Panic attacks that seemingly never ended bought me a round-trip ticket to the hospital, courtesy of my own personal army, who actually feared hanging off the gingerbread would be the next step in my day. I could no longer breath normally. I was really hoping they would give Jacob a prescription for a tranquilizer gun so he could walk around and just shoot me with a dart in the ass every time I freaked out and I could go to sleep for a little while.
That won't be happening. Because I have raging post traumatic stress going on. Unchecked by my own hand and the doctors who dropped the ball on the follow ups, because they got tired of chasing me around making sure I had help. The help that I fired twice against Jacob's better judgement and he was waiting for the bomb to go off and he had enough. Off we went. I am so happy they didn't decide to keep me.
I actually could have sworn they said that that the PTSD would only happen in the actual days following the attack, not weeks later. I was mistaken. I have a disorder now. Great. add to the growing list of flaws. And to think, people thought I was perfect. Oh, aside from not being able to hear anything and thumbing my nose at my own marriage, that is.
What the hell was I talking about again?
It's lovely to have actual proof from a doctor that I'm not crazy, insane or falling apart. I'm just an untreated case of serious PTSD out there rattling around completely ignoring Jake's pleas to let him help me. Because stupidly I was self-destructive. I was drinking, I wasn't taking anything, I isolated myself. The moment I let down my guard, the enemy came charging through the gates. Hell, why deal with something when you can pretend it isn't happening?
Which is a total metaphor for an angry husband, isn't it? That makes me laugh, the metaphor is for the depression/anxiety/fear and total hopelessness that I thought had become me.
Thank fuck. It isn't me. I am me, that is not me. Are you with me? The blame? It's in my head. None of it is my fault. Blissful unaccountability.
Now I just have to get past being on medication, because I'm on it again. and. I. hate. being. medicated. like. you. wouldn't. believe.
I have a new counsellor (!). One who looks like Santa Claus and specializes less in battered women and more in war veterans. Dear lord. He's a tough cookie. He told me not to pass off any bullshit answers and he would help me and I told him by the end of the week he would wish he had never met me and who was he kidding? (I was kidding, geez, I really have no shame). I made him laugh, and happily he has a big deep booming voice (I don't have to listen so hard) and he's a total hardass so I expect my sessions will be miserable but it's okay. He said if I wanted to (!) I could feel a whole lot better but I had to do a lot of work. But I want to feel better (!!) and he thinks we're off to a smashing start(again-!!!).
Right.
It's okay because dammit, I'm fixing it too! Fixing me. So I can be the way I have never been before. Or something. Bridget new and improved! Now with sanity!
I don't care what, as long as it isn't this. The meds haven't even kicked in yet. Just so you know.
And he didn't say "I told you so" even once. That's how amazing Jacob is. And now I'm going to show him how amazing I am, and suck it up and take the help and get to work and stop being so difficult.
Who, me?
