I know in the past, writing has helped. It's just that I haven't been coherent enough to write. However, today, this little page called to me from my bed. I felt I needed to purge my words of all I've felt since Saturday.
After our ridiculous fight, I tried to go to the synagogue to find some healing.
I play a hand drum they have there. I play because I don't know all the songs, and sometimes, it's nice just to play to be a musical addition to their energy, even if I don't use my words.
The problem is, I was told it was the wrong thing to do. Apparently, I made The Guardkeeper spirit angry at my Rabbi, because way back when, there was a rule about nobody playing drums while people are singing. Good g*d! I make trouble everywhere I go.
Anyway, because I was in a place of weakness, in my embarrassment, I cried. Everyone there thought I was only crying because I was told not to play the drum.
I had to explain that my dog just died, I had a fight with my spouse about me being 'wrong', then I came to the synagogue for healing, but was told I was 'wrong' again. All of this, with the compounding stress of the disappearing days on The Countdown has me in a bit of a tizzy.
I told them, "If this had have been any other time in my life, I would have blushed about the whole 'drum thing' and gone on singing." Not this time.
That evening, Papi dealt with his grieving about The Golden, and witnessing his way of dealing with pain broke me.
I went into a physical meltdown, whispering through my drooling, hyperventilating tears to the 'g*d' that doesn't exist to 'please help me get off the floor!' I was begging to The Golden, to my Dearly Departed Gypsy and to my Great Grandmother to please help me.
Anybody! Please! Help me?
With shaking limbs, I was stranded on the floor in fetal position. It was over for me, I was sure. I was going to die from emotional pain, just like I thought I would when I was a tiny little girl when my P.T.S.D. first arose.
When I was that child, I was afraid to go to sleep. If I were to sleep, I may never wake up, because my debilitated heart would stop beating, and I would die.
In this adult moment of a mental collapse, every single horrid experience life handed me flooded my mind in one massive tsunami of P.T.S.D. Since that moment, I've had 6 days of not being able to find my breath, fearing I may choke. Not to mention, pass out from the lack of oxygen I'm pulling in.
I've had 6 days, where every time I close my eyes, everything comes rushing towards me; my motorcycle smashing into that car ... a fork aimed at my head as it sliced through air, because I wasn't home in time for dinner ... the fist of a former lover smashing my chest in anger, because I said something wrong. You name it, it came straight toward me, re-injuring my fragile mind with fresh wounds.
Sometimes, there is nothing I can even identify coming at me. These 'things' come so fast and frantic I don't even see them, but every single time something rushes towards me, it sends bolts of electricity through my body and I flinch.
My breathing won't calm. You know when kids have those after shocks from crying? That breathing in short choppy spurts? I'm getting it all day long.
All ... Day ... Long. Long. So very long.
I'm moving through quicksand. Even as I try to pick up a glass of water from the side table, it feels like lifting a 25 lb weight. It then takes all my strength and I'm down again.
I can barely keep my eyes open, yet I don't sleep. I just stare at the little silver rings. They're strong enough to hold the white, floor length curtains on brushed nickel rods in Our Closet. I wish they could hold me.
I shouldn't say I don't sleep. I lost a day there. I slept a cool 17 hours from Tuesday to Wednesday evening. Papi came in to wake me up, afraid that it was true; that I could die from emotional pain. I ate a few bites, listened to Papi's history of the day and went back to bed, sleeping a full night again.
Still, here I am, staring at the mock silver rings that can't hold my weight. Here I am. Speaking words, that come out of my mouth even though they don't sound like they're mine.
I'm on another plain right now. This is not sadness, nor is it grief. This isn't even Hurricane Andréa. I'm much too silent for that. This is one mother fucking spate of P.T.S.D. that hunts me like prey. I have to stop running and allow it to take me down and swallow me whole.
This Pit of Doom is nothing I've ever experienced. This is physical. I don't move from the La-Z-Boy, lest I collapse from weakness.
None-the-less, I must be getting better. I'm writing.
i am willing to release all fear