Day one. Well, not exactly, but day of the first significant step toward healing. Look at me, getting ahead of myself already. My brain is funny that way. I am an intelligent, articulate woman, You wouldn't know it sometimes, tongue-tied and twisted and reverting to ancient dialects I come off not so great. I write letters to my brain on Facebook a lot. People think it's funny, and it is. It's god damned hilarious usually because laughing at myself is the only thing that resembles peace on some days.
Day one. More of a first day of the rest of my life kind of day or so I'd hoped. I am fine. Oh no, I am fine. Nine hundred variations of that lie...repeated daily...for a very long time. Going all the way to the beginning is too far back, we'll save flashbacks for rainy days and Mondays. It's fairly sketch in the middle but I'm not ready to talk about that. So where does this story really begin?
December 29, 2008 is a good starting point for this story. Twenty-six days earlier, my son clocked into life on this earth. Thirty days earlier, my father went to a doctor's appointment that ended with a direct admit to the hospital. One year earlier, I walked down the aisle to be joined to a man I adored. Somewhere between the birth of my son and my post-partum appointment, I found myself in the ER because of profuse bleeding. I also found myself shuttling my dad to doctor's appointments. And somewhere in there, Christmas happened. December 29, 2008 is a great place to start this story.
With extreme hesitation, I started to tell my OB about my feelings. I wasn't overwhelmed or overtired but there was this pervasive thought train I couldn't derail. I'd never experienced anything quite like it. Over slow breaths, I told her about how I couldn't shake the thought that my baby stopped breathing and even though, I had no reason to have this thought and I knew it, I couldn't get rid of it and found myself frequently checking the baby. She reassured me this was normal. I shrugged. I was never like that with my oldest I argued. As I talked, she asked questions. As I talked, tears streamed from my eyes. I left my appointment with a clean bill of health and prescription for Zoloft.
Six days later, my father passed away.
Isn't it funny that a clean bill of health doesn't include your mental health? They don't even call it like it is. Even on support sites. PPD. PPD. I have PPD. I said that more than once. I think the only conversation, outside of the one with my husband, where I actually said the words was with my brothers. We were driving to be with my dad who had been transported to a hospital an hour away. A miserable, rainy, Ohio winter day, my forehead pressed against the window, I broke our collective silence by saying I was glad I had post-partum depression because I couldn't feel anything and if ever there was a time to feel nothing, now is a good time.
A few months after my father passed away my daughter turned 13. In my post-partum, grieving Zoloft haze, I lost her. I lost sight of her. I have a lot of regret about that. Life got turned on it's side. Normal teenager bullshit fortified with other bullshit. By the end of Summer, quiet winds of discontent started to erode my marriage, but I only know that in hindsight. In 2010, a move to a bigger house in a more vibrant neighborhood seemed like an injection of life and hope we all needed.
In December 2013, my marriage completely combusted. It should have come with a card that read,"Welcome to Hell!" The disintegration, dissolution, and ultimate divorce are by far the worst days of my life ever. I have volumes I could write about how systems fail and how all is really fair in love and war as long as he doesn't hit you. My experience with therapy and my beloved Dr. Hotpants during all of this were less than helpful. The divorce finalized June 2016.
In April of 2017, while driving to a local park, my truck spontaneously combusted. I sat utterly helpless with strangers while the faithful Blue Beast turned black. That shit changes you. My efforts to seek out proper adult treatment options failed as quickly as it started. I couldn't process information. For fuck's sake, sleep eluded me for several weeks because every damn time I tried every thing was coated in fire like David Lynch was directing my dreams.
I've always been a bootstrapper. I have always been independent, resourceful, creative, what ever other words conveys self-sufficiency...but really is a synonym for stupid. I'm okay. Everything is fine. It is in the wake of the fire that I started an album on Facebook called,"Post Traumatic Sipping Disorder" because posting a lot of about drinking as a coping mechanism actually kept me from using alcohol as a coping mechanism...more.
Post-divorce life is starting to even out. I finally have a job with steady, regular hours and great pay. My kids are happy and finding their ways in the world. I have more mother fucking huggy, kissy girlfriend's in my life than I have ever had ever. It's not all roses. I have had set backs and disappointments and my dating life is shit. But none of this is enough to explain why suddenly over the past month, my dreams are coated in fire again. I am having anxiety attacks and migraines and dark and depressing days. Scrambled concentration, irregular sleep, and apparently erratic patterns of behavior that worry my kids and friends.
Today, I pushed through every ounce of trepidation to go to walk-in assessments. I combed over the website and the internet about it. I've never had a good diagnosis for all these quirks and character flaws. I can't live like this anymore. I am an intelligent, articulate woman but no one fucking knows it because I've spent my whole life pretending I am okay. I am all fight and no flight and it's cute when you're in your 20s but in your 40s not so much.
Post traumatic sipping disorder is the only diagnosis I have to work with right now. It's great because there are throngs of places that run support groups for others with Post Traumatic Sipping Disorders. (Bars, I am talking about bars.) The best thing about these places is they are very clear about where you can utilize these services, unlike the facility where I went for an assessment. They only do assessments for inpatient admission. I declined. One, I am not that bad. Not today. Two, ain't nobody got time for all that.
This is day one of my personal journey.
This is bullshit.
This is why people do drugs.
This story is not over.
Day one. More of a first day of the rest of my life kind of day or so I'd hoped. I am fine. Oh no, I am fine. Nine hundred variations of that lie...repeated daily...for a very long time. Going all the way to the beginning is too far back, we'll save flashbacks for rainy days and Mondays. It's fairly sketch in the middle but I'm not ready to talk about that. So where does this story really begin?
December 29, 2008 is a good starting point for this story. Twenty-six days earlier, my son clocked into life on this earth. Thirty days earlier, my father went to a doctor's appointment that ended with a direct admit to the hospital. One year earlier, I walked down the aisle to be joined to a man I adored. Somewhere between the birth of my son and my post-partum appointment, I found myself in the ER because of profuse bleeding. I also found myself shuttling my dad to doctor's appointments. And somewhere in there, Christmas happened. December 29, 2008 is a great place to start this story.
With extreme hesitation, I started to tell my OB about my feelings. I wasn't overwhelmed or overtired but there was this pervasive thought train I couldn't derail. I'd never experienced anything quite like it. Over slow breaths, I told her about how I couldn't shake the thought that my baby stopped breathing and even though, I had no reason to have this thought and I knew it, I couldn't get rid of it and found myself frequently checking the baby. She reassured me this was normal. I shrugged. I was never like that with my oldest I argued. As I talked, she asked questions. As I talked, tears streamed from my eyes. I left my appointment with a clean bill of health and prescription for Zoloft.
Six days later, my father passed away.
Isn't it funny that a clean bill of health doesn't include your mental health? They don't even call it like it is. Even on support sites. PPD. PPD. I have PPD. I said that more than once. I think the only conversation, outside of the one with my husband, where I actually said the words was with my brothers. We were driving to be with my dad who had been transported to a hospital an hour away. A miserable, rainy, Ohio winter day, my forehead pressed against the window, I broke our collective silence by saying I was glad I had post-partum depression because I couldn't feel anything and if ever there was a time to feel nothing, now is a good time.
A few months after my father passed away my daughter turned 13. In my post-partum, grieving Zoloft haze, I lost her. I lost sight of her. I have a lot of regret about that. Life got turned on it's side. Normal teenager bullshit fortified with other bullshit. By the end of Summer, quiet winds of discontent started to erode my marriage, but I only know that in hindsight. In 2010, a move to a bigger house in a more vibrant neighborhood seemed like an injection of life and hope we all needed.
In December 2013, my marriage completely combusted. It should have come with a card that read,"Welcome to Hell!" The disintegration, dissolution, and ultimate divorce are by far the worst days of my life ever. I have volumes I could write about how systems fail and how all is really fair in love and war as long as he doesn't hit you. My experience with therapy and my beloved Dr. Hotpants during all of this were less than helpful. The divorce finalized June 2016.
In April of 2017, while driving to a local park, my truck spontaneously combusted. I sat utterly helpless with strangers while the faithful Blue Beast turned black. That shit changes you. My efforts to seek out proper adult treatment options failed as quickly as it started. I couldn't process information. For fuck's sake, sleep eluded me for several weeks because every damn time I tried every thing was coated in fire like David Lynch was directing my dreams.
I've always been a bootstrapper. I have always been independent, resourceful, creative, what ever other words conveys self-sufficiency...but really is a synonym for stupid. I'm okay. Everything is fine. It is in the wake of the fire that I started an album on Facebook called,"Post Traumatic Sipping Disorder" because posting a lot of about drinking as a coping mechanism actually kept me from using alcohol as a coping mechanism...more.
Post-divorce life is starting to even out. I finally have a job with steady, regular hours and great pay. My kids are happy and finding their ways in the world. I have more mother fucking huggy, kissy girlfriend's in my life than I have ever had ever. It's not all roses. I have had set backs and disappointments and my dating life is shit. But none of this is enough to explain why suddenly over the past month, my dreams are coated in fire again. I am having anxiety attacks and migraines and dark and depressing days. Scrambled concentration, irregular sleep, and apparently erratic patterns of behavior that worry my kids and friends.
Today, I pushed through every ounce of trepidation to go to walk-in assessments. I combed over the website and the internet about it. I've never had a good diagnosis for all these quirks and character flaws. I can't live like this anymore. I am an intelligent, articulate woman but no one fucking knows it because I've spent my whole life pretending I am okay. I am all fight and no flight and it's cute when you're in your 20s but in your 40s not so much.
Post traumatic sipping disorder is the only diagnosis I have to work with right now. It's great because there are throngs of places that run support groups for others with Post Traumatic Sipping Disorders. (Bars, I am talking about bars.) The best thing about these places is they are very clear about where you can utilize these services, unlike the facility where I went for an assessment. They only do assessments for inpatient admission. I declined. One, I am not that bad. Not today. Two, ain't nobody got time for all that.
This is day one of my personal journey.
This is bullshit.
This is why people do drugs.
This story is not over.
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