Dec 15, 2016
If you are reading this do yourself a favor and stop here...
For years I've been told to write a book about my life. It never dawned on my why I fought that idea for so long, why it seemed so foreign to me or useless of an idea. Now suicide that idea has made sense many times throughout my life. Not a will to die just tired of all the fuss with so many health issues. Tired of hearing so many iept quacks calling themselves doctors who don't have a clue. Now the ones who acknowledge that some thinks are beyond them or that they need help understanding they are not included in that quack statement. They are some of the only real people in the entire medical community. But a book... really? Why?
Well due to some medical insurance issues I've agreed to therapy for the first time in my life. Reluctantly but I agreed based on being told that allowing them to document my PTSD would help get medical insurance back. So fine I figured we can play their game. Didn't really expect anything from it with all sincerity. It still seems like just a horrid waste of time and money. However it has opened my eyes a bit to the huge golf ball I have tied up in my gut. The one that has been building pressure for 55 years now as I hid my head in the sand waiting for so many things to just pass over and either to have not happened or to somehow miraculously just go away. Well I was wrong. The therapy is something I should have done years ago.
To be honest I've been told about the PTSD by different ones for years. I just didn't buy into it. I couldn't see how someone like me could have PTSD. By default due to my health I've always led what most would call a pretty boring life. That being the case how could I have PTSD? In a very short time I'm learning that PTSD is not what I had in my mind. Yes at times it is tormenting war veterans and the like. But it never dawned on me that so many of the nightmares, periods of utter irritation and anger could be linked to the medical weirdness of my life.
My first indication that it could related to my childhood was when I laughingly told my mother about a life long dream. This was some 20 years ago I told her about this dream, nightmare really, that I've had repeatedly most of my life. It was always essentially the same - I'm locked in this chrome plated jail cell curled up with a stuffed horse and I hear people yelling my name but couldn't respond. As I sat at mom's kitchen table, along with my wife, one day mom listened to me talk jokingly about this nightmare. She had a look of utter horror on her face. When I told her the strange thing about it was that in the dream I always had this horse, that I'd named horsey, and I was squeezing it to death. But that horse looked just like the horse she had thrown out when I was young. I'd taken it into my sandbox and well got it pretty dirty. When I told her about the horse her look of terror broke out into tears. I stopped and tried to ask her what was wrong repeatedly. Finally she opened up and told me that it was not a nightmare. She said that actually happened to me when I was 4 years old and that I had horsey with me. I'd had my first spinal tap and afterwards I was scared to death. She said when no one was watching I'd climbed out of my hospital bed and hid under it with the horse. She said the crib had chrome plated bars that were pulled down on both sides because the staff and her were searching the hospital for me. Everyone was calling my name because they didn't know if someone took me or where I was.... Scary thought to think that that traumatic memory follows a person throughout their life. There are more memories most of which she verified where things that really happened to me as a young child. Like being stuck hanging upside down and every time I'd move my legs to try and get loose blood would run down. She said that was something I got a beating for by my dad as I wore braces that had become stuck in their couch. She said I not only shredded the side of the couch but it blood stained as the braces cut into my legs from me struggling to get loose.
So what does all this have to do with my fear of writing a book? Well, now I get it. As the idea of PTSD is beginning to sink in I realize it's not that I'm against the idea. It's as the therapist stated I don't see myself as worthy enough of a person to read about. Perhaps not her exact words but that's what my brain heard from what she surmised. So will I write the book? Will I open up and reveal some of my life in order to try and help others? For the first time in my life I actually want to do this... though I don't really know how to go about it so we'll see. This is the start... just to see if I could let a few thoughts flow without bringing on the thoughts of self harm from certain memories. Most of my family would disown me for writing about it. But then most of them disown me for being handicapped anyway so what of it.
So will this continue? Will I write my story and open the wounds? I don't know. I want to at this point. Time will tell I suppose.