Living With PTSD

The last few days have been harrowing to say the least. Sitting back watching, what feels like 1/2 my country burning to the ground, is hard enough. But when you’re the type of person who has to help people, it’s even worse. So safe to say my distress levels have been up. I feel Angry, Distressed, Sad, Helpless, Hopeless, and Useless all at the same time. All to varying degrees. Sometimes more sad. Sometimes more helpless. And it’s fueling my frustration anger.

What’s frustration anger? The anger you get when you’re so frustrated you don’t know if you want to cry, scream, throw something or just sit in the corner and rock back and forth. It’s the anger that causes you to say the mean things you don’t mean. The anger that pushes away everyone trying to help you. The anger that isn’t even warranted. But you know if you cry people will feel sorry for you and that’s a bad thing right? Apparently it’s not. I’ve been told that if I ask for help or cry or some other weak arse thing, my life will go smoother and I’ll won’t hurt myself and the people I love.

So how does one ask for help? Who knows? It’s like some people who can’t ask for directions. It’s either something you can or something you can’t do. And that’s the problem with people who have PTSD. They can’t ask for help. We can’t ask for help.

I know a lot of emergency service personnel with PTSD. I’ve got mates who served in Vietnam and subsequent Peace Keeping Missions. I’ve got close friends who are Police who have seen the worst of what people can do to each other. I myself got this way because I watched 100s of people die from Cancer and other terminal illnesses when I was nursing. And the one thing all my PTSD friends have in common? Not one of us asked for help when our mental health was starting to fail. We didn’t ask for help when the nightmares started. Most of us self medicated instead, with things like Alcohol, Gambling and other addictions.

But I digress. Where was I? Oh yes. My country is burning and I’m not doing anything to help.

I wanted to take our truck and help fire affected farmers move their stock to safety. It didn’t matter that I would be risking my life and Chris’s and risking the truck, which in turn would risk our income and livelihood. I just knew I had to do something.

So when the opportunity fell I’m our laps on Friday, we jumped into action. Chris and dad went off and saved 100 goats and their guard donkey. Our vet had been evacuated, but had had no way of getting her goats out of the fire zone. So the boys went and loaded them and rove them 2 hours to our farm where the are now safely penned and enjoying a holiday. What was my payment? The unspeakable gratitude that shone in her eyes as the tears rolled own her cheeks. I don’t have a lot of summer feed for my sheep and horses. But I am willing to share wha little I have with someone who has less.

Hmmm, where to start.

I’ve just thrown my partner of 5 years out because we had sex this morning. Now most people would think that was totally off the air, but it’s not really. It wasn’t even bad sex. But he’s been giving me imagined stink eye all day. And because I asked him to help me with something tomorrow and he didn’t react the way I expected, it turned into a big, “You can fuck me, but have no respect for me” thing. And now he’s sleeping in the car and I have to get up at 4.00am to get all the animals fed before I leave for work at 7.30am.

That’s it in a nut shell. But I’m the nut and my shell is not just cracked, it’s been absolutely smashed and when I finally got it glued back together 20 years later, there’s a couple of pieces in back to front and some pieces are missing all together.

Oooo, I just got invited to a hunting page by a NSW Senator...... but more on that later.

How do I feel about Chris leaving? Right at this moment, I’m good with it. Well Jemima is good with it. When she pits herself to bed, I’ll let you know how I feel.

One of the yummy side effected of extended sexual trauma is MPD - Multiple Personality Disorder. It’s fucking awesome! Not!

My family never know who’s going to walk through the door and it destroys relationships and friendships.

My late husband even had Jemima tattooed on his right forearm. A bitch spourned in hell with horns and bat wings and a penchant for leather corsets. She’s not a homisidal maniac. More an ice queen with an “I don’t give a fuck attitude” who is so self sufficient she doesn’t even need herself in her life half the time.

Then there’s me. Ex-nurse. Carer. Animal lover. Farmer. Loyal. Loving. Tough as nails, but with a gooey middle bit that breaks easy. That’s when Jemima jumps in to protect me.

There’s a couple of other minor bit parts. Some pommy east end girl, A Scottish girl, and some kid about 8 or 10. Right before I was abused for the first time.

It’s late. I need a shower, but my anxiety won’t let me undress. Even though I’m the only person in the house and have 3 dogs with me, I just don’t feel safe enough to be that vulnerable. It’s probably the hardest part of my illness. I feel the same way getting naked in my own house, that you would if you had to go shopping naked. I know it’s irrational to feel this way in my safe space and I can usually push through it, with music and closing and locking every window and door. Give me 5 minutes and I’ll revisit the shower thing and see if I can do it.

Now. Chris. What to do. Who fucking knows. He’s been annoying me for a week. We’ve been picking at each other and snarling at each other and I guess I’ve finally had enough. I guess he has too. The bad thing is, we have 2 business that we run together and I can’t run either of them without him. So here’s how I fight routine goes.

We fight. He walks out even though I’ve asked him not to a hundred times because it triggers my PTSD because it’s what my first husband used to do to manipulate me. Then I ring him and we fight some more. He usually hangs up on me a dozen times and I ring him back and eventually we agree that we were both wrong and he comes home.

Tonight however, I haven’t rung him. I have announced to the world on Facebook that he’s left and I haven’t even checked for replies. Do I want him to come back? Of course I do. But I’m not begging any more. I’m sick of not knowing if he’s here because I begged, or because he actually wanted to come home.

Physical side affects - my head is pounding. My hearing is super sensitive. I can hear the breathing of the dog laying 2 meters away from me on the bed. My heart is doing strange shit in my chest, it’s like there’s bubbles of air pumping through instead of blood, which is pretty normal for a panic attack. I have pins and needles in my fingers and toes, again from the heart thing and panic attack. I’m breathing shallow and fast.

Thoughts - these are my thoughts. I’m not actually thinking about anything stupid. I don’t want to harm myself or anyone else. I don’t want to pack my life up and move away. I’m actually looking forward to going back to work in the morning. Ok. There it is. The biggest indication I have a mental illness. I WANT TO GO TO WORK. Scary huh?