in their antics. We can physically laugh in the face of our fears, and draw a sense of victory on those days. 

Remember, that no one in our life is there by mistake. Everyone from the people we love and care about, to the people who try our patience to the last thread. They are all there to ensure that we are the best "YOU" you can be. 

Diamonds are not made with hugs and bunnies. You can't hit the target without a few drawbacks. Life is a test, and with PTSD I was just given a better version of the test, to be a better me. How boring would it be without a little strife, a little heart race when people sneak up on you while you work. 

Never give up, remember with each new struggle, it is just the blacksmith coming in for a new swing. Hammering away all those flaws. It may not be tomorrow, or the day after, but the days is coming when the hurting will end. The struggle will be over, and the blacksmith takes the folded steel, and cools me off. Then Ill be the best me I can be.

Waxing and Waning

The first rule of blogging (if you google) from other bloggers is to post everyday. I violate this rule a lot.

For fashion blogs, or car blogs this is easy. You do some research, you write some stuff, and then you post and promote.

For PTSD blogs, and other issues in life, it's innumerably more difficult. There is an emotional, and psychological connection to our topics. The more we think about, dwell on, and work on the more it effects us. It effects us because it is always there, it is always in the forefront of our minds. I used to plan out my blogs, and pick topics. I used to spend time writing and editing.

Then PTSD kept coming and going in waves, my depression would flare up, and thoughts that are my own, but I refuse to admit are mine, would attack me. Now I struggle to get into that rhythm again. I love writing this blog, and talking with you all through the day. Your stories, and my own help us connect and grow together.

Even on the days I do not post this blog is calling my name. I sit in front of this monitor, and I pour my heart out, I say "here I am, I am broken, heal with me". I keep this blog raw, and unfiltered. Half of what I write is my own pain eating away at me, the other half is my fight to keep hope. There may be errors, or poorly structured sentences, but those are the proof that I am real. That my emotions are real, that I matter, and that my feelings matter. (Thank you, Hope)

Dark days come, and go, but so do the good. It is difficult to see the light in the darkness, but it is there. Sometimes all you need is a pesky significant other to give you space or hold you tight. I haven't figured that one out yet.

Other times you need a 15 lbs dog to stand on your throat while she lays her head on your face to get you to have a good nights sleep, to rest your light switch. (True story by the way, B.B. my service dog did just that)

Either way, as long as you keep charging forward I will be right there with you, fighting along side you.

Never give up.

Never give in.

Always choose life. 

The Monster is back

I am always angry, I am always alone. I have forced those around me back to a distance I know is safe enough. Safe enough that when they finally leave I won't feel anything. Because a numbing tingle is better than the pain I feel now.

There is so much pain inside I have no where left for it to go. I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes. I feel it in the air I breathe, I see it covering everything I once loved.

The monster has slumbered for far too long, and it is restless. It tears at my skin, and devours my mind. With each passing day, it grows stronger, and I grow weaker. My emotions are full of hate, and rage. My sense crave tears, my mouth salivates at the thought of everyone feeling the pain I feel.

I am not well. I know this, I live this battle everyday. These are the days the demons wait for, the days when the monster that I am awakens and has my full attention.

I know there will be those that say stay strong, and fight on. But these are the days that my tongue wants nothing but to taste cold steel. My nostrils need to smell the acrid stench of burnt gun powder. My hands ache to feel the wood grain one last time before the last cool breeze slides through the newly formed hole.

I want to cry because I know that will never be a possibility. I gave my word to never do it again, even though I am hurting and want it, I will never break a promise.

No matter how much I want it.

No matter how much my demons say I need it.    

A trip to the VA

Today I spent a large portion of my day, sitting at the VA. Long story short, nothing got handled, and I was not seen. This post is not about the VA though. It is about talking about our feelings.

As a vet, and if you've ever met one, we are not the most loving, caring, "soft" individuals. Our feelings are not the first thing we talk about, or in some case even the last. After any amount of time a veteran, and service members become less than emotional. Now this is also true in some cases of people with PTSD. They can seem distant or unfeeling, and other times they feel too much. Sometimes our emotions can get the better of us. The frustration, and anger, and sadness can get away from us.

Now when we got and talk to someone about it, they have a way of asking questions that do two things. One, is to make us drop our guard, the other is an odd side effect. The questioning brings on waves of anxiety. It makes us stumble, motor mouth and trip over our words.

I know when I am questioned by therapists and other "mind melters" I get really weird. I get sweaty, and wipe the sweat away excessively, I start to judge myself, and worry if what I am doing or saying is going to get me sent up to the 5th floor never to be seen again.

In situations like that I have two choices.

One, I can brave it myself, and carry on like nothing happened when I return to the waiting room, and play off the obvious sweat dripping from me. Trying to hide the shaking in my hands I can get a bit frantic, and expressive.

Two, I can admit that I need help, and take someone with me to talk for me, or remind me to not be so weird, This has yet to happen because of my fear of seeming weak.

I say weak, not because I am a man and should be strong. I say it as if from my point of view if I seem like I am going to hurt myself or other, or I wont be able to leave the hospital. That, the not leaving the hospital, is too scary to even think about. I already need someone to go with to the VA because I refuse to go on my own. I need the security of someone being able to fight by my side if they try and lock me away.

We all need a support system, we all need to talk about our feelings, and how we are dealing with, or not dealing with them. Never give up, never give in. Always stand tall, and stand proud. You made it through hell, it didn't kill you. Tell your story, set it free and watch the weight go with it.