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If There's Something ELSE wrong with me I'm going to punch a desk
What started out as an attempt to straighten up a bit—hey, let's reclaim our little corner office—rapidly devolved into a panic attack as I knocked over an open bottle of Dr. Bronner's soap.
"NO problem," I think, "I'll get a rag and wipe it up."
The next thing I know I've scrubbed the entire floor of the apartment on my hands and knees, and as I get to the corner office zone I hear my damn grandmother's voice in my head, calling fat and filthy.
I'm finding outdated paperwork and wondering why I still have it. I'm losing things in my hands while I hold them. The only thing I can think of to get her toxic echo out of my brain is to move to a different part of the apartment.
I pass the chest of drawers in what passes for a closet here…and then I hear my father's voice in my head. It was one of the more unforgettable taunts.
"Look at this shit. You live like a fucking hamster building a nest."
As repeated thought loops of "Unclean, fix it" went through my head I ripped the shelf apart and flipped a suitcase open. Several things fell from this case: a rope, my "I'm travelling overnight and don't want to make laundry for my hosts" towels (ironically, the towels I usually reserve for post panic care because I keep them fragranced and they're like extra floofy) and my sgian knife.
For a quick moment, clarity returned. The day I got that knife, with its fine black leather handle and beautifully simple blade, I formally considered myself ready to call myself pagan. It was the same deep clarity I felt that day—whoa, thirteen years ago now.
And I realized as I held the simple knife that this panic was fucking irrational. I took a couple breaths. I remembered that Pops can't, er, pop in because my misadventure with the elevator has allowed me to ninja the spare key back.
I wrestled an out of season blanket into the suitcase, clearing space. I wrestled out of season clothes into a blanket holder that was too small the blanket in question. Stopped to pop a couple kava caps because I was still a bit on edge.
I can finish this. No one is here to hurt me.
I'm going back to work on it now.
"NO problem," I think, "I'll get a rag and wipe it up."
The next thing I know I've scrubbed the entire floor of the apartment on my hands and knees, and as I get to the corner office zone I hear my damn grandmother's voice in my head, calling fat and filthy.
I'm finding outdated paperwork and wondering why I still have it. I'm losing things in my hands while I hold them. The only thing I can think of to get her toxic echo out of my brain is to move to a different part of the apartment.
I pass the chest of drawers in what passes for a closet here…and then I hear my father's voice in my head. It was one of the more unforgettable taunts.
"Look at this shit. You live like a fucking hamster building a nest."
As repeated thought loops of "Unclean, fix it" went through my head I ripped the shelf apart and flipped a suitcase open. Several things fell from this case: a rope, my "I'm travelling overnight and don't want to make laundry for my hosts" towels (ironically, the towels I usually reserve for post panic care because I keep them fragranced and they're like extra floofy) and my sgian knife.
For a quick moment, clarity returned. The day I got that knife, with its fine black leather handle and beautifully simple blade, I formally considered myself ready to call myself pagan. It was the same deep clarity I felt that day—whoa, thirteen years ago now.
And I realized as I held the simple knife that this panic was fucking irrational. I took a couple breaths. I remembered that Pops can't, er, pop in because my misadventure with the elevator has allowed me to ninja the spare key back.
I wrestled an out of season blanket into the suitcase, clearing space. I wrestled out of season clothes into a blanket holder that was too small the blanket in question. Stopped to pop a couple kava caps because I was still a bit on edge.
I can finish this. No one is here to hurt me.
I'm going back to work on it now.
no subject
Of course mine are connected to the PTSD, so the next step involved meds adjustments. A lot of them. More after the night terrors started in March.
I drown them out with music. If I'm listening to music I can't hear them. In a full on panic attack this doesn't come to mind usually though.
Pops has been such an ass as of late. I don't want to see him.
I'm just not about to deal with his crap.
Place is clean though.