Emotion still raw from my poem, I have found my symptoms of PTSD rife today. Tired, jumpy. Unable to sleep for the dreams of invisible hands clawing at me thrusting me into an adrenaline fuelled wake. My headache has ached and my body temperature ranges from sweating to freezing. I definitely don’t feel good.
I saw my GP reluctantly today about a health issue I had been putting off. It was serious after all and I need to see a specialist. I’m miserable at this news. Aside from the obvious health concerns and inconvenience the major issue for me is – I lose an element of control over my body. I HATE this. In pregnancy is the only time I have relinquished control knowing that the well being of my baby is paramount. However, without pregnancy, I find it impossible to give my body to health professionals for investigation or treatment.
So now I face the grief of my own poem, that it represented something so deep and important to me, the uncertainty and fear of my health and of course, my mental health and medication regime. It unsettles me enormously.
When did I become so weak? So frail? So useless?