ME22 & NE23. NEFL Eagle cam. Screen shot and photomanipulation by me.
Copyright American Eagle Foundation.
But seriously, how in the hell am I supposed to talk about the most intimate details of my life when I don't trust anyone with those details? And by 'intimate' I mean 'personal.' Nothing more. So if you were expecting something juicy, this aint it. Moving on....
I know how utterly ridiculous it is to talk about talking about my life. Right? Still, the silence tells all. Questions that I've been asked, ones that come to mind that seem to have no proper explanation are as follows:
Do you have anyone that you can trust enough to tell the important things to?
Can you take just 5 minutes per day to engage in mindful meditation?
Can you find people who are like-minded to share you passions with?
Are you able to get up, walk out the door, get in your car with the sole purpose of just being somewhere other than home?
And there are other questions, but these alone provide enough anxiety to last a lifetime. As if the questions weren't enough, how about the non-questions, the ones that are.. a diagnosis? This is the part where I begin to heed the strong suggestion to just talk, to tell, to open up and, at the very least, trust myself.
PTSD. What?! Me? It took a minute or two to actually let that sink in the first time I heard it. The diagnosis was given with kindness, care, respect, and compassion. Maybe I'm jumping ahead too far here. Let's go back a step....
For several years now, since my last relationship, I've dealt with exceedingly difficult and trying emotions that I couldn't handle, much less explain. Life was an agony of fear tangled with self-doubt and a growing sense of hyper vigilance that I didn't understand at all. I dealt with it as best as I could, for years, many years going back to my childhood, but the catalyst that sent me spiraling was the experience I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, a walk on the dark side that was, then, called a 'relationship.'
A couple of months ago I decided that I couldn't handle whatever this was any longer, so I set out to allow a professional to look at all the pieces of the puzzle and help me put it all together. It's a work in progress. "I" am a work in progress. This is going to be a long, difficult journey that will, so I'm told, uncover the hidden parts of my childhood that are, in essence, as blank as the pages of my journal.
She sat across from me, asking questions, making notes, and looking at me with genuine concern, listening. Actually listening. Boy, that was certainly different. And in all her listening, every question answered, she told me I had PTSD. That's a blog entry all by itself, so I will leave those details for another day. But my take away from that session was, well, confusion. I had found something out about myself that I didn't know, or at least didn't recognize. And I have to say that it did explain a lot.
This PTSD began as a child, she said, but there were other instances, other experiences that compounded and made it all the more worse.
I can't even imagine having to handwrite this in a journal!
The home front is the worst of the catalysts at the current time, and tangled in a past relationship that left scars that likely will never heal properly, I'm left to fight for my own, for my self, for my sanity, for my peace of mind. T is about as checked-out as any average guy, so he's become background noise, for lack of a better definition. It makes life uncomfortable, and it's a glaring reminder that I don't have anyone locally to turn to, no one on my side, no one that has my back. So there's that.
I'm going on this journey alone, it would seem.
Ah well. My hands, eyes, and mind is tired already. Enough purging for one day.
Till next time....
