trauma

December 24, 2024

Rainy Day Ruminations

I like when I try to write a post that comes off more as a school essay than an artistic piece pouring forth from my soul. I prefer the ones that come in uninhibited. They exist to exist and serve no purpose other than to impart how I’m feeling in the moment. Think of them as literary snapshots. Little photographs I can look back on, if I ever decide to re-read anything I’ve previously posted, and say to myself “Man, I was feeling it that day.”

Today I started some ridiculous piece about how if the government banned tiktok it would do a huge disservice, other than breaking it’s only fucking laws. With the app I have learned so much about myself in this very roundabout way. Most of the videos that scroll across my FYP have to do with trauma. Haven’t a clue why… But the algorithm knows all, I suppose. I never thought I was one who had responded negatively to it. However one evening, wading the sea of my thoughts, it occurred to me that I have.

Growing up I was a very emotional child. My parents never were one to stop me from feeling them. The outside world on the other hand did not agree with this parenting tactic. So for all my mother’s efforts to make me emotionally mature, the populace had other machinations. And they will do everything to make sure they perpetuate the myth that everyone will and should fit into a mold.

As I grew up, my peers and mentors would tell me that I was being too emotional or over-dramatic. Whatever I felt or expressed was brushed aside. As a result, I chose to hide my feelings instead while suffering in silence. Regardless of my attempt my body refused to hide anything. It manifested as something else. Always. I imagine it is the same for most people. It’s why some turn to addictive substances. It’s numbing. Only then can we ‘fit.’

In the early days of dating my husband, I was already spiraling into alcohol addiction. He saw it VERY clearly. He even made a deal with me that if I stopped drinking, so would he. So, I got sober. However, without recognizing the trauma I was drinking to escape I instead to turned to sex. Having a chemical dispenser in my head, ever at the ready to dole out my own make of dopamine, was much easier to conceal and carry out.

This behavior was my husbands and my biggest hurtle. I regret so much of my past and how much I hurt him with the lies… He’s forgiven me but I can’t. I don’t like that I ever betrayed his trust.

This is the moment where I realize that this is why I write. I clack out my thought because I have all of these “big emotions” that society otherwise would tell me I’m being annoying or I need to get over. Here, on this blank page, I get to be myself. I can share on an open platform where someone, just maybe someone, will read it and I will be validated. I realized this last piece today. Finally all the points connected and I understood.

All it took was my husband dying.

So many people have graciously given me the space to share my emotions. Ones in which I thought I did not feel. Every day I worried I was some kind of monster, as if I was happy he was gone. Even though I know that is absolutely not the case. It is just that I have spent my entire life pretending to have no emotions because I was “too much” for some. And obviously I wasn’t meant to be around them, because the people who genuinely care about you will not feel that way.

When I hide my emotions they always, ALWAYS manifest as anger. Absolutely every time. Boys/Men are allowed to have anger. Anything else is unacceptable. The biggest flaw in that, especially with me, is as someone who feels things deeply my rage is worse. It’s compounded with my anguish/sadness/grief with the anger I feel with all of those in my past that told me I was too much and at society for forcing me to be a “man.” What was just a small fire has turned into an inferno.

The one person who understood all of this about me, who let me have my fits of rage, with patience, sympathy and grace, is gone. I am once again left to handle all of my feelings alone, or in blog posts, because I will always fear isolating myself with my feelings.

Merry Christmas.

April 25, 2024

Trauma Glitches

Taylor A. Swift*! My memory is truly shit. Whole conversations or random pieces of information have failed to back up in my memory as if they never existed. The only trail that these moments occurred is proof in text. Thank Taylor* for that. Otherwise I would have no recollection. I would ask “what is that?!” but I already know what it is. It’s grief. It is also partially due to the fact that I am bandaging my grief in light substance abuse.

I’m not someone who does any sort of hard drug. My previous vices were alcoholism and prescription pills that did not have my name on the bottle. I didn’t think the second was an issue until my husband asked me how I slept so “soundly.”

“I could not wake you up. Why?” he had asked.

I had to then explain that one of my co-workers had given me her extra muscle relaxers, to which I then held captive in my sock drawer. As the explanation left my mouth I already knew that was a problem. Normal people don’t do things like that. We promptly discarded them (safely) after our conversation. So, whenever Charlie or I were prescribed heavy duty meds they were made aware. After that, they weren’t a problem.

Prior to meeting my husband I quickly spiraled into an alcoholic. At the time it didn’t make sense why, but after my “Soundtrack of My Life” project it became apparent that I had gone through some heavy-duty trauma that I neglected to address. Instead I buried it and took it onto the next relationship that ultimately added to the stockpile of depression. Therefore the only conclusion my 17 year old mind concluded was a “brilliant plan” was to drink. And I did, until my husband came along and said what I was doing was illegal and was going to ruin my life. He said he would not drink if I too stopped. We would do it together. It was easier for him than me, however I still got sober and stayed that way until somewhere around my 20th birthday. Then I drank a toxic concoction at a Halloween Party which made me utterly sick that I ended up puking all over Charlie’s car.

Liquor and I have had a bad relationship from the start. I want to desperately get drunk, and forget, and it likes to take it’s time until I am so overwhelmed that I am hammered to the point I black out.

I did that the other evening.

It’s amazing how quickly one falls into old destructive patterns. It resulted in making very unwise and dangerous decisions that, in sobriety, I could hear Charlie’s voice at the back of my mind, clear as day, say: that I need to set limits or I will kill myself. That would absolutely go against his wishes that I “live a long and happy life.”

The issue though is I ache. Even with antidepressants I have a constant smoldering pile of embers in the pit of my chest, burning for my husband. He has been with me for near 21 years of my life… him not being here is jarring, no matter how hard I attempt to suppress that truth.

I am completely out of my comfort zone. I have to deal with these feelings uninhibited or “assisted” but I genuinely don’t know how. Nor will my mind let me. It is truly a sight to behold when I bury my hurt subconsciously. It’s like a seasoned magician performing mundane slight of hand.

The primary reason I want to deal is because I can’t live with my life taking moments of my life and erasing them. I pride myself on my memory and not being able to do that will cause me more stress than not addressing the hurt I have.

*One of my favorite stand-up bits was George Carlin’s piece about praying to Joe Pesci. I loved it so much that I adopted it into my life with using “Albus Dumbledore” in the place of other fantastical beings. This was before we learned that Row-Row is missing an oar from her boat. So I have changed faiths and now pray to Tay-Tay.

November 29, 2023

If there is no flight, then we shall fight

I never truly understood the concept of “fight or flight” until recently. And when I say that, I mean within the last two weeks. Prior to two therapy sessions ago, my comprehension of the saying was: either “fought for their life” or “ran away to survive” in life threatening situations; like being held up at gun point or rape. It never occurred to me that these moments could occur at any time. It’s a trauma response.

The last few months I have been at home. It began at first as a way to cope with the panic and anxiety I had that my husband was starting hospice care. Since then I have not left the house. For the most part, I stay at home and care for my spouse.

At the start of October I returned to work doing miscellaneous jobs from home, only leaving for (at most) 2 hours to do an inspection. It started off fine, but it has since become a sort of prison. I can’t escape when I want and I can’t do what I want because I have my husband who needs me. The worst thing that could happen is for something permanent to occur while I’m gone.

It is here where the “psychological response” became vividly clear.

My tendency is to run away from situations. I’ve done it since I was a kid. If I was feeling uncomfortable I would just escape to my room, go on a walk or just drive for hours with no destination. Now that I cannot do that because of circumstances and my own unwillingness to leave for fear of what may happen… I have become angry. I fight, but not in the way one would expect. I don’t pick fights verbally or otherwise. No. I just get cold, quiet, passive aggressive or redirect it into something unrelated. It’s the way I alleviate the feeling.

Lately I have started to “fight” with my husband. I try, as quick as I can, to remind myself of the reality, how I really feel. Most of the time it works. Sometimes… it takes a little bit. I will bring up long since dead fights, grievances or misdeeds to justify my rage. Essentially I’m picking a fight. Fortunately it’s just with the shadows of the past, in my own head. The guilt I feel after these response moments is so heavy.

I have yet (and universe willing) have done so only in my head. I know, without a shred of doubt, I would forever hate myself if I were to ever let my thoughts leave the safety of my mind.

There is no conclusion or real resolution I can impart. Just wanted to share this clarity in the hopes of helping someone else. Maybe another reader has yet to get the basic principle. The one that sounds so simple, but lacks any specifics to its deeper meaning. Well, it’s an oversimplification for me at least.

September 26, 2023

The waiting room

Last night it occurred to me that I am back in the ICU waiting room with my mom, delaying my dad’s removal from life support. Except instead of holding off until my cousin and aunt arrive, I’m waiting for someone that will never come. It’s excruciating agony, like a sharp knife being pulled, slowly across my skin.

We were meant to start hospice but postponed the transition because once we do we lose our team of doctors that have been with my husband since he was diagnosed with ALS. In addition, we’re hoping to get a substantial supply of the medication for the disease. Hospice will not cover that drug. For us to pay out of pocket it would be $690/bottle. My husband is handling those details, from his eye-gaze device, so I am unaware of the status. All I know is that Friday is the day we told them we would make the switch.

His condition is worsening. His speech jumbled and incoherent, at times. Where before he would sleep at the drop of a hat, now not even pills will help. He’ll sleep for an hour or two and then be up for rest of the night and into morning. And where previously he would take Xanax once a month, it has now become a twice a day dose.

Every time I go into our room, and he is sleeping, I just stand in the doorway and stare at him. My eyes focusing on his chest and face for signs of movement. If he were to wake up it would be incredibly creepy. It would be for anyone, really. I do it because I am seeing if he is still breathing. That’s typically how someone with his disease passes, in their sleep.

The other night I was talking with my husband through text message (kind of ironic that our relationship started with text messages…) as we lay in bed side-by-side, his breathing mask over his mouth and nose, discussing hospice. Somehow we started talking about him dying in the house and he said he didn’t want it to happen here. I replied, “I don’t think that you habe any control over that. Unless you’re moved into a facility. And that is something that will not happen.”

So, I sit here and wait… never knowing what the next moment will be. Not knowing what to plan. People are asking me to plan things months in advance and… These other stories, plans, desires, are just the incoherent hum of the television in my “white waiting room.” A world exists out there, but it does not for me.