Being Invalidated by a Bad Apple

Abuse is present in all kinds of relationships: from personal to professional, from sexual to medical, where ever there are humans, abuse exists. Unfortunately, no one is safe from experiencing it in any of its forms, especially in regards to mental health. In my own mental health journey, I have been fortunate with my connections, but I know so many out there have not. I know no two instances are alike, and abuse can take many forms in this world. My most recent experience with it has prompted me to bring this story to light. It is raw, and possibly chaotic in nature, but it is where I am at right now.

I am a young woman, a wife, and a mother, who just so happens to be diagnosed with Bipolar II. This diagnosis has been following me around for over eleven years, and it is not something I take lightly. I want to feel okay and happy. I want to feel normal, and if medication and therapy are required for this to happen, then so be it. I am worth the extra effort. It hasn’t always been smooth sailing, but I have never felt as if my team against me…until a few weeks ago. 

Back in August, my husband and I agreed we would start trying for baby #2, but I knew this meant I needed to get things prepped for my mental health ahead of time. When I was pregnant with my son, I struggled – because there was no safe medication for me to take at the time. Last year, my then psychiatrist told me if I was going to get pregnant again, there were options this time around. He knew me and knew intimately about what happened to me when I was pregnant. No one wanted to go through that again. 

Unfortunately, due to family circumstances on his end, he left, and I was given to someone new. He seemed nice and agreed to go off my previous doctor’s notes on my condition for starters and adding his own as we got to know each other. I saw no problem with this sentiment and was willing to give him the chance despite my hesitation because I was thrown to someone new so suddenly.  

As time progressed, I tried to trust him, but something always felt off and awkward with him. Sometimes a comment he made drew question marks in my head, but I brushed it off because we weren’t sitting face to face because of COVID. We only talked on the phone. Sometimes it was a ten-minute call, sometimes it was three minutes, but I felt we were on the same page.  

Before my husband and I talked about getting pregnant, I knew I wanted a game plan in place. I wanted time to get used to new meds and adjust as needed. My psychiatrist was an instrumental part in this plan, so setting up an appointment to discuss my options non-negotiable. Per instructions by my previous doctor and my own research, I already had an idea of what I needed, but I had to bring it up with my prescriber to get it. Simple and straightforward, right? WRONG! 

When the words of “trying to get pregnant” and “what are your suggestions” left my lips, the atmosphere of the conversation changed. Keep in mind, I have been diagnosed by four different psychiatrists, over the course of about sixteen years, that I have Bipolar II. I have been on the appropriate medication for that diagnosis for eleven years, and when I am consistent with taking the medication, I am stable.  

This man had the gall to let “Bipolar II is just a theory” and “many women find the symptoms go away during and after pregnancy” leave his pathetic lips. Despite me bringing up the recommended medication and explaining what happened the last time I was pregnant, he ignored me. Now, I refused to leave this session empty-handed, so he gave me two medications for “as needed” irritability and depression, low dosages with the possibility of increases. I am Bipolar, not irritable. 

I assumed this was better than nothing and began tapering my medication as designed and filled the prescriptions. After several days, I found I had to start taking more than the ‘low dosages’ to have any sort of effect, and I hit a major side-effect wall. I could either feel like I was drunk all day or be depressed. Since I work full-time and must be mentally sharp, I stopped taking the meds. I gave them less than 2 weeks, but they were not working in any capacity as he said they would.  

My therapist was appalled at his words but brushed them off when I spoke to her about it. She looked up my file and found he had not written anything he said to me, in my file (why would he?). Though she did not convince me directly, I put in a request to transfer psychiatrists the next day. Never have I ever been invalidated by a medical professional to my face like that, and even though I am struggling now because of him, I won’t let him win. 

Kind of Like a War Hero

I’m a war hero.

At least I’m kind of like a war hero.

I survived a war,

but was never in the military.

I have battle scars,

but was never in combat.

I have PTSD.

That illness you understand for veterans.

I survived a war,

that I’m still battling.

I’m a survivor,

but I’m still surviving.

I’m a war hero.

At least I’m kind of like a war hero.

My father was my war.

He is still my struggle,

my battle,

my sorrow,

my pain.

I recently saw my father and my brain regressed to a frightened little girl.

Parts of me are still there. Shattered. Frightened. Sad.

Hidden in a corner in my closet, knees scrunched up tight, head buried in.

I will continue to fight, to grow again.

I will love my little girl self and hold her, comfort her and soothe her wounds.

I will be the parent she never had.

I love you Suzie. You are beautiful.

You are strong. You are so many wonderful things.

You can be all the things you couldn’t be before.

Be them now. Find them. Find you.

There is still time.

Find a way.

Become the new you. Anything you want to be.

I am kind of like a veteran.

A different kind of veteran,

but still I need to celebrate me.

I have PTSD, but not the kind you understand.

I was never in the war.

Not that kind of war. A different kind of battle.

I was never sexually abused.

It was not that kind of abuse.

It was the other kinds of abuse.

The physical and the words.

It was the words and how he said them that hurt the most.

The kinds you say I should just get over.

The kinds you think I should just let go.

It was the different kinds of abuse,

but still I have PTSD,

and I am a survivor.

I survived a war.

A different kind of war,

but still I am a survivor.

I survived my father.

I’m still surviving my father.

Each time I see him I return to war.

His words, his tone.

They trigger me back to enter that war zone again.

It is my war. My private battle.

A war I re-enter

each time I see my father

or when an image, a sound, a phrase, or a tone

triggers me back to the battles,

the fear, the pain and the heartache.

I’m a war hero.

At least I’m kind of like a war hero.

I survived a war.

My father

was my war.

I survived my father.

~written by Susan Walz

 

© 2020 Susan Walz | myloudwhispersofhope.com | All Rights Reserved

Photo credit: Photo by Vero Photoart on Unsplash

How to Break the Cycle of Abuse Within Your Own Mind

I am really good at not being good to myself.

“Most of your class is smarter than you.” “No one wants to be your friend.” “Of course you didn’t win.”

Throughout my childhood, I taught myself to have no self pride. At all. Despite being decently intelligent and skilled; I could never accept a compliment. If I didn’t win the very best at a contest, the voices inside told me why. If I happened to do well; they reminded me of how many other people were better, or of how there weren’t many competitors.

I’d love to say things have gotten better, but they haven’t.

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“Look, see: that person says she likes that person, but doesn’t even look at you when you’re walking by.” “There you go, dummy; forgetting everything again.” “Well, who would want to be your friend?”

I could blame the internet, exposing me and millions of others TO millions of others. But if I’m being honest, my negative self would be able to beat me up even without bringing the rest of the world into the comparisons.

When I’ve addressed this problem with self-meditation, self-medication (usually chocolate), and the occasional session with a therapist; I …can’t actually address it. I’m so good at not being good to me that I jump right in to sabotage any sort of progress.

Me: “Well, when someone compliments me, I feel like they probably don’t know the whole picture.”

Also Me: Justifying “I’m not that good at cooking/writing/being a friend/etc. That person is just really nice. She tells the off-key 8-year-olds at church that they sang beautifully.”

I’m so good at not being good that I claim my conclusions are LOGICAL. I bring outside evidence to back the negativity up, disguise rudeness as truth, and name-calling as accurate titles.

And I don’t see this as wrong.

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If I had a friend (See? If I had a friend? -so mean!) -anyway- If I had a friend whose boyfriend were saying that crap to her, I’d immediately tell her it was abusive behavior. If someone at school were telling these things to my son, I’d advise him to stand up for himself and even talk to his teacher about it. If I were reading a book or watching a movie and heard the things that play in my head all day; I would recognize the character as a petty, selfish bully.

Living with me all day every day, however, I do not. As you may have guessed, I tell myself that negativity is exactly what I deserve.

…Which makes breaking out of the cycle of abuse that much more difficult. And yes, it is a cycle of abuse.

As such, the actually LOGICAL steps to getting out would be to follow professional advice for leaving an abuser. The internet may be providing fodder for my inaccurate comparisons, but it also has a lot of information to help save me from them. In fact, there is even a wikiHow on breaking an abusive cycle.

Since we’re dealing with an internal abuser, I’ve taken their list and modified it:

  1. Leave.
    I can’t exactly leave my own head, but see that my substance abuse and attempts to disassociate are a lot like telling an abusive spouse I’m leaving, but not actually packing bags and arranging for another place to live.
    I feel that I don’t know where to go or what to pack yet, but maybe I can start asking around and collecting a few moving boxes.
  2. Don’t dismiss, justify, or accept the abuse.
    Frankly, I need to stop agreeing with the Meany-Head in my head. I can probably, sort-of, start talking back to it like a stubborn 3-year-old. According to professionals, that’s healthier than allowing it.
  3. Look out for the honeymoon phase.
    I didn’t think self-abuse had this, but it does. I have days or even weeks of letting up on myself. I smile without reminding myself that poor children in Africa have little to smile about. I accept a compliment and don’t downplay it.
  4. Don’t fall for that break in abuse!!
    I can’t let my guard down and assume everything’s better if there is little or no meanness.
    When I went on a successful diet one time, I mentally associated sugars and refined flour with fat gain. Those two became repulsive to me and I had no appetite to eat them.
    Similarly, I’ve got to put a no-acceptance-at-all mental block on the negative talk. Like Susan said in her article, I’ve got to respond right away with positivity.
  5. Unearth your superpower.
    The wikiHow articles says, “One reason individuals stay in abusive relationships is because they feel powerless and unable to act.” Boy, is that ever true. I feel overwhelmed at the idea of finding strength within myself.
    BUT, there are times that I am motivated to act -no matter how depressed or beaten-down I feel. Those times include: if someone I love is in danger, if injustice is raising its ugly head, and when things pile up so much that I simply cannot tolerate any more.
    If I can find strength even in the darkest despair, I can fight this abuse.
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  6. Go get help.
    I think this is my favorite of the steps, because I often suffer from Analysis Paralysis. I don’t know the ‘right’ direction to go, so stand and stare at the different options until I get frustrated and give up.
    With a counselor, therapist, psychologist, trained friend, or even a small reminder to literally choose to be positive; I can get GPS instructions for which way to start walking.

So, what am I waiting for? Honestly, I’m waiting for it to be easier. I’m waiting for the ‘right’ motivation. I’m probably waiting for the chocolate to kick in.

But I have a list. I have a goal. I want to Keep Fighting instead of keep bending over backwards and feeling worthless.

So, let’s do this thing. Who’s with me?

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Andrei Lazarev
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Philipp Wüthrich
Gabriela Braga

©2019 Chelsea Owens

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Empty Your Pockets

This is a free verse poem I wrote because I have been struggling with my PTSD lately.

This poem is for anyone that has ever been hurt before. I hope you enjoy it.

Don’t forget to empty your pockets and always remember…


Empty Your Pockets

They knock on my door, but I don’t let them in.

They send me texts, but I don’t respond.

They call, but I don’t answer.

They leave voicemails. I listen, but never return the call.

They knock on my door, but I can’t let them in.

They try, but I refuse.

The fear freezes me.

Traps me.

Holds me in a bondage I can’t escape.

I can’t visit it now.

I can’t return.

Those are the memories you created.

You hurt me then, and you hurt me now.

I forgot then, but I can’t forget now.

Not right now.

It has resurfaced.

I am not sure when I will let you back in.

For now I stay away. Out of sight. Out of mind. Out of ear shot. Out.

I am frozen in the bondage that you created years ago.

You didn’t care then and I can’t care now. Not right now.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe. I don’t know.

When it feels right, I will resurface. I will come back.

I will let you back into my life a little at a time.

Handle with caution. Handle with care.

I am fragile when wounded and I feel wounded right now.

Just because. Maybe because I am healing more. Always healing.

When wounded and injured, always healing and recovering.

I will be okay and I will come back one day.

I am not sure when, but one day.

When it is safe. When my heart tells me so.

I can’t be there for you right now.

You weren’t there for me when I needed you most.

You couldn’t be there for me the way I needed you to be.

You didn’t know how.

So, you put me it in your back pocket.

The place where you put everything you can’t deal with.

Don’t think about it. Don’t talk about it. It will go away.

But, it never really goes away.

It remains in your back pocket and becomes buried with the lint.

That was where you put me.

You must have a lot of stuff in your back pockets.

Doesn’t it make it difficult to walk around and live life when your pockets are full?

You need to clean out your pockets and take care of the junk that is in your pockets.

The place where you put things you don’t want to deal with or feel or know even exist.

The place you put things to deal with later.

Unfortunately, later sometimes never came.

Later became too late.

Like me.

You forgot you put me in your back pocket.

The stuff you can’t deal with.

The stuff you will deal with later, maybe.

I am the later maybe you forgot or didn’t have time for.

You forgot me too many times.

It is my time now.

I think I finally found a back pocket.

I will put you in my back pocket until later.

Just for now.

I will come back though.

I will never leave you in my back pocket.

Please clean out your pockets. You might be surprised what’s in your back pocket.

Maybe it is what you have been looking for, but forgot where you put it.

Maybe it is what you have always been missing.

Maybe it is what you always needed.

Maybe it is me.

~written by Susan Walz

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Copyright © 2018 Susan Walz | myloudbipolarwhispers.com | All Rights Reserved

The Adult Looking Back

I’d like to tell you about the first relationship I ever had. I’m sure you’ve heard plenty of stories about first loves; in books, on the TV, via grandmothers and close friends. Everybody has a story to tell, whether it’s theirs or someone else’s. Lend me five minutes of your time and I’ll tell you about mine.

Let’s introduce ourselves. My name is L and it has always been L but, to her, I was M. A lot of couples have their own names for one another, don’t they? As time passed, we had ours emblazoned on keyrings and charm bracelets, but in the beginning, they were just our internet names. Were you around for the early 00s? They were a magical time. I’m fairly sure, on my deathbed, I will hear the dingdong of MSN and stick up straight, convinced I am thirteen and someone is waiting to speak to me. Those were the days when we had usernames like AngelL and Lolzfaerie and passwords that were pets’ names. They were simple times, my friends. That relationship blossomed on MSN and it wasn’t the only one. Why, a dear friend of mine met her husband on MSN when she was sixteen. MSN was the Snapchat of our day.

I can’t tell you how many hours we spent talking on that messaging service, exchanging favourite music and TV shows, deep thoughts and personal feelings. Anybody who’s had a close friendship on the internet can attest how quickly you can fall into a sort of intimacy with another person. So you don’t know what their perfume smells like but you know their mother died when they were eleven and they’ve never really recovered. What’s more important?

Do you remember, when you were a little kid, thinking about how amazing it would be to meet Father Christmas or go to Disney World? Something so extraordinary that it didn’t seem possible and yet you hoped beyond hope that it would happen, because it would be the GREATEST THING EVER? That’s what it was like, meeting her for the first time in real life. I couldn’t believe she was real. I couldn’t believe I could smell her perfume because she was here, with me, in real life. It was insane.

Those weeks were something else. We watched movies she’d saved on her laptop holding hands, we’d stay up all night until we could barely sit upright and we’d play games she’d devised. We had days out around the city, around the shopping centres and the local parks and if I’d ever known I could have been so happy, I wouldn’t have believed it.

I’d like to tell you about the first relationship I ever had. Sure, you think you’ve heard mine but let me try again. I told you my story through the eyes of the fourteen year-old I was. Let’s retell it, through the eyes of the adult I am today.

Let’s introduce ourselves. My name is Lola and if nobody is allowed to call me M. That name, which once held such a positive association for me, is now dead in the water and if I could set fire to it like I did the keyring, I would. The early 00s were a different time; the world hadn’t fully embraced the internet yet. We were the pioneers, the first, and as with any new world, there were few rules and even less security. Why did you think we could get away with passwords like Fluffy?

I met her in circumstances no different to what you may do now. A shared fondness for a TV programme, an easy enough explanation, but you tell me; how many adults are devoted to children’s programmes? She used to send me episodes that hadn’t yet been aired, a privilege that set me above others my age and bonded me closer to her. An artist could twist it, extending a drawn hand, offering a shiny lollipop, and I think you’d get the idea. Perhaps we’re not on the same page yet?

She used to tell me about her life – tell me a lot more about her life than you’d probably deem appropriate for such a young friendship – but isn’t that what bonds people? In return I gave her my life; my quarrels with friends, my worries about exams, my disagreements with parents, all things she chucked back in my face because they didn’t rate beside her adult problems. I didn’t mind. She was right, after all. How can a failed exam compete with the death of a parent?

I say we exchanged music tastes but that’s incorrect. She wasn’t interested in mine. She sent me woeful, lyrical music that I’d never have discovered on my own, songs of despair and loneliness, songs with too big a feeling for a girl whose main worry is her Neopets. She sent me other things, too; pictures and drawings too old for me to understand over the internet and gifts through the post; little mice holding hearts and perhaps a necklace, too? And words, words like ‘only you, only ever you, you’re the best, you know?’

She also used to phone me when drunk, laughing and shouting until I’d beg her to go home before she hurt herself. Other times she’d call me out to shout abuse, to accuse me of betraying her. She’d leave spiteful messages to keep me in line and exchange them with adoring notes to keep me still.

The first time I met her wasn’t the greatest moment ever – did I tell you that I missed it? I missed her coming through Arrivals, because I was in the toilet, sick with nerves. When she saw me, she threw herself at me. There were more gifts and more babbled declarations of joy and I drank it all in, because why not? I was fourteen and I believed the world to be pure.

We spent nights watching movies of her choice, movies that frightened me and made me afraid to sleep. I never was good with horror. She declined invites to meet my family or hang with my friends and kept me to herself, even matching our clothing down to accessories as if I could doubt who I was with. And the games, the games she devised, where she’d pretend to be a man, dress like a man and use a man’s voice. I remained what I was, a fourteen-year old, but that was what she wanted me to be.

And at night time, when the world was still and the laptops stowed, she’d creep into my bed and press herself against me, acting out what it would like to be a man. I was fourteen years old. She was nineteen years-old.

This carried on for years. I probably don’t have to tell you that, by the time I turned sixteen and started to question this, she turned against me. She dropped me like a hot potato and vanished into the dark side of the internet, into that place where they now warn children to stay away from. But the devil doesn’t come in the shape you expect and what you believe to be true in one decade, you can realise to be false in another.

Once upon a time, all I wanted was to know the smell of her perfume. Now, if I am out and I catch the merest scent of it, all I can do is panic. And those conversations I used to save, the same ones I deleted in the immediate aftermath, they’d be used as evidence now.

Note: This piece is probably the most personal I have ever written but it’s a story I have wanted to share. I hope I’ve managed to portray what happened throughout the story, but if you are confused and would like clarification, please feel free to ask and I’ll explain in the comments. In another blog, I will speak more in depth about the ramifications this had on my mental health (which I’m sure you can imagine) but it doesn’t hurt to have some backstory. Thank you for taking the time to read this, I always appreciate it.

Lola Deelay, of Of the Light and the Dark

Father’s Day Triggers My PTSD

I started writing this post on Father’s Day. I couldn’t finish it and went back to it a few times. I thought of deleting it many times because it is painful and shameful. I know it is wrong to feel this way and yet I cannot “unfeel” it. Believe me I have tried.

I have reached a much better understanding of the reasons why and how this happens to me after being triggered by my father and that helps but it doesn’t take away the realities behind the pain, shame and battle.

I have not written many posts about PTSD even though I have it. I am not sure exactly why I haven’t but maybe it is because it is a difficult place to visit. Since I have been off psychotropic medications I have found my feelings, emotions and memories are clearer. They are mine. Mine alone without the interference, mask and band-aide of psychotropic medications. Nothing is covering up or masking the painful memories when they are triggered. Those memories are closer to the surface and I am now forced to learn to deal with them alone without the aid of psychotropic medications. I am ready to conquer this new obstacle because the good of being psychotropic medication free far outweigh the  bad, so far at this stage of my life and living with bipolar disorder, anxiety and PTSD.

Even though this post is difficult for me to share, I decided to tackle it, conquer it and share it with the hope that I can help someone else. Hopefully, others will be able to relate and can share their insights as well. Maybe my post will educate and inform others a little of what PTSD is like—at least for me.

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I began writing this post on Father’s Day 2018…

Father’s Day has always been a difficult day for me—not because my father has passed but because of the past with my father and sometimes even his presence today.

I often read and hear so many beautiful and wonderful things most people say about their fathers. They say words that express their deep love and appreciation for their fathers. Words that explain how much their fathers did and do for them and how their fathers taught them many valuable life lessons.

I am happy there are great fathers in the world. Children need their fathers. I am happy others have great relationships with their fathers, but that is something I never had.

I know my father did the best he could as a father. I also know my father loved me in his own way. He just didn’t know how to show love appropriately and how I needed it.  I can’t say I feel the love he has for me, but my brain tells me he loves me.

I believe my father thought somehow he was doing the right thing when he physically and verbally abused me when I was young. I was and still am afraid of my father. My father was and is unpredictable with his behavior and mood. You never knew what you were going to get and we still don’t.

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I was never sure of anything with him. I never knew when or how he was going to yell at me. I never knew when he was going to be angry or maybe happy.  I never knew when he would say something stupid, cruel or mean. I was afraid of what would come out of his mouth when we were alone and around other people. My father embarrassed me and made me feel embarrassed and ashamed of myself.

I always thought it would have been easier if he was an alcoholic because than I would have an excuse for his behavior. His unpredictable and embarrassing behaviors could have been easily explained with alcohol use or drug use being the reason. I would have felt better to be able to say he is a wonderful person when he is not drinking but that was not our reality.

“If the wounds on her heart and the bruises on her soul were translated on her skin, you wouldn’t recognize her at all.” ~Verona Q

I know he has some sort of mental illness but refuses to get help or accept he has something wrong with him. In fact, the opposite is true. My father believes he is always right and there is never anything wrong with him but with everyone else. Everyone else in the world is wrong but him.

I truly believe he is trying now and does the best he can. I think inside, somehow, he has a good heart, but mental illness and his own past trauma interfered with his ability to be happy and be the person he could have been. When my father was about ten years old, he was forced to stay with his suicidal grandfather and was there when his grandfather (my great-grandfather) jumped out his window and died by suicide. That was just part of his trauma which had to have a negative impact on him.

Many times, I felt sorry for my father because I don’t know if he ever felt real happiness and joy. I prayed he would one day find true happiness and feel the love from the Lord and learn to live in a way like Jesus would. I prayed he would have clarity of what was right and good. No matter how hard I tried and how much I do love my father I cannot control my brain. I cannot control PTSD.

I developed PTSD at a young age from my almost daily abuse from my father and mother. My father is my greatest trigger, however. As hard as I tried to put up a brick wall to barricade my triggers, they still sneak in. I cannot stop them. Of course, I can help it with good coping strategies and positive self-talk sometimes, but I can’t make it go away, until it seems it is ready to. PTSD has a mind of its own—seemingly not my own.

Because the memories are so painful and real they cause me to dissociate. Depersonalization and derealization are forms of dissociation. Depersonalization involves a persistent or recurrent feeling of being detached from one’s body, mental processes, oneself and identity. Derealization is a feeling of being detached from one’s surroundings. They both make you feel disengaged. You feel like things are “less real” than they should be. You lose touch with yourself and/or surroundings kind of like you are living in a dream you cannot wake up from.

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My dissociation caused me to leave myself so to speak. I wasn’t fully present in myself. It is as if I am watching from behind a thick fog or out in the distance from myself. I become discombobulated and can’t make myself come to the surface of my own reality enough to accomplish my activities and goals for the day. I become stuck and undone. That is what happened to me this Father’s Day for the entire day. I could not snap out of it as “they say.” I could not positive self-talk myself out of it. My writing didn’t distract myself enough to make it go away. I wasn’t sad or angry. I was unsure what my emotions were or felt void of emotions. I was numb.

When I was young, my brain learned how to keep me safe and protect me from my environment and myself. Now I cannot undo that, and I must be patient and wait for it to stop. I have learned to forgive my father, but my brain will not let me forget, even though I want to. This is PTSD at its finest.

I realized recently that not being on any psychotropic medications has sometimes caused me to be more aware and have more clarity. I also believe it has made me become more aware of my PTSD. I do not have any medications to ease or mask my pain. I must use my own inner strength and coping skills more often now.

When I called my Dad to wish him a Happy Father’s Day, I could tell immediately he was in one of his moods. The last time I talked to him on the phone he was in good spirits and tried very hard to stay up-beat and positive. Today he obviously woke up on the wrong side of the bed. My natural instinctive thought was to hang-up right away, but I didn’t. It was Father’s Day. I would be strong and talk to him. After all, I love to make people happy, including my father.

I managed to speak to him for quite a while and told him I loved him before ending our phone conversation. About twenty minutes after I stopped talking to my father, it hit me and I became undone. I left. Triggers hit, and PTSD struck back hard. Dissociation had begun its game of protection. Dissociation never asked me if I wanted to participate in this game. It just took over my day. My brain protected me and kept me safe from dangers from my past and for that I am thankful. For some reason, my brain cannot distinguish the past from today. This is PTSD.

I could not do anything for the entire day. I was stuck, discombobulated and frozen—frozen inside myself. I sat in front of the television set all day fighting my brain. I battled constant thoughts and desires of wanting to do something and the refusal and blockage inside my brain to move or do anything other than sit in front of the television set immobilized. I was frozen within myself. I survived my long day and went to bed. Happily, when I woke up the next morning I had been put back together. Dissociation left, and I came back.

I wrote this poem titled, “I Left My Anxiety in the Dust” shortly after Father’s Day. I referred to my symptoms as anxiety. Sometimes it is difficult to distinguish which mental illness is the culprit when you have more than one diagnosis. Plus, anxiety can cause dissociative like symptoms and anxiety can be caused from triggers, PTSD and trauma.

~written by Susan Walz

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Copyright © 2018 Susan Walz | myloudbipolarwhispers.com | All Rights Reserved