A day in the life of PTSD.
With my heart pumping hard and muscles unable to let go, I am incapable of doing anything yet. I know this will pass if I let myself feel it, but the act of lying here, in such pain, stuck in my mind with no one able to help; it's torture. I have spent all night reliving the memories I have been trying to push back into the dark recesses of my mind for years. After a trigger, night time is where they come back out. When my conscious guard is down and my subconscious reminds me just how much trauma I still have to work through. In the early hours of this morning, my mind brought forth another new one. Another memory from my past that up until now had been locked away and forgotten. A memory that had me waking up with a scream in my throat; but these screams are almost always stifled by the dry heaving they provoke.
When each day became a gift.
Total: 15.2km in 60 mins. 38 laps of a track. In the middle parts of the workout where the speeds were fastest, I hit an 18:25 5km split, a 38:19 10km split, and a 59:15 15km. 12 months ago my PB's over those distances in races weren't even that fast; let alone at 30 degrees celsius, 3000m altitude, at night, alone, on a treadmill. I lie back and shut my eyes, trying to take in the moment of again realising that after all the doubts and fears going into this session, I am again more capable that I realised. The only reason I now know that, is because I threw caution to the wind and had a crack. A tear comes to my eyes as the exhausted relief sets in, and I make the connection that right now, in my day to day being and doing, I am genuinely living the life my 8 year old self dreamed of.
A day in the life of a carer.
Some of the best advice I got was to speak of my child and the illness separately. Her illness didn’t define her, and it was the illness, not her, who was wreaking havoc with our lives. Our beautiful daughter Simone was still here. Our job was to love and care for her while we battled this illness together. It is a long journey and definitely a dirt road with many pot poles and dead ends. My hope and prayer that sustained me was that each day we battled through with Simone was another day with her still here, and another day closer to beating this damn thing!
Finding the right support.
We try to forget about all the times I was turned away. All the times I got stuck in between with seemingly nowhere to turn. We have been turned away from help because I wasn't sick enough, because I was too sick, because lived the wrong place or because I ran out of eligibility. We have knocked on doors of hope only to be told they couldn't be opened for us for one reason or another. We have spent painful time waiting at home on packed lists; with Mum being the one burdened with having to learn how to care for me and me feeling like I was ruining not only my life but hers and my families too. I prefer being in hospital or in other people's care, because not only do they know more of how to help but also it takes away so much guilt. Home is supposed to be where I am loved and supported, but not where I am put under hospital protocol and my family is subject to all the horrible things this illness makes me do. It's not their fault I am like this as much as it isn't mine.