This has been a very difficult post to write. It’s one that I’ve been wanting to write, but the inability to put it into words hasn’t allowed me to. Everytime I sit down and put my fingers to the keyboard, nothing comes but a stream of jumbled mess.
So…I just delete and try again another day only to have the same results.
Maybe I wasn’t healed enough. Sometimes I still don’t think I’m healed enough.
It was May of 2015 when I sat in an office and spent an hour answering questions about my life. I’m pretty sure I spent the entire hour ringing my hands and staring at the floor as I answered questions in hushed tones. I already knew what she would say and where this was going to lead. After all, it had only been weeks before that I was sitting with my primary physician for the third time in only a few short months and she told me this was beyond her scope…
“I believe you’re experiencing symptoms of PTSD. We need to refer you to someone who can help you manage.”
Wait what?!?! I was not ready for that. In my head I knew it was more, but I was not ready to hear it out loud.
The term had already been thrown out there so of course I researched (because what else is google good for) and had a little time to digest before stepping into that first session in May.
Nothing could have prepared me for what was to follow. The months of weekly sessions. How deep she would make me dive…but that’s a story for another time.
By the end of the session it was confirmed…
“Well, those type of symptoms will come along with the PTSD..”
She said it so nonchalantly. Somewhere along the way in all of those notes she was taking, she had diagnosed me.
I remember asking her again because I felt like I needed to be sure I’d heard her correctly.
“Yes, this is PTSD. You’re not alone. It’s understandable.”
I started to tear up but fought it back. I refused to break down.
She spent the next several minutes telling me this would be a long journey, how we needed to work on coping skills, how I would need weekly sessions for the foreseeable future and lastly the medication.
She already had such a handle on who I was after the first session that she didn’t trust the label on the bottle to tell me what to do so she gave me a handwritten note asking me to take it and how to take it. She said that the handwritten note would appeal to my need to please and not disappoint. I felt like I should be able to handle this on my own (obviously failing miserably at it) but in reality I didn’t fully grasp what I was up against. Not until much later on anyway.
When I closed the door to my car and began to drive away, the tears poured out. Uncontrollably. Soon the tears became sobs which quickly lead to pulling over on the side of the road to have a panic attack. I felt so many emotions that I couldn’t even begin to describe each of them. The basics were covered, there was angry, sad, hopeless, guilty, but there were others and I didn’t take the time to identify them because it felt like they were smothering me, like I would never breathe again.
It literally felt like I would never breathe again…