The cold steel hand comprised of memories and the crippling anxiety is placing its grip tighter around my throat and chest.
Getting up in the morning feels more difficult. Trying to get the children organised, remember things, tidy the house, the demands and expectations. When my brain is evaluating my case. Knowing that HE will be treating the upcoming day as any other. That I am alone in the world in a sea of painful torturous memories that no one can do one God damn thing about.
Did I fight/struggle enough?
I should have done more afterwards – gone to the police immediately.
How demoralising searching for a condom to see if one had been used. Urg.
So alone for so long
Those eyes, so cold and dead
These things run tirelessly through my mind. While I load the dishwasher, while I fold my son’s clothes, while I tidy rooms. A restless, uncomfortable energy consumes me. Yet I’m exhausted. The slightest noise, shadow, bark of my dog sends my heart racing and the urge to either grab a knife or hide – but definitely cry!
It seems if I look at facebook, read a magazine, watch television, read the news I am faced with a story that triggers me.
My husband has stepped in and said he’ll drop the kids off for the next couple of weeks to help. Of course the proviso is that I do actually leave the house. Today I went to the hairdresser. I know my stylist well, it’s local, there is always parking outside. Although instinctively I wanted to cancel I made myself go. She was running very behind. She asked me to see another stylist. I politely declined. I felt like a diva. It’s not that, it’s just I didn’t want that band of trust broken, not now. I don’t want new and awkward conversation. I need to be comfortable. Such a minor thing but there was the steel grip, squeezing at my heart. Wanting me to cry – which would have been embarrassing. Shameful. Pathetic.
I look in the mirror and I’m morphing into something more peculiar and ugly. My body aches and feels old. Damaged.
I can smile, I can even hold down a conversation for just long enough. But I’m in avoidance mode. My phone will be going unanswered now. Shortly I’ll disconnect from social media. I will cease to exist to the outside world. It’s the only way I can cope.
But if a car is following me for too long, I will worry. I will often feel I’m being watched and I will always be on high alert on the times I do go out.
I’m sad. Angry. Bitter. Devastated. Fed up that I continue to live this way after so many years.
My diazapam consumption will increase. No doubt my migraine medication will to.
Some days I think how nice it would be to wake up and not remember a thing from my past. How much easier life would be.
I can try to fight this. I always do. But that steel hand, it comes from nowhere. It takes my breath away quite literally.
PTSD is a curse.