I had therapy last night..I like my therapist very much. She is an older lady, very much the grandmother type. I feel quite comfortable with her.
That being said, I had a hard time coming to the conclusion that I needed her.
I have tried, in vain, to beat all of this on my own for many years. I put it off for many years, telling myself that I was fine.
But last month, after a family health crisis threw me into a cycle of panic, I had to admit that I am just not getting anywhere alone. I just feel stuck. Stuck in an endless tunnel of grief, blame, confusion and panic that I cannot get out of.
My therapist has recommended that I get a service dog. Now, while I love dogs, I am fighting it tooth and nail.
I don't want to need the help of a dog. I struggle with the fear that I will become even more my ptsd. I will become "the woman with the dog"....
I don't feel worthy of it. I have two stepsons who have, between them, cerebral palsy, autism, fragile x and schizophrenia. They are worthy. Me..not so much.
I understand that it is important to acknowledge that I have it. But I don't want to become it. I don't want it become my identity.
I don't want to become so dependent on the dog's presence that I am useless without it.
In any case, my therapist told me that asking for help shows great courage. And I fought to understand. To me, initially, it feels weak. It feels like I just couldn't dig myself out.
But as I've gotten used to the idea of going to therapy and the dog, something has started to form in my head, some idea. The idea that it IS brave to ask for help, because to ask for help means that you are voicing that you want to move on. It's showing that you are not giving up. And that IS hard.
I want to go over parts of my story, just so I can see it in black and white. Somehow I feel it may help to put words to my feelings. So a bit about my childhood..I was born into a pastor's family. Yes, I am a pk:) Most people might think that would be wonderful. But it's very much like the cobbler's children having no shoes. My dad was always super busy with the church.
My mom struggled with depression.
I was born with Sturge Weber Syndrome. It's a rare neurological condition. I have a large port wine stain that covers half of my face, goes over my scalp, into my inner ear and into my mouth. I get small bumps on it that sometimes bleed. I have partial hearing loss in one ear and I am at a high risk of glaucoma. I get daily headaches and I was born with seizures. I have no curve in my neck and scoliosis in my lower back.
So..I was made fun of and bullied from a very young age. I remember the faith healer in my dad's church praying for god to remove my "curse." I grew up with that mindset, that I was cursed.
My dad told me that he was disappointed the first time that he saw me. And my mom tried to give me away when I was around twelve.
I guess that set the stage for how I handled the rest of what has happened to me. When I tell people what has happened, on the rare occasion that I do, they always say how brave I am. I certainly don't feel brave. I have never felt that I am anything special- we all have losses in one form or another. And we aren't given any choice in it..we are dragged along, unwilling participants on a roller coaster ride. So we do the only thing there is to do. We hold on, shut our eyes, accept it and ride along. My dad used to tell me that god would never send anyone more than they could handle..I somehow feel conflicted about this, because I have certainly seen people who had more than they could handle. Sometimes I wonder if I am one of those people.
Therapy affects me in weird ways. I have noticed that I come home actually feeling very anxious. I have too much energy and I feel very hyper. It's like ripping bandages off of old wounds. I know it needs to be done, but it hurts. It makes me feel vulnerable and exposed and at risk of being judged. My old instinct to ball up and isolate kicks in. I don't want to be here, really, telling people about my pain. But another part of me knows it is necessary. It is medicine. So tomorrow, I may write in my diary again, opening up another of the boxes that I thought I had packed away for good. Right now feels like a great time for some herbal tea...
That being said, I had a hard time coming to the conclusion that I needed her.
I have tried, in vain, to beat all of this on my own for many years. I put it off for many years, telling myself that I was fine.
But last month, after a family health crisis threw me into a cycle of panic, I had to admit that I am just not getting anywhere alone. I just feel stuck. Stuck in an endless tunnel of grief, blame, confusion and panic that I cannot get out of.
My therapist has recommended that I get a service dog. Now, while I love dogs, I am fighting it tooth and nail.
I don't want to need the help of a dog. I struggle with the fear that I will become even more my ptsd. I will become "the woman with the dog"....
I don't feel worthy of it. I have two stepsons who have, between them, cerebral palsy, autism, fragile x and schizophrenia. They are worthy. Me..not so much.
I understand that it is important to acknowledge that I have it. But I don't want to become it. I don't want it become my identity.
I don't want to become so dependent on the dog's presence that I am useless without it.
In any case, my therapist told me that asking for help shows great courage. And I fought to understand. To me, initially, it feels weak. It feels like I just couldn't dig myself out.
But as I've gotten used to the idea of going to therapy and the dog, something has started to form in my head, some idea. The idea that it IS brave to ask for help, because to ask for help means that you are voicing that you want to move on. It's showing that you are not giving up. And that IS hard.
I want to go over parts of my story, just so I can see it in black and white. Somehow I feel it may help to put words to my feelings. So a bit about my childhood..I was born into a pastor's family. Yes, I am a pk:) Most people might think that would be wonderful. But it's very much like the cobbler's children having no shoes. My dad was always super busy with the church.
My mom struggled with depression.
I was born with Sturge Weber Syndrome. It's a rare neurological condition. I have a large port wine stain that covers half of my face, goes over my scalp, into my inner ear and into my mouth. I get small bumps on it that sometimes bleed. I have partial hearing loss in one ear and I am at a high risk of glaucoma. I get daily headaches and I was born with seizures. I have no curve in my neck and scoliosis in my lower back.
So..I was made fun of and bullied from a very young age. I remember the faith healer in my dad's church praying for god to remove my "curse." I grew up with that mindset, that I was cursed.
My dad told me that he was disappointed the first time that he saw me. And my mom tried to give me away when I was around twelve.
I guess that set the stage for how I handled the rest of what has happened to me. When I tell people what has happened, on the rare occasion that I do, they always say how brave I am. I certainly don't feel brave. I have never felt that I am anything special- we all have losses in one form or another. And we aren't given any choice in it..we are dragged along, unwilling participants on a roller coaster ride. So we do the only thing there is to do. We hold on, shut our eyes, accept it and ride along. My dad used to tell me that god would never send anyone more than they could handle..I somehow feel conflicted about this, because I have certainly seen people who had more than they could handle. Sometimes I wonder if I am one of those people.
Therapy affects me in weird ways. I have noticed that I come home actually feeling very anxious. I have too much energy and I feel very hyper. It's like ripping bandages off of old wounds. I know it needs to be done, but it hurts. It makes me feel vulnerable and exposed and at risk of being judged. My old instinct to ball up and isolate kicks in. I don't want to be here, really, telling people about my pain. But another part of me knows it is necessary. It is medicine. So tomorrow, I may write in my diary again, opening up another of the boxes that I thought I had packed away for good. Right now feels like a great time for some herbal tea...