The Beginning Of Another Downward Spiral…

 blog pics

And so it begins again.

200 mg of Zoloft tends to keep me in a constant state of blah. I don’t tend to get irritated as much, but I don’t get excited as much either. I actually feel like I’m floating through life avoiding my emotions. Which in some cases saves my ass from constant bickering with my family, and actually pulling my car over to bash the women holding up traffic because she’s texting while the light turns green. I hate that. One thing it doesn’t do is keep the hope of wanting a normal life from creeping into my brain and wanting to do extraordinary things with my life other than bitching about my disorder through a blog.

I have this habit of doing the worst thing in the world, getting on google. I go rounds with myself from researching awesome career fields that I’d love to try a hand at. I even go to great lengths of signing up for courses online buying hundreds of dollars worth of shit I don’t know anything about, but I know I need it. And taking the first steps of starting my new life. Everything is going to be grand. I just need to sit here and wait for a “light” conversation with (I know she’s probably nice) lady and talk about the process of getting to where I “think” I want to be.

And then my reality, my mushed up fucked up brain takes control. Let’s call my PTSD Fred. Fred likes to barge in at the most inappropriate times. For some reason Fred thinks it’s okay to turn up the temperature 50 degrees to make me start sweating in this lady’s air conditioned office. He also enjoys putting me on a jack hammer so my voice shakes every time I want to say something. It’s annoying having to wipe my brow and take deep breaths any time I want to contribute to this conversation I’m not concentrating on at all. Fred, in my opinion is a fucking bastard. He ruins my life when things “seem” normal. I hate Fred.

So I thank the lady, give her a hand shake and tell her I’m super excited about starting my new career and walk out of her office with a handful of paperwork. It ends up in the garbage can out back. I slip into my car and drive a few hours so my nerves calm down and Fred goes back to whatever part of my brain he resides in.

My brain itches…

I wish I had a recorder inside of my brain so I could play back all the absurd nonsense that flows through my ears. Some people would  think it’s the creative mind at work, but my mind goes straight to instant paranoia or what normal people would say is irrational and absurd thinking. And by normal I mean my therapist.

I hate to categorize or label, but the truth of the matter is I am definitely not the same person I was 10 years ago. Okay, I get that everyone can say that, and people evolve…blah blah blah, but from the experiences of war, death, violations, and internal struggles of my actual reality; my brain has completely reinvented itself into a ball of absurd mush that I battle to control in my everyday life.

Now, completely doped up on anti depressants, pain medication, and anti-anxieties, the monsters are tamed, or for better words numbed. I can live my life on a day to day basis throwing up a fake “hello, neighbor” to keep the questions at bay, or the “hi, how are you?” slowly make eye contact, now get the fuck out of this aisle before my shaking voice evolves into my shaking body. Without even moving my heart rate can sky rocket to unbearable bpm’s, I’d say it’s pretty impressive. Because lately it’s hard to find anything to be proud of anymore.

Now that I’ve completely lost track, which happens to me in every day conversations, where my words lose meaning and my thoughts change to a subtle shade of gray and I have no idea what the hell I’m talking about until I’m reminded for the 5th time where our conversation went. Ah, yes…my therapist.

I find it comical walking into an office, sitting in front of a PTSD professional, who clearly hates where he works because he doesn’t bother to hang pictures which would lead to “settling”. But they are laying on the floor against the walls. Baby steps, right? Come on now, hang the pictures and fake the smile like I do everyday just to appease the masses.

The heavy sigh makes me feel like I’m bothering him, which infuriates me even more because I’m just trying to get “fixed” like society wants. I just want my brain to stop having sword fights with itself and  calm the fuck down and not dream about being buried alive. But it’s just another day at the office. Except I get paid way less.

We sit and chat like we are total strangers, when in reality he really just wants me to get down to the raw and dirty details of why I’m so “traumatized”. He understands my brain more than I do, but for some reason there is still no insta-cure to why I am the way I am now. The hour passes, hopefully something is retained from the charts and exercises I’m urged to use to get through with my daily conflicts. Those papers are flooding the back seat of my car. I’m still trying to accept this forced change of life style. Time to switch hats. Thanks doc, see you in a month.