Tag: ptsd

Recovery: A year on and I’m surviving

It’s been a year since I fell apart. A year since I spun recklessly out of control and off the rails. A year since my mind raced and I struggled to keep up. A year since I made every mistake possible. A year since I begged my GP for help. A year since my GP gave me sleeping tablets instead of the anxiety medication I so desperately needed.

It’s been a year since my husband would come home from work and I’d run out of the house to escape its oppressive walls. A year since I started heavily self medicating with alcohol. A year since I made poor choices. A year since I started cutting myself. A year since I counted the correct number of tablets I’d need to kill myself. A year since I was nearly driven to that.

It’s been a year since I really worried my husband. A year since I worried my family. A year since my friends grew concerned. A year since strangers from Twitter saved me from harm.

It’s been a year since I looked at my son and thought he’d be better off without me.

In the last year I’ve come back from the brink. In the last year I’ve grown stronger. In the last year I’ve discovered heaven and hell. In the last year I’ve learned so much about me. In the last year I’ve tried to atone. In the last year I’ve worked to recover. A year spent in recovery from life.

In the next year I’ll try and get stronger. In the next year I’ll try to be better. In the next year I’ll try to get better. In the next year I’ll recover some more.

Recovery

Mental Health: How PTSD impacts my life

Today we took my son to hospital for his pre-op appointment. In just over two weeks he’ll be having grommets put in both ears. It is by any standards a very simple, straightforward operation. He’s a day case, he’ll be home before we know it. Practically my main worry is the nil by mouth thing, have you ever tried refusing a toddler food? So what’s my problem? PTSD, that’s the tricky little fella currently pecking at my head.

When my son was born we had a rough ride, you can read about it here if you’re keen, but the overview is, tricky pregnancy, very tricky birth, poorly baby requiring some horrific tests. His screams still haunt me.

Afterwards I thought I had PND. I mentioned it to a nurse about 10 months after he was born, I reached out for help and she dismissed me. I struggled on and when he was 18 months old I flipped and finally found a GP who would listen to me. He assessed me and quickly concluded I had PTSD.

It was a fairly textbook case. I have nightmares, flashbacks, hyper-vigilance and panic attacks. If I go near a hospital I flip out. If I had to take him to the GP or to see anyone medical I’d panic. I worry for days, have nightmares and then the flashbacks start. 

I’ve sought help. I found a lovely therapist who helped me work through a lot of the hurt and it did get me to the point where I could take him to the GP. But this, this is different. He’ll be in the place where he was born. The place where he had the horrible tests where his screams echoed down the corridors; bringing all the new mums in the post-natal ward to their doors wondering who was harming a baby.

Just thinking about that now while I type it I can hardly breathe. Today went well. His appointment was fine, the nurses were lovely. It couldn’t have gone better. But now we are home, night has fallen, he is asleep in his bed and I don’t have to be outwardly calm and strong for him, the doubts and demons have crept in.

I am full of panic and concern for him. My inability to protect him; guilt that my shoddy DNA means he has to go through this; worry about what is to come and how he will react and how I will respond. I am full to the brim of panic and I hate myself.

I can see it now, it’s like a chain reaction. The PTSD is linked to my anxiety which is linked to my depression. I can see myself spiralling and circling in a mess of self-loathing, anxiety and bitterness unless I pull myself out sharply.

Right now I’m staring out of the window into the black of the night, the cold rain hitting the window, a perfect picture to match my dark mood. But I must snap out of this, if not for my sake then for his. I can’t help but feel that the next three weeks are going to test me and my resilience. Being calm and strong for my son is something I really need to focus on. I can and will be calm and strong for my son.

Mental Health: How PTSD impacts on my life

Read more of my mental health posts here.

Sleep But Don’t Dream

At some time in our lives most of us have a patch of sleepless nights. I’ve been struggling to sleep for a few years now. Medication and mental health (anxiety and depression) have a lot to do with it. It’s got better lately since I came off the antidepressants and reduced my pain meds but last night, last night agh!

It doesn’t take much at the moment to make my anxiety spring into action. I had a niggly “he said – she said” conversation with a friend just before bed. It unsettled me. I don’t like being gossiped about, I don’t like my words and actions being twisted and used against me. I caper about life wide-eyed and innocent, trying to do right by everyone. Someone misconstrued something and got upset. Which got me upset, which kicked my anxiety off.

I lay awake for a few hours, tossing and turning. I gave up and went downstairs, thought about stuff, tried to make sense of things but no sense could be made. I just started thinking about the failures in my life, the dark times and it just got worse, I was slipping into panic attack territory. It was now 4am and I was cold and miserable so I went back to bed. I tossed and turned some more until my husband could stand no more and got up. I promptly fell asleep.

I slept fitfully for 90 minutes or so, I knew I’d been flailing because the sheets were twisted all around me. I woke up with a start and looked at my hands, expecting to see them covered in blood. I’d had another of my nightmares. They terrify me because they’re so vivid. I rarely get them and when I do I know things are in a bad way.

In my nightmare I was wildly slashing at someone with a knife, stabbing and stabbing until there was nothing but blood. I looked at the face of the body in front of me, the body I’d attacked so ferociously. It was me.

Stupid

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I’ve been stupid. This is nothing new for me I admit, but this time I’ve really messed up. I’ve got issues like anyone and sometimes, just sometimes I lean on friends too hard. They’re not trained professionals. They don’t know how to cope with me, my moods, my anxieties, my weirdness. I say and do things that are sometimes just wrong or hurtful or inappropriate. I don’t mean to.

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*Some* of my meds

I seem to have got myself into fortnightly cycles of downers, I’m fine for 13 days and then, boom, my mood goes through the floor and I act up, act down, act weird, do stupid things, say stupid things. This is really not cool. This is really not me. This is really not how I want to be.

As I write this I’m crying. On the verge of losing another friend over this. I’ve got to take ownership and control of my moods, my life. This just cannot continue.

I need a strategy. Previously my strategy was to drink massively and to excess, it was my first thought this morning but I’ve not touched a drop. That’s progress. My second thought was self harm, I’ve not cut or burnt today. Progress. I am getting somewhere. I need a non-destructive way to deal with stuff. Until I find that I’m stuck with dark, harmful thoughts in my head but not wanting to fall back on my old ways of dealing with them.

So, to friends old and new, friends I’ve lost and are losing. I’m sorry. I won’t use my mental health as an excuse for poor behaviour. Pull me up on it, challenge me, don’t let it float by. But love me and hold me when I need to be loved and held. It’s a scary old rollercoaster in my head right now. I know I am getting better but it won’t happen overnight. Bear with me, please, and I’m sorry. I really am.

Goodnight Vienna

I don’t think I could do it. Kill myself. I don’t have the balls. It’d hurt for a start, probably quite a lot and I’ve got family to think about and care for. When I became a parent, I signed that invisible contract which says you’ll promise to forever protect your child from the darkness. Being ill is pretty dark but not as dark as being dead.

I’ve spent much of the afternoon reading suicide notes online and researching methods. There’s lots out there if you want to find it. Pictures of bodies who’ve died in different ways, none of them pretty. Some of them may have lived fast, died young but there’s rarely a good looking corpse. Faces lined with more pain than a lifetime of depression could ever offer.

I’ve got to stop thinking like this. I’ve got to stop lurking in the darkness and listening to destructive thoughts. I’m better than this. No really I am.

Today has been a good day, I’ve been busy, been for a walk with the boy, did colouring in, lots of cuddles. I’ve done some work, played with my blog. a good day. My boy is out with his Auntie and I’m alone which is why my thoughts have turned to darkness.

It’s easy to cut and harm, to bleed a little, to bruise, to scrape away at skin. It’s harder to still your heart permanently and I’m not going to. I’ve too much happiness ahead of me to go that far. I’ve got to believe that and I do. I really do.

I think.