mixtapeheartache
Bronze Member
There is quite a bit of literature available on anxiety disorders (and specifically PTSD), both personal accounts and academic literature.
As with most, I often come across opposing points of view. It can be a challenge deciphering or applying information that may or may not merit attention to your specific situation.
Reach out or detach. Anxiety causes isolation or codependency. One of my favourite paradoxes is "Embracing detachment."
I haven't heard from my PTSD suffering friend (we briefly dated) in over two months. I have reached out occasionally, sometimes with benign generalities, others with parables of life (I have included one I have not sent below). I have heard nothing in return.
The compassionate part of me leans towards the literature that suggests periodic reaching out, refrain from abandonment and be patient. The codependent part of me says let it go. The academic part of me says this behaviour is not uncommon. The emotional part of me says she doesn't enjoy my company anymore.
I actually have genuine concern at this point that something may have happened to her, but the logical part of my brain also knows she has a family, albeit not locally, that she is close with. With a lack of any communication, you are never certain if you are encumbering or supporting.
How do you all navigate between seemingly opposing options?
--
A little didactic parable.
I was out at Westport surfing once, expounding an immense amount of energy trying with futility to pop onto my board. This was prior to my laser eye surgery; so even seeing a wave coming was a magnanimous issue.
When I was at the crest of the ocean, where the water curls into the shore, a large wave would come crashing into me and knock me down. And there I lay, on the ocean floor with sand in my mouth and ears, the salt water burning my eyes, my breath all but lost, and panic and fear would quickly settle in.
But then the wave would go back out to sea, and I would get back up on my board, spit the sand out of my mouth, brush the sand out of my ears, rub my eyes, take a deep breath, and then look out at the sun on the horizon again.
And then another wave would come and knock me back down to the ocean floor again. But this time, with the sand in my mouth and ears, the burning salt water in my eyes, clinging to my last breath, the feelings of panic and fear were less palpable because I knew that the wave was going to go back out to sea again.
With each wave that came tumbling into the shore knocking me down, the panic and fear began to magically fade away, and I realized the waves were looking a lot smaller, too.
And then I saw how beautiful the sunset really is.
As with most, I often come across opposing points of view. It can be a challenge deciphering or applying information that may or may not merit attention to your specific situation.
Reach out or detach. Anxiety causes isolation or codependency. One of my favourite paradoxes is "Embracing detachment."
I haven't heard from my PTSD suffering friend (we briefly dated) in over two months. I have reached out occasionally, sometimes with benign generalities, others with parables of life (I have included one I have not sent below). I have heard nothing in return.
The compassionate part of me leans towards the literature that suggests periodic reaching out, refrain from abandonment and be patient. The codependent part of me says let it go. The academic part of me says this behaviour is not uncommon. The emotional part of me says she doesn't enjoy my company anymore.
I actually have genuine concern at this point that something may have happened to her, but the logical part of my brain also knows she has a family, albeit not locally, that she is close with. With a lack of any communication, you are never certain if you are encumbering or supporting.
How do you all navigate between seemingly opposing options?
--
A little didactic parable.
I was out at Westport surfing once, expounding an immense amount of energy trying with futility to pop onto my board. This was prior to my laser eye surgery; so even seeing a wave coming was a magnanimous issue.
When I was at the crest of the ocean, where the water curls into the shore, a large wave would come crashing into me and knock me down. And there I lay, on the ocean floor with sand in my mouth and ears, the salt water burning my eyes, my breath all but lost, and panic and fear would quickly settle in.
But then the wave would go back out to sea, and I would get back up on my board, spit the sand out of my mouth, brush the sand out of my ears, rub my eyes, take a deep breath, and then look out at the sun on the horizon again.
And then another wave would come and knock me back down to the ocean floor again. But this time, with the sand in my mouth and ears, the burning salt water in my eyes, clinging to my last breath, the feelings of panic and fear were less palpable because I knew that the wave was going to go back out to sea again.
With each wave that came tumbling into the shore knocking me down, the panic and fear began to magically fade away, and I realized the waves were looking a lot smaller, too.
And then I saw how beautiful the sunset really is.