Rochelle D
New Here
I got diagnosed with severe, complex, post traumatic stress disorder last year. I was having flashbacks so severe I felt I was losing my sanity. They took over and they wouldn't stop. The car's under carriage missing my windshield by a few feet, Charlie's eyes after he died--they don't close like in the movies, they just stare, Mom's face disappearing as she was zipped into the body bag, Lee screaming in agony as the cancer ate away his flesh and finally killed him.
But wait! There's more! The wanna-be rapist slamming his fist into my face then flinging me across the room, the man who wrapped a cord around my neck and told me about all the other women he'd killed, the doctors who abused me with painful and unnecessary tests, the doctor in the lab coat who patted my hand when I told him I was ready to kill myself and had a plan--then walked out the room shaking his head.
I'm better. I can type these things out now. I can try to press the post button and offer this information up to you people who are really strangers but who have given out so much compassionate advice to others. It's hard to trust anyone at all and here I am seriously thinking I can press the button and show you all these gashes in my pysche.
I showed them to my boyfriend but, I think now, that I'm wrong about him. I think that his own mental issues are too tender, too painful, to be able to handle both his and mine at the same time. Or is that me making excuses for him? We are both seeing shrinks. We both have diagnoses--his for depression and mine for PTSD. Severe. Complex. One each.
But when does depression cross over into self-absorbed asshole? Have there been multiple cross overs? I think tonight was one.
We were at dinner with a good friend when I started telling the story about me smacking a cop's ass with a flogger on Halloween one year. The point of the story was that an attractive woman, with enormous breasts and a sweet, flirty demeanor, can get away with a lot of stuff. Like I did that night.
The friend and I were laughing, the boyfriend was scowling. He finally blurted out that had he been the friend that was with me that night, he would have left the instant I did it. He then proceeded to describe in graphic detail what the cops probably would have done if I hadn't been lucky. I would have been thrown on the ground, a knee shoved in my back, my hands cuffed behind me and then I would have been dragged on my face to the cop car and thrown in. Isn't that a loving thing to say to someone you love who has a severe anxiety disorder?
You know, before anyone jumps in with horror stories about cops, let me say this--I KNOW THAT. Ok? I GET IT. I have taken care of myself since I was seventeen years old. Whyinhell do you think I have PTSD in the first place? I know what life is like out there and I know what cops can be like. I am not debating with him or anyone else that what I did was potentially dangerous to me. It was. Stipulated. I don't want to hear about or discuss this any further.
But you know what? I was feeling cocky and sexy. I was dressed in a fantastic costume that was sexy but not slutty. The little tap on the tushy was done in a very public place where a Rodney King beatdown was unlikely to occur AND I had an apology/oh dear it was an accident so sorry! waiting in case of a bad response. So I took a playful risk and it ended up in the cop asking me for a date.
So my love(?), knowing the wild anxiety that can cripple me in an instant, knowing that I have first hand knowledge of what physical attacks feels like, knowing that I am terrified of institutionalized abuse, knowing that I am making progress on the PTSD but am nowhere near done--knowing all this--he levels me with his tirade.
I went pale. I felt my stomach twist into a knot. Remembering my training--thou shalt not cause a scene/argue in public--I did the Southern Belle thing and excused myself to the bathroom. Where I fought off tears. Where I felt my body disappear along with the tears.
I felt betrayed and attacked by someone I was supposed to be safe with. His scowling, aggressive face loomed in the mirror. His words punctured the numbness like knives. Knee in your back. Dragged on your face. Dragged on your face with your hands cuffed behind you. I would leave. Dragged on your face, I would leave in an instant.
I went back to the table. We left the restaurant. We dropped our friend off. There was a cord around my neck, gently tightening. There was a fist about to connect with my cheek as we drove through the city night. I shook my head like a wet dog and interrupted the faint flashbacks with my mind. I made them go away.
We went home. I went to the bathroom. I tried to cry, locked behind the door with my dog. I'm supposed to try to cry. My shrink says so. I can't. Most of the time, I can't cry. The boyfriend cries more than I do. I just can't do it. I took valium. I'm supposed to interrupt the episodes. With drugs if I can't do it on my own. I've had enough to knock me on my ass four times over. I'm wired for sound and typing instead.
I showered. I tried to formulate thoughts. All I could hear were his words. Leave you in an instant. Dragged on your face. I went into the living room and he was there, reading a book and waiting.
I know you are angry with me right now.
No, I'm not. I'm really not.
Oh?
I'm hurt. I'm so hurt I can't feel angry. I can't feel my body. I can only feel my heart hammering so hard it hurts. I took valium but it's beating so hard anyway.
Well, I guess I should tell you why I'm upset.
Ok.
We were supposed to spend the night together. We were going to rent movies and enjoy the one time we have the house to ourselves. You were going to make some phone calls and that was going to be it. I know we didn't set a time for being together, but now, it's late, we've eaten, I'm tired and we aren't having sex.
I need to interrupt you right now.
Go ahead.
You don't have a clue why I'm upset, do you?
Not really.
None? You've got no idea?
No.
You know I have PTSD. You know how graphic movies or language can really set it off and yet you one: Told me you'd leave me to my fate and two: described in graphic detail how cops would have abused me had I not been so lucky that night. Do you have any idea how nasty and cruel that was to me?
You are the one who's told me about cops and how horrible they can be! What you did was stupid and yes, I would have taken off the instant if a friend of mine pulled a stunt like that!
I'm not going to argue with you about whether what I did was stupid or not. I'm upset about how you said you'd abandon me and then you described in horrible detail what they would have done to me. Can't you see I'm PTSD right now because of it? I'm asking you for compassion! I was hoping against hope that you'd see how hurt I am and that I'd get an apology or a hug from you. I was fighting off flashbacks the whole way home. Can't you see I'm in pain?
Yes, if I had been with a friend who pulled some jackass stunt like that, I would have been off like a shot! I said it, and I meant it.
No, you said if you had been the person WITH ME, you would have been out of there in an instant.
Darn right I would have.
You would have left me to be beaten and abused by two cops then?
That's not what I said.
That's exactly what you said.
I said if I had been Nick, I would have been out of there in an instant.
Yes, and Nick was with me--not somebody else. If you had been Nick, with me, you would have been out of there in an instant. That's what you said in the restaurant.
I can see that he was either back pedaling or he actually meant he would have abandoned a friend, not me, in such an instance. I get it. But I wanted him to see what he may have meant was definitely NOT what he actually said.
That's not what I said.
Ok, fine. But you did take the time to describe, in graphic detail, the abuse you thought I'd suffer at their hands. Can't you see how that hurt me?
At that, he rolled his eyes at me.
Yep, that's when the anger that is my shield and my grip on life, came frothing out. All the hurt was gone in an instant, replaced by rage. I shoved a bird finger in his face and told him "f*ck you, you f*cking asshole. Don't you roll your eyes at me, you asshole."
That was followed by "I hate you."
Lather, rinse, repeat. I bolted out of the room, danced back in, repeated my brilliant salvo, and then stood, bawling, at my bedroom door calling my dogs. They didn't come, my voice was cracking so hard. I wanted to curl into a ball on the floor and just cry. They finally came. I lay on my bed sobbing, but almost no tears came. Marley puked on the rug by my bed.
Another symptom of PTSD--shutting your emotions down. They are gone now as I type this. They disappeared as I calmly sat on the bed, trying to figure out whether I should break up with him or not. I think the valium helped me think clearly. Yes, was the unequivocal answer.
This is our pattern: HappyhappyhappyhappyhappyEXPLOSIONanguishanguishanguishtalktalktalkHAPPYhappyhappyhappyEXPLOSIONANGUISHanguish ad nauseum.
I'm done with the anguish. I see him working hard on his problems. I see him making progress. I see him trying, but do I want someone I can't trust anymore? Someone who will belittle my emotions at the same time he is working through his own?
I despise who I am when we get to this point. I know better than to curse, name call and flip the bird. The last time I did that to a boyfriend, I broke up with him in the same sentence. He stole money from the family account and was a lazy mooch. I finally broke, but it took twelve years to get to that point.
With this boyfriend, this is the second or third time I've snapped at him like that in the past three years. By now, he ought to know when I'm in full blown PTSD mode. He ought to recognize the symptoms after a year of therapy with me and ESPECIALLY when I tell him point blank that I'm PTSDing!
Jesus f*cking christ on a pogo stick, I told him what was happening. I told him what I needed. I asked for compassion and what did he give me? The guy who supposedly loves me. An eye roll and a mini-tirade about how cranky he feels because we aren't having sex.
MOTHER f*ckER@!
Ah, ha. An emotion. Anger. The usual.
Hurt? No way. Not me. Not again. I'm emotionless. Or f*cked off.
If there wasn't a little girl involved, he wouldn't be rolling his eyes at me while I kicked his ass to the curb in the middle of the night. Rage fixes everything, for better or worse.
How can I do that to her again? Her mother dumped his ass and moved out, all in the space of an afternoon. I'm starting to understand why. I've been cleaning up the mess she left behind. A little girl with separation anxiety who needs order and routine. She's blossomed in our home. She's a lovely child. She's what is stopping me from marching in there and telling him to take his attitude and get the f*ck out. I've had it. I'm done.
I'm loyal to people. Loyal to a fault. Is it too much to ask for some of it in return from the man who is supposedly in love with me?
I. don't. know. what. to. do.
Am I shut down except for anger and will I feel remorse in the morning for feeling this, much less writing this all down? Or will I realize, sadly, that we will never make it together and we need to go our separate ways? He is a good man. I know this to be true. He is kind and funny and loving. Why do I hate him so much right now? Is it me or is it him?
Tell me, people with PTSD, do you understand how much I hurt? Does anybody out there get it or am I completely alone in this? Do I just need to be tougher?
But wait! There's more! The wanna-be rapist slamming his fist into my face then flinging me across the room, the man who wrapped a cord around my neck and told me about all the other women he'd killed, the doctors who abused me with painful and unnecessary tests, the doctor in the lab coat who patted my hand when I told him I was ready to kill myself and had a plan--then walked out the room shaking his head.
I'm better. I can type these things out now. I can try to press the post button and offer this information up to you people who are really strangers but who have given out so much compassionate advice to others. It's hard to trust anyone at all and here I am seriously thinking I can press the button and show you all these gashes in my pysche.
I showed them to my boyfriend but, I think now, that I'm wrong about him. I think that his own mental issues are too tender, too painful, to be able to handle both his and mine at the same time. Or is that me making excuses for him? We are both seeing shrinks. We both have diagnoses--his for depression and mine for PTSD. Severe. Complex. One each.
But when does depression cross over into self-absorbed asshole? Have there been multiple cross overs? I think tonight was one.
We were at dinner with a good friend when I started telling the story about me smacking a cop's ass with a flogger on Halloween one year. The point of the story was that an attractive woman, with enormous breasts and a sweet, flirty demeanor, can get away with a lot of stuff. Like I did that night.
The friend and I were laughing, the boyfriend was scowling. He finally blurted out that had he been the friend that was with me that night, he would have left the instant I did it. He then proceeded to describe in graphic detail what the cops probably would have done if I hadn't been lucky. I would have been thrown on the ground, a knee shoved in my back, my hands cuffed behind me and then I would have been dragged on my face to the cop car and thrown in. Isn't that a loving thing to say to someone you love who has a severe anxiety disorder?
You know, before anyone jumps in with horror stories about cops, let me say this--I KNOW THAT. Ok? I GET IT. I have taken care of myself since I was seventeen years old. Whyinhell do you think I have PTSD in the first place? I know what life is like out there and I know what cops can be like. I am not debating with him or anyone else that what I did was potentially dangerous to me. It was. Stipulated. I don't want to hear about or discuss this any further.
But you know what? I was feeling cocky and sexy. I was dressed in a fantastic costume that was sexy but not slutty. The little tap on the tushy was done in a very public place where a Rodney King beatdown was unlikely to occur AND I had an apology/oh dear it was an accident so sorry! waiting in case of a bad response. So I took a playful risk and it ended up in the cop asking me for a date.
So my love(?), knowing the wild anxiety that can cripple me in an instant, knowing that I have first hand knowledge of what physical attacks feels like, knowing that I am terrified of institutionalized abuse, knowing that I am making progress on the PTSD but am nowhere near done--knowing all this--he levels me with his tirade.
I went pale. I felt my stomach twist into a knot. Remembering my training--thou shalt not cause a scene/argue in public--I did the Southern Belle thing and excused myself to the bathroom. Where I fought off tears. Where I felt my body disappear along with the tears.
I felt betrayed and attacked by someone I was supposed to be safe with. His scowling, aggressive face loomed in the mirror. His words punctured the numbness like knives. Knee in your back. Dragged on your face. Dragged on your face with your hands cuffed behind you. I would leave. Dragged on your face, I would leave in an instant.
I went back to the table. We left the restaurant. We dropped our friend off. There was a cord around my neck, gently tightening. There was a fist about to connect with my cheek as we drove through the city night. I shook my head like a wet dog and interrupted the faint flashbacks with my mind. I made them go away.
We went home. I went to the bathroom. I tried to cry, locked behind the door with my dog. I'm supposed to try to cry. My shrink says so. I can't. Most of the time, I can't cry. The boyfriend cries more than I do. I just can't do it. I took valium. I'm supposed to interrupt the episodes. With drugs if I can't do it on my own. I've had enough to knock me on my ass four times over. I'm wired for sound and typing instead.
I showered. I tried to formulate thoughts. All I could hear were his words. Leave you in an instant. Dragged on your face. I went into the living room and he was there, reading a book and waiting.
I know you are angry with me right now.
No, I'm not. I'm really not.
Oh?
I'm hurt. I'm so hurt I can't feel angry. I can't feel my body. I can only feel my heart hammering so hard it hurts. I took valium but it's beating so hard anyway.
Well, I guess I should tell you why I'm upset.
Ok.
We were supposed to spend the night together. We were going to rent movies and enjoy the one time we have the house to ourselves. You were going to make some phone calls and that was going to be it. I know we didn't set a time for being together, but now, it's late, we've eaten, I'm tired and we aren't having sex.
I need to interrupt you right now.
Go ahead.
You don't have a clue why I'm upset, do you?
Not really.
None? You've got no idea?
No.
You know I have PTSD. You know how graphic movies or language can really set it off and yet you one: Told me you'd leave me to my fate and two: described in graphic detail how cops would have abused me had I not been so lucky that night. Do you have any idea how nasty and cruel that was to me?
You are the one who's told me about cops and how horrible they can be! What you did was stupid and yes, I would have taken off the instant if a friend of mine pulled a stunt like that!
I'm not going to argue with you about whether what I did was stupid or not. I'm upset about how you said you'd abandon me and then you described in horrible detail what they would have done to me. Can't you see I'm PTSD right now because of it? I'm asking you for compassion! I was hoping against hope that you'd see how hurt I am and that I'd get an apology or a hug from you. I was fighting off flashbacks the whole way home. Can't you see I'm in pain?
Yes, if I had been with a friend who pulled some jackass stunt like that, I would have been off like a shot! I said it, and I meant it.
No, you said if you had been the person WITH ME, you would have been out of there in an instant.
Darn right I would have.
You would have left me to be beaten and abused by two cops then?
That's not what I said.
That's exactly what you said.
I said if I had been Nick, I would have been out of there in an instant.
Yes, and Nick was with me--not somebody else. If you had been Nick, with me, you would have been out of there in an instant. That's what you said in the restaurant.
I can see that he was either back pedaling or he actually meant he would have abandoned a friend, not me, in such an instance. I get it. But I wanted him to see what he may have meant was definitely NOT what he actually said.
That's not what I said.
Ok, fine. But you did take the time to describe, in graphic detail, the abuse you thought I'd suffer at their hands. Can't you see how that hurt me?
At that, he rolled his eyes at me.
Yep, that's when the anger that is my shield and my grip on life, came frothing out. All the hurt was gone in an instant, replaced by rage. I shoved a bird finger in his face and told him "f*ck you, you f*cking asshole. Don't you roll your eyes at me, you asshole."
That was followed by "I hate you."
Lather, rinse, repeat. I bolted out of the room, danced back in, repeated my brilliant salvo, and then stood, bawling, at my bedroom door calling my dogs. They didn't come, my voice was cracking so hard. I wanted to curl into a ball on the floor and just cry. They finally came. I lay on my bed sobbing, but almost no tears came. Marley puked on the rug by my bed.
Another symptom of PTSD--shutting your emotions down. They are gone now as I type this. They disappeared as I calmly sat on the bed, trying to figure out whether I should break up with him or not. I think the valium helped me think clearly. Yes, was the unequivocal answer.
This is our pattern: HappyhappyhappyhappyhappyEXPLOSIONanguishanguishanguishtalktalktalkHAPPYhappyhappyhappyEXPLOSIONANGUISHanguish ad nauseum.
I'm done with the anguish. I see him working hard on his problems. I see him making progress. I see him trying, but do I want someone I can't trust anymore? Someone who will belittle my emotions at the same time he is working through his own?
I despise who I am when we get to this point. I know better than to curse, name call and flip the bird. The last time I did that to a boyfriend, I broke up with him in the same sentence. He stole money from the family account and was a lazy mooch. I finally broke, but it took twelve years to get to that point.
With this boyfriend, this is the second or third time I've snapped at him like that in the past three years. By now, he ought to know when I'm in full blown PTSD mode. He ought to recognize the symptoms after a year of therapy with me and ESPECIALLY when I tell him point blank that I'm PTSDing!
Jesus f*cking christ on a pogo stick, I told him what was happening. I told him what I needed. I asked for compassion and what did he give me? The guy who supposedly loves me. An eye roll and a mini-tirade about how cranky he feels because we aren't having sex.
MOTHER f*ckER@!
Ah, ha. An emotion. Anger. The usual.
Hurt? No way. Not me. Not again. I'm emotionless. Or f*cked off.
If there wasn't a little girl involved, he wouldn't be rolling his eyes at me while I kicked his ass to the curb in the middle of the night. Rage fixes everything, for better or worse.
How can I do that to her again? Her mother dumped his ass and moved out, all in the space of an afternoon. I'm starting to understand why. I've been cleaning up the mess she left behind. A little girl with separation anxiety who needs order and routine. She's blossomed in our home. She's a lovely child. She's what is stopping me from marching in there and telling him to take his attitude and get the f*ck out. I've had it. I'm done.
I'm loyal to people. Loyal to a fault. Is it too much to ask for some of it in return from the man who is supposedly in love with me?
I. don't. know. what. to. do.
Am I shut down except for anger and will I feel remorse in the morning for feeling this, much less writing this all down? Or will I realize, sadly, that we will never make it together and we need to go our separate ways? He is a good man. I know this to be true. He is kind and funny and loving. Why do I hate him so much right now? Is it me or is it him?
Tell me, people with PTSD, do you understand how much I hurt? Does anybody out there get it or am I completely alone in this? Do I just need to be tougher?
