I was
working on a project today for one of my classes and it occurred to me how
easily I talk about my father these days. I don’t know how to explain it, but
it’s like I’ve become completely numb to the situation, and I forget how
sensitive the topic matter is. Doesn’t matter who asks me about him, or even
what they ask…I’m a babbling fountain of TMI. But then I get in front of the
keyboard…and not a word. Not a damn peep comes to mind. Figures the one place I’m
actually encouraged to talk about him and I clam up like a criminal in front of
a cop.
Although
now that I’m sitting here thinking about it…I have found something that has
recently really bothered me. Lately I’ve talked to multiple people about my
father and the situation surrounding the relationship he and I had. These
people are friends of mine, coworkers, etc…and they looks they’ve given me, the
tones they’ve taken, and the all-around attitude has really put me off.
Now, don’t
get me wrong. It’s a lot to take in and I get that. And if I was just
blindsiding them with information I would get it. But I have responded to
specific questions truthfully…and gotten stared at like a crazy person.
This
has mostly come about regarding my PTSD. I’m taking a class on the diagnosis
and treatment of PTSD right now and so it has come up a few times. I was
talking with some people about it the other day and they asked me about it and
why I was interested. So (in a roundabout and not specific way) I told them
what it was and that I was interested because I had it. They asked why, I
responded with a somewhat evasive answer…and then they kept prying. Finally I
told them a little bit more, that my father had been extremely abusive, and
that is what caused it.
Well of
course that started a new onslaught of questions. “What does it mean?” “What
happens to you?” “Are you cured?” “What does a panic attack feel like?” So on
and so forth. I did my best to explain in a short fashion…but by the time I got
through explaining panic attacks…they were staring at me like I was a crazy
person.
Now
because of that…I’m going to explain this again. I have PTSD. Some days it
doesn’t affect me much…and other days it is completely debilitating. Today was
one of the better days, and the only issue was the random panic about 2 hours
ago for NO reason whatsoever. Last week however, there was one night that I
slept about 35 minutes total…and spent all day in and out of hyperventilating…again
for no reason.
I can’t
always explain why I feel the way that I do. And it can be downright terrifying
and crappy. But I refuse to let it affect me. I get distracted easily and
sometimes over focus on things that I shouldn’t. Sometimes I can’t breathe, or
I get no sleep at night. Worst case scenario I step out of the room for a
minute, or I’m a little crabby the next day. It doesn’t mean I’m going to go
nutty and lose my mind on some unsuspecting person. Well…unless the person is a
moron…in which case it’ll have nothing to do with the PTSD and all to do with
my low idiot level tolerance.
My
point is…yes I’m a little crazy. We all are. We all have different issues that
we deal with every day. This little disorder sucks. I don’t like it and I find
it to be incredibly time consuming sometimes…but that’s all it is. My brain
works differently that most people, and it’s got a bit of a malfunction. I’m
still me. OCD cleaning-cat loving-homework hating-fitnesslazyass-me.
On top
of it all, I’ve learned to manage it. I’ve learned my triggers and the things
to stay away from. I’ve learned how to handle an attack or the other symptoms
as they hit me. I don’t need to be tiptoed around or treated like a child
because of it.
Here’s
the deal…if you aren’t ready for the answers…don’t ask the questions. I’m an
open book. I don’t lie about who I am or try to pretend that I’m someone that I’m
not. And I won’t. I’m not going to sugar coat things because it makes someone
feel better about their life.
And on
that note…I need to stop. I’ve been up for about 22 hours…and still have a very
long day ahead of me. Way too cranky to keep this up.
