In May of 2019 I was diagnosed with PTSD. I went to therapy
because my benefits covered it and I had some upcoming changes in my life I
wanted to be prepared for, and recurring nightmares and sleep issues I
considered talking about.
I knew, of course, that I had
been affected by trauma. I have experience supporting people with PTSD through
my work. However, I did not consider that I was suffering from PTSD. Everything
I did had a reason, every response was a reasonable and validated fear, and
everything that I could identify as abnormal were directly tied to behaviours I
had long since been romanticizing. My father has obsessions like this, and
despite the fact that I knew he was diagnosed with OCD, he did not have a
mental illness. My father didn't have OCD, he had an unusual productive talent.
I did not have PTSD, I just know what disaster looks like.
This went on for a few weeks
after I was diagnosed. It was absolutely denial, but it was something else too.
This diagnosis appeared at first to call in to question everything I've done
over the past 3 years and my perfectly reasonable desire to stay on top of
things and keep myself and my spouse safe. Everything I did while Kyle was
sick, I did because of love and devotion. Everything I still do and respond to
now is still love and devotion- how dare this therapist tell me this is
illness! This is love! This is duty! The trauma we experienced during that time
and the residual anxieties we both may have for the rest of our lives is very
much a part of us and our relationship, and at the time I'd deny anything which
appeared to demonize it.
After the Christmas of 2017,
Kyle and I made an agreement that we couldn't have a habit of mourning or
responding with anger for what was happening. We were still 7 months away from
a diagnosis and were deep in the throws of despair. At a certain point we knew
that the only way to survive this and get through it would be to steadily
remove the pity and catastrophe. We would not make it through this if we kept
asking ourselves "why me?". It is not that I can't see this part of
my life as difficult and traumatic years, but at the time of diagnosis I didn't
want to face what we had so diligently re-framed. In an odd way, I felt almost
attacked discussing this as the dark and menacing threat of trauma. I had
privileged it in a way. For a few weeks I truly believed this therapist was
trying to tell me that there was no love and perseverance involved- only
victims surviving a threat. I didn't like this idea that pegged us as
powerless.
Of course, I see now that this
wasn't the message of this diagnosis.
I have always had manic
tenancies. I was built from the ground up to romanticize survivalist behaviour.
Whatever I was doing, it could be justified. I could never be prepared enough,
there was always something else I needed to consider, and there was always a
necessity for the mania. Then, from the fall of 2016 to the spring of 2018, I
was validated again and again for this behaviour. We weren't prepared. Kyle was
too ill and depressed to do most things, so I let my mania take over. There was
never any shortage of appointments to make and arrange for, research to do,
phone calls to make, errands to run for both of us, meals to prepare, cleaning
to do, reminders, extra shifts, and the small kindnesses and cares to do to
give Kyle a quality of life and remain ever in pursuit of AISH and a cure. I
knew I was taking on too much, but I didn't have a choice. It wasn't that I
didn't trust anyone else, but the only guarantee and security I had were the
things I could control. This being said, our friends were an incredible support
at this time, whether they knew it or not. Sometimes I did reach out for help
driving Kyle to appointments and such, but the greatest support our friends
gave us was normalcy and laughter. They may never know how restorative their
company was for us at that time.
Not only did I obsess over covering every base, but I also focused
on optimizing myself and my self-care because I could not afford to burn out at
this time. Everything depended on my ability to deliver and do my duty. I could
never forgive myself if Kyle had to worry about me on top of his critical
health and hopelessness. Hopelessness lingered in every aspect of his life at
the time. He needed to be able to depend on me and I needed to be able to
depend on me. Not only did I have jobs and duties to fulfill, but it was
essential that I remained a loving, affectionate, and thoughtful partner. I
could not burn out not just for the sake of bills and to-do lists, but because
I truly believed myself to be one of few beacons of hope for Kyle at the time.
This view isn’t healthy and is certainly egocentric, but it was the reality and
it was how I kept myself motivated.
For so long in the aftermath of all of this, after Kyle had received
a cure and steadily worked on getting back on his feet, these residual habits
took on a romantic and inspirational picture to me. I was doing what my father
had done when he raised my sister and I on his own. He did his duty out of
love, he never burned out, and he was always on the ball to provide us with a
good life. He went the distance, he did what he had to do, and he did it with
pride.
People depend on you and life wasn’t going to ease up.
You’re doing this for love and you’ll do it with love.
You are not entitled to rest for there are always more duties to
complete.
Game of Thrones has it all wrong- love is not the death of duty,
duty is compelled by love.
I felt I was betraying or somehow de-legitimizing such a large and
persistent motif in my life by apologizing for, demonizing, or “treating” these behaviors and perspectives and for identifying the mental illness that drives
them. I viewed my father is heroic and if I’m still caught in the habits of old, it is
because preparedness and paranoia has served me well. There
were times when his fixations were more intense than others. I remember periods
of time when the straightening, cleaning, preening, and double-checking were
more disruptive than usual. However, they were always joked about. It was
always the butt of a joke invented by him. I wonder if my father invented this
joke and never corrected anyone trivializing his OCD because he knew it was
hereditary. Perhaps he didn’t want his constantly nervous eldest daughter to
identify herself as having anything but awareness of potential disaster and
obsessive determination.
This obsessive rhetoric runs in our blood. I don’t straighten
knick-knacks, but from the moment I wake up I am creating and ticking off to-do
lists. I may be so distracted by this that I miss my turn while driving. My
father may be so concerned with things “feeling right” that he is late to
leave.
All of this begins to add up after I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD.
I do not suffer from “episodes” in the traditional sense. I hear threats that
aren’t there. When Kyle was sick, I grew a kind of sixth sense to knowing when
something is wrong. Now, whether we are in bed, watching a movie, or driving, I
get these phantom senses that something is wrong. When I ask him and he tells
me everything is ok, I believe him for a moment, but then it comes again. I
stop asking if he is ok because I know what’s going on here and this is when I
start to get frustrated with myself.
It is worse when we are in bed and he is asleep but I think I can
tell his heart is beating too fast, and then mine is, and then I think I can
hear the dog crying, and then I think he is having a nightmare, and then I
worry he might have a migraine in the morning, I then check on the dog and the
dog isn’t crying, I’m frustrated and angry at myself for believing things that
aren’t happening and for all of this senseless paranoia, and so on. When Kyle
has to take a few days off work or needs to find a new job, I am instantly thrust
in to survival mode. I make budgets and worry incessantly that it will be just
like before and we will have to start selling things again. No numbers in my
bank account can convince me we are safe. I worry about us losing our jobs over
every little thing. I get paranoid that Kyle is going to get in a car crash
even if he has long since been able to drive in cities again. I get a funny
feeling in the middle of the day and I’m momentarily convinced this has
happened. Watching Kyle suffer from any kind of ailment or illness immediately
stresses me out in a way that feels gripping, urgent, and acidic like it never
had when we were first dating. Luckily, I am usually able to calm myself down
fairly quickly with meditation and grounding techniques, but these incidents
are disruptive nonetheless. Lately the nightmares have been less persistent,
but they are always an issue in the winter. About one night a week I believe hear
the dog crying, someone in distress outside, or sense that Kyle is having chest
pains or something of that nature. That sudden belief that “someone needs me right
now” has an incredibly strong pull. I am then caught in this cycle of paranoia
and frustration. It takes a while for my heart beat to return to normal, but it
takes longer for me to stop being angry with myself.
I don’t know what this diagnosis means for my future. I know that
I am receiving treatment now to help detach the paranoia from my memories and
the present moment using EMDR techniques. I know that it is already working
because I spend less time frustrated with myself and get caught in “loops” of
paranoia much less often. I know that I don’t need to be ashamed, frustrated,
or embarrassed, but it might be a while until I can fully allow myself to
refrain from this. I know that all of these beliefs, behaviors, and obsessions
I have do stem from love and were methods of survival, but this doesn’t mean
they weren’t part of trauma. I find comfort knowing that love can evolve and
adapt the way I know it can now. Love can be the roaring fuel just as it can be
sunny bliss. My mind being stuck in paranoia at times does not mean that I
haven’t accepted what has happened and moved on from it. I have a mental
illness, but my resolve and relationship is strong. If I could make it through
the hard years, I know I can make it through the night.
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