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.