I didn’t know what to expect. In fact, I had no expectations. I knew I didn’t want to go back… all the way back. I had hoped that it could be the way it was with PTSD therapist number two… Indirectly going back… creating that timeline of events in my life. Creating family tree(s). It didn’t hurt as much the second time. Some memories can still invoke emotion, but not like the first time I opened my mouth after thirty plus years.
English: signs and symptoms ptsd (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Patrick was two minutes late… I was outside until 9:02… I was just about to go humm… and he looked outside for me.
So I sit down and realize Patrick’s office is easily three times the size of Wade’s office or Eva’s office… even three times larger than my prescribing psychiatrist… all in the same building. Is there any relevance to that?
So Patrick starts… how are you? I said “fine”… and then I took initial control and said, “I’m used to starting with if I’ve had any dreams.” so we went there.
Dreams are complicated for me. In order to stop the night terrors I’ve had my whole life going back as long as I can remember, I went through an extended period of adjustments with combinations of psych meds that would let me sleep and without being held inside, unable to escape. The night terrors ended at 2mg clonazapam and 150mg of lamotrigene as a mood enhancer and slow sleeper taken about an hour before sleep. The clonazapam “can” knock me out on demand… so those go in <30mins from sleep… or even right before I lay down to sleep. At this combination I get rest, I know I dream… everyone does… but all I ever remember now is the last 5-10 seconds before waking up. And they aren’t terrors. I accept that lack of memory and detail for the opportunity to sleep without night terror
We went to the night terror(s)… or more specfically the one from last week… How I no longer have them every night… maybe twice in the last year. But this one was intense and a little different. They have always morphed into something surrounding air travel.
When I was a child, having UN-childlike things done to me, I used to be able to go out of body into third person… I would have a mental escape from traumatic experiences. I’d be right there watching… but not feeling. I could fly… really I could. I was good at it and could fly on demand… flutter my feet, wave my arms and fly to get out of my skin, while my epidermis was used for influence, pleasure, power and money. But the thing is… I suppose the child brain doesn’t comprehend that you can’t fly. I now know that I was there the whole time. I understand that, at least consciously.
Astronaut Stephen K. Robinson, STS-114 mission specialist, anchored to a foot restraint on the International Space Station’s Canadarm2, participates in the mission’s third session of extravehicular activity (EVA). The blackness of space and Earth’s horizon form the backdrop for the image. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)In early adulthood, I suppose my consciousness understood I couldn’t fly. My compensation for that was real flight. Inside the flying tube with wings and my own designated space, I was free. I was free. I could fly. but I knew it had to do with aeronautics… thrust, lift, drag… math… numbers.
I even became a sort of daredevil… back in the day when jumping for a beginner did not include a tandem jump. You just had a static line and off you went. I remember the first time I jumped… it was… maybe 1983 or 1982. I already knew I couldn’t fly… but fuck if I couldn’t establish a glide path back down to my feet (sometimes). The first one was the only scary one… I was first in line at I believe 3000 ft… I remember hearing: ready on three… one, two and out the door I was pushed before three. I thought it was going to last forever and then… when I was on my feet, it seemed suddenly as though it was over so fast. I’d like to think that since I could exert a certain level of control on descent… I was really flying.
As a young adult, I never boarded the flight in my dreams. I learned I couldn’t fly anymore. I would make it past security… it was easy before 9/11, but never onto an aircraft in my dreams. AND, as a young adult, I was unable to sleep or even dose on any aircraft, regardless of class of service… but I felt safe. I had my space. There were no space invaders.
Age-standardised disability-adjusted life year (DALY) rates from Post-traumatic stress disorder by country (per 100,000 inhabitants). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
I believe I projected information in an almost matter of fact way. All that shit that I went a lifetime never saying anything about came out quickly, methodically, and almost without emotion… there was a bit of emoting in my tone, but no emotional reaction… until…
…Until I got to the part of my path to adoption at age 53. I slowed down. There were a few pauses between run-ons. It felt like the session was going long… but when it got to the point in the process of the day the judge signed the adoption decree and the image recollection of who was there… slowing down was no longer able to hide happiness expressing itself with tears. Because my wait was over. My wait ended when my mom (she was really still sUSAn then and had been for thirty years or so) said “What if I adopt you?”… and in that one instant, a lifetime of waiting for a blood relative to look out for me. To fight for me. To be a parent to me… ended. I didn’t have to wait anymore. Born again in an instant… My wait was over no matter how much I pretended it didn’t matter to me… A really big part of me healed, immediately, on that day, with five simple words…
(h)wät/ /if/ /i/ /(uh)däpt/ /yoo/
Patrick let us go until 10:10. That’s one hour, twenty minutes… There are strict rules… fifty minutes then out the door… there are people after me. So it ended with his computer forced into a hard reboot and he said I’ll call you later and we’ll work on the scheduling and he acknowledged the two days a week thing… I’m so fucking lucky to be able to get 50 minutes times two… every week.