Its like a dance! One step at a time

Proof that when you take a step back, you find a new path to go forward on.

My step back? I started the new season of Twin Peaks this weekend. Halfway through episode one, there was bang/pow music through a creepy woods. My anxiety spiked and I tried to push through it even though I felt the panic rising. It ended at a small cabin when a man steps out with a shotgun. I. Lost. It. I screamed, cried, panicked. It was awful. We stopped watching the episode.

So, still dealing with the triggers. No matter how minor.

But! The step forward! I did the dishes! Remember last time I did the dishes? That didn't happen this time. This is the first day in months that I've been able to do the dishes. I didn't cry. I didn't panic. It was like normal! I am so happy with myself I feel like I can do anything!

So sometimes there are set backs, but you got to recognize the step forwards too!

Gasp!

A symptom that has not ever gone away is how easily startled I am. A loud noise, or seeing something unexpected, makes me gasp and jump a little in my seat. I should be thankful that minor things don't instantly trigger a panic attack like before, but it's still a bit annoying (although I do laugh at myself when it happens).

Examples of things that have startled me (with a gasp and jump out of my seat): 

• Whistling
• Mario Kart player missing a jump and falling off the track
• Someone saying "This is bad"
• The turning of a doorknob
• Shutting the refrigerator door
• Someone sneezing down the hall

So you can see, very mundane things. Of course the main things that previously triggered a panic attack, still do, but at a lower capacity. For example, while at the cabin last weekend, my brother put on one of the new Planet of the Apes films. I believe it was Rise of the Planet of the Ape. There were a few gun shots. I did my gasp and jump at the first one, and felt my heart rate rise. Then by the time they showed another gun, I was out of the room. Guns and Loud noises trigger the "gasp and jump" reflex but it also comes with the panic attack. I am becoming quit well at keeping them under control for the most part. I think 2/5 times, I get triggered into an intense panic. 

I did bring up this to my therapist, asking her if I will always be so easily startled or if it's something that will go away. I mentioned that I gasped at paper blowing slightly in the breeze out of the corner of my eye (yes, I gasped at paper!!). She personally doesn't have experience with this type of trauma, so she found it hard to give me a definite answer. Which is fine. I know we are a unique case for Kentucky (that's what our Victim Specialist told us too). I just wish I knew for sure.

I guess, for now, that means no haunted houses, no scary movies, and no extreme gun movies until I can stop this "gasp and jump" at the little things. It's something I will slowly have to build a tolerance to!

New tattoo secret

I got a new tattoo a few weeks ago. There is a dark secret hidden within it though. I've only confided in my husband and my mother this secret, but it's probably time I told the whole truth.

This tattoo is a life preserver.

I started having really dark thoughts that surrounded me starting around the beginning of May. I used to be a self harmer, but nothing that I used to be can compare to the desire I felt a few months ago; what I currently struggle to keep at bay.

I had this reoccurring, and extremely intense, desire to end it all. I kept imagining the ways to do it. The plan. The note. How it would effect everyone. As a former self harmer, I knew which way I wanted to do it. After seeing the Netflix show 13 Reasons Why, I felt there was no other way to go.

As a rational and logical human being, I knew it was just the trauma talking to me. I knew I could get out of this thought pattern. I knew I could curve that desire. So, on one particular day, spontaneously, I got a tattoo.

The tattoo is a colorful phoenix. I wanted it to be abstract and colorful to remind me of the beauty in the world. I wanted a phoenix to remind myself to rise above this trauma. I got it on my arm to tell myself not to cut through something so pretty and meaningful.

It worked! I felt happy again. The endorphins from the pain of the tattoo made me feel happy. I could look down and remind myself of all the good in the world and how strong I am! It worked extremely well, for a while.

After it healed, it seemed like the goal slowly faded away. I started to sink again. It seemed like I was sinking faster and deeper than where I was at before I got the tattoo. There was a heartache I couldn't mend. I wanted to die.

It was about to happen. It was a week or two after our first visit to the lake this year. I was drowning in sorrow. If I could claw out my heart to end it all I would have. I needed to escape my skin. I needed an out. It was going to be as spontaneous as my decision for a tattoo. It was going to happen without much preparation.

But first, one more talk. My rational brain needed to try and reach out to Erich. It wanted to let him know what was about to happen. It wanted me to try one more time to keep going.

As I hid myself away, and the tears were flowing erratically, I unleashed the heartache I was holding within. I told him I got the tattoo on my arm to curb the desire to slit my wrists. I told him that everyday I felt I was getting closer. That living with survivor's guilt is a fate worse than the void of nothingness. That I know people love me, care about me, and would be sad that I'm gone and it all meant nothing to me. I cried my heart out. I cried my lungs out. I cried for hours.

He told me that when he feels that way, he goes some place different. Anywhere than that ledge of suicide is better than that ledge. Then, another spontaneous decision. Just as he finished saying that, I told him we need to leave the house right now. We jumped in the car and started driving.

I tried to call my mom. No answer.
I tried to text and call and text. No answer.
It was late. She was asleep. But I needed her. I needed her to know and to understand. After a few attempts, I told Erich nevermind​ and let's just drive around until I stopped crying. And we did. And we ended up at my mother-in-law's house. She was able to calm me down after another hour or so. Then we went back home.

So that's the story of my tattoo. I look at it and I still see all the original promises and hope. I know it does help keep the thoughts away.

But the thoughts are still there, bubbling just under the surface.

Treat Yo Self

I used to deny myself many things. A specialty coffee in the morning, a new pair of shoes, new clothes, two desserts. I always told myself, there is something better to spend my money on. By better, I meant more practical. Like gas, bills, groceries, car repairs, etc. I had buyers remorse every time I bought something for myself.

After having a sudden, and violent, life or death experience (and seeing terrorist attacks all over the news this month) it really puts life in perspective, and just how instantly it can end at any moment.

Life is short. There is no guarantee that you will make it to age 90, and even if you did 90 years is still a short time. I still can't believe I made it this far. I am shocked that Erich and I were both alive to see him turn 30. It almost didn't happen!

Lately, I've been treating myself. I've been treating myself to new shoes, coffee, chai, or tea several days a week. I've been on edge of quitting my crappy job since I got back. Life is too short to have to worry about bad bosses. Life is too short to continue to wear shoes that are tattered and falling apart. Life is too short not to treat yo self to even the smallest things that make you happy.

For a few months, that's what I keep telling myself.
I should go get that thing I want because, I could die tomorrow.
I should get Erich a very expensive birthday gift because I want his moments here to be as happy as they can be.
I should treat my neighbor to dinner every once in a while.
I shouldn't turn down that invite to a small reunion party.
I should help my friends pay for groceries.
I should give that homeless guy money.

I should do everything I can to make the world a better place for friends, family, future generations, strangers and myself. This is a positive that has come from a negative. I am just getting there, but I will continue to live life to the fullest as best as I can. Now, I am sipping on a delicious Beekeeper Iceberg from Heine Brothers at 9:00 AM because I deserve it!

And you deserve it too.

"Keep Going"

I went to a cabin by the lake this weekend. It was a short weekend trip with Family. My brother and his girlfriend arrived near the end of the trip. He came in to talk to me.

I told him about my struggles. I told him about how I am so depressed I cannot move. I told him that blogging almost every day really helped me for a while, but then I stopped. You know what he said? Just two small, but powerful words:

"Keep going."

I am trying. I am trying everyday to keep going on. I am trying to force myself to do better. I am trying to get out of bed earlier, do some chores, get out of the house, and keep blogging. I am trying so hard to keep going.

So forgive me that this blog entry is short, and that I haven't had a good blog entry in a while. Things are starting to look up. I am going to try to keep going....

...and I hope you keep going as well :)

I don't know what to post about

I have my good days and bad days.
My days are better when I have friends around.
I am not doing chores, still.
I want to quit my job.
I keep imagining dying. I can't stop.
I had a panic attack this morning.
I hate myself and this life I am living.
Will quitting make me feel better?
How can I get motivated to do chores again?
I am gaining weight, why can I not stop myself from eating?
Why can I not find the motivation to exorcise?
Why does my heart hurt everyday?
Why am I still crying everyday?
Am I all better yet?

The Dear Hunter "Things That Hide Away"

"Things That Hide Away"



Waking up I felt that hesitation

Like I wasn't meant to wake up at all

Letting out a soft, cynical sigh

My God, it's just the answer

To the question I can't find



Marching on, it's one foot then the other

Better than one foot then none at all

Biting off way more than I can chew

Like I sometimes do

I never know just when and where to stop



Why are we here, why do we die?

Maybe we're just never meant to know why

Why are we here, why do we die?

Why, why, why?



Why are we here, why do we die?

Maybe we're just never meant to know why

Why are we here, why do we die?

Why, why, why?

10:22PM

I keep switching from being terrified to die, to thinking that is the only way out.

My brain makes everyone around me someone to fear

Last night my husband got frustrated at the dog.

He crawled into bed and was mad that the dog wouldn't move or something like that.

I was already laying down. Hearing his frustration triggered something in me. I was now afraid of him.

The fear isn't rational. I know it isn't rational. I kept telling myself it is not rational. But my brain kept playing possibilities in my head. He is going to kill you. He has a gun and since your back is turned, he will shoot you without you knowing. Maybe he is going to start hitting you or choking you. I got so uncomfortable by the thoughts, without saying a word, I went to the couch with a cover and pillow.

He came out to get me. I was already silently crying, as soon as I saw his silhouette. I feared him being near me. What happened next?

He gently told me to come back to bed.

He tucked me in and kissed me.

He offered to sleep on the couch and let me stay in the bed alone.

He apologized for being upset over the dog.

None of those actions scream violence. None of those actions say I should be afraid of him. But my brain couldn't stop picturing him doing unspeakable things to me. I tried to mentally fight it. I made him stay in bed with me, but the fear was still there. I didn't feel safe. My brain was going over every possibly scenario of him snapping and taking it out on me. 

I got up once more. To shut the door to our bedroom. I tried to tell myself that maybe I was just nervous someone would enter our room and that's what I was really afraid of. We never sleep with the bedroom door closed, until I have moments like this. Then the door needs to be shut. It offers me just a small amount of peace to get me to sleep. It worked. I eventually slept.

My husband is not violent. He is gentle. He is sweet. He loves me and cares about me in ways I've never experienced. He literally was ready to take a bullet for me. No one cares about me more than he does. So why is this fear here? Why does this trauma effect my perception of the one person who would never hurt me? 

I hate my brain.

My letter

It was one of the first steps to my therapy: writing this letter. I've written it so many times, and many early drafts were incoherent and consumed by survivor's guilt.

After meeting with our FBI Victim's specialist on Thursday, she informed me the family is not ready to receive letters... Probably never will be. I have accepted that. I am posting the last and final draft of my letter here.

I hope it doesn't seem cold. I truly felt this was the best way to get my feelings out, give her condolences, and not remind her too much of that day. This took me 3 months and 5 drafts to write.

5/17/2017

I'm still trying... Just letting you know.

Stay on your medicine

I am sorry to report... Although I've been doing well with my main medication, I've unfortunately I've been slacking with my Prazosin. Prazosin helped me sleep through the night by taking away my nightmares or by not allowing me to really remember them. I know it sounds too good to be true but it worked.

I've been off the pill for maybe a week. Shame on me. The nightmares have gradually come back and it climaxed today. Slowly my dreams started getting worse - something bad, but not horrible, would happen. Today I woke up from an attack dream. Stuck in a shooting situation waiting to be shot.

I will start taking my medicine, all of them, again today.

I am disappointed in myself but I think I'm more disappointed that my nightmares will never stop being about the shooting. It will always return to that. I will never escape my ghost.

Prolonged Exposure

Lately I've been practicing Prolonged Exposure Therapy. It's exactly what it sounds like: Exposing yourself to re-experience the traumatic event over and over until it's effect gets lesser and lesser. It's what veterans practice to cope with their PTSD and my psychiatrist believes it will help me.

It started with me writing about it. After I wrote about it, it took me weeks, maybe even a full month, before I could go back and read what I wrote. I then wrote about it again in more detail. I still have trouble reading it, but reading it helps me remember, and to never forget. 

Then I had to read it aloud. It caused a major emotional reaction from me reading it to my psychiatrist. It then caused me a very stressful, emotional week after reading it aloud. Then slowly I started talking about it. Answering questions people had, telling my friends in person or via Skype about my experience. Just slowly exposing myself, and accepting, what had happened. 

It worked for a bit, but I was still suffering from the most traumatic experience of the whole ordeal. The hardest part for me to write about, to think about, to say aloud... was the man next to me who died. Who took the last bullet, which was the only reason I am still here typing. Even now, I've slowed my typing and keep pausing after every word because that's the most traumatic experience for me. Not that my life was in danger, which was traumatic, but more traumatizing than that was how I feel and experience what happened to the man next to me. I have to move on or I will not make it through this entry.

After doing those assignments, we started the visualization process. Thinking about the airport and going into the baggage claim area. Thinking about the sounds, what I might see, what it might smell. Just immersing myself, mentally, into the event. And then what it would be like knowing that was an isolated incident: an ordinary average baggage claim area.

Now I am on the third step: Going to the airport. I've recently started my drive-by sessions. Eventually, I will have to park there and sit at the airport. Maybe stand outside or around it. Maybe go into a different part of the airport... But the goal is to make it to the baggage claim area. And do it again. And again. Until I can do it without it triggering me into a panic. Into a crying fit. Into a flashback... Until I can stand there and feel mostly normal.

Yesterday was my second attempt at a drive by. My first attempt, I was alone, went on my lunch break, and drove past the arrival area once and the departure area one. It took less than 10 minutes to do so. It made me slightly panicked (about a 3/10 on the anxiety scale). Yesterday, however, a friend drove me. And it was worse!!

This is my experience from yesterday:

My friend picked me up and we took off to the airport together. I felt my anxiety rise to about a 3/10 again on the anxiety scale, so the first time around I was about what I expected. She was good at distracting me and engaging me in conversations about ANYTHING else. But then we went around again... and my chest began to tighten. I saw so many people, vulnerable people, just standing there with their bags. The baggage claim area right in the window, the carousel bring bags around. My anxiety level raised to about a 4 or 5. 

I thought that was it. We could leave now. I wanted to leave so badly. But then we I saw the sign directing us back to arriving flights. I started clutching my chest. The pain was extreme. I started to tear up, I started to breathe more heavily. I wasn't in control of the car. I couldn't stop from going to that area again. I had no control. I felt trapped in a never ending loop. That we were going to keep going back over and over again, and then I would wake up and realize I am still on the floor at the airport. It was nerve wrecking.

What we did was almost a blur for me now. I know we also drove past departing flights, but I just can't remember if we alternated or what we did. I just know I had the biggest effect going to the arrival flights area.

Eventually, she dropped me back off at my car. I felt okay. She gave me a big long hug. I started to drive home, trying to make myself see my accomplishment for the day. I saw the carousal. I saw the bags. I remembered the event. I cried on the drive home. I cried at home. Erich held me until it was over.

Love, Friendship, and Family

I have to remind myself that I have to also post the positive stuff too. This weekend was full of positive stuff. Let me just say, I really needed a reminder of the good in my life. The love and friendship and family I have surrounding me. I really needed that this weekend.

I am so lucky to have so many supportive and understanding people in my life. To hug me when I need it. To stand next to me, ready to comfort me, as I head into an uncomfortable situation. To constantly check up on me in person, and from afar. To remind me of how far I have come, and telling me to be proud of myself, especially when I only seem to focus on the negatives.

Why me? Why am I so lucky to have so many great people in my life? How did I end up so lucky to surround myself with positive people who care about me? To remind me to have fun. To help me forget that I am in a crowd of people. To help me to remember to take time and look back and see that there is progress!

I am grateful for the love I have in other people. I am lucky to have this support system. I want to be able to repay them all some day.

If you are reading this, I love you. Because even reading this to try and understand me better, is a way to support me. Support comes in many different forms. I feel like I've experienced them all over the weekend. It pulled me out of the darkness I kept writing about. It made me laugh and smile and have fun. It made me open up to my mother and my husband about what was truly going on inside. It made me be vulnerable around my friends and family.

I was told a few weeks ago, that the "new normal" doesn't have to be a bad thing. It's just another thing. The new normal can be full of positives. I am not what happened to me. I am what I choose to become. I need to remember to keep pushing forward.

I got my peer support application. Hopefully my new normal includes helping other people out there like me. Wish me luck.

Anxiety, Panic Disorder, and living with Depression

I will start out with an apology. This entry will be a bit dry. No creative words. No fun sentence structures. No pictures or videos. Just words describing what it's like living with panic disorder.

I've been overwhelmingly depressed lately. To the point where I've become a couch potato. I come home from work, and go straight to either bed or the couch, and stay at either spot the rest of the day. As a result, chores have been left undone and my house is becoming a mess. I know this. I am bothered by this. But I cannot will myself to move and do anything. 

So what's the difference from everyday anxiety and living with panic disorder? Anxiety could manifest as "Oh, I got to do the laundry and dishes and feed the animals and oh gosh! There are bills to pay and I am feeling so overwhelmed." It might trigger you to be jittery, or maybe you cry a little. Maybe you do have a panic attack. But the point is, you still are able to pick yourself up and complete your tasks. You feel better after you let out a good cry. You move on.

So here is what panic disorder is like for me, using an example from 2 days ago. I come home. I notice that the place needs to be vacuumed. I notice that the dishes are well overdue. I notice so many things that are just an absolute mess. They all bug me, but I have no fight left in me. So I head to the couch and sit. Erich sits with me and explains that he can't keep doing all the chores himself, that he needs me to do the dishes after dinner. I smile and so "I can do that! I just need some motivation."

After dinner is completed, which I took my sweet time doing, I stall and avoid doing the dishes as long as I can. Erich notices and comes to get me. I ask him to pull up a chair and sit in the kitchen while I do the dishes. That I need him there because I feel anxious about it. He agrees. 

The first dish I grab is one of our smallest cups in our cupboard. It's less than an 8oz cup. It's already mostly clean. I think Erich just used the small cup for a sip of water to take one of his pills. I grab it and the tears start flowing immediately. I take the soapy sponge and slowly start cleaning it. My heart is pained. I don't know how else to put it. It hurts. It aches. It pounds. I start my panic attack. I try to push through it though. As I am having a panic attack, I am leaning against the sink, to keep me supported and standing, and finishing up that glass. I rinse it and rest it to the side. Still mid-panic, I reach for the next glass. I sob harder. Tears are pouring, my chest is pounding. I slowly start to clean the next glass. 

Erich comes up from behind to try and stop me. He hug me tight as I cry harder and harder. I keep trying to finish cleaning the glass, but Erich tells me to stop. I think if I can just push through the first few, my panic symptoms would go away and my anxiety would subside. I tell him I want to finish, but I am unsure if he can understand the words leaving my mouth. He starts asking: What is it? Is it the noise - glass clinking, squeaky noises, water running? I shake my head. Is it being forced to do something - to do this chore, he asks? I shake my head. I try, through heavy breaths and a shaky voice, to explain that it's just how I feel. How my heart feels. How my soul feels. Everything feels crushed. Nothing is causing this anxiety - nothing that I am consciously aware of. I am unsure if I explained it to him or not. Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe he just took my cues of wanting to continue as a sign to sit back down.

He sat and watched. I stood, supported by the edge of the sink, and pressed on. The panic and crying didn't stop. I don't even think I can use the word cry. A cry is from sadness. This was a more painful sound I was making. Acid tears that were pouring. If there are words for what it sounds like for your soul to die, that was the sound I was making. 

Doing the dishes, I believe maybe less than 10 dishes total, took almost 45 minutes. I couldn't catch my breath the whole time. The tears didn't stop flowing, the whole time. My howls of grief and pain didn't stop. Erich helped. As best as he could. He occasionally stood to rub my back. He handed me dishes. He tried to get me to stop a few times too. I just truly thought that it was something I could beat. That if I kept pushing through it, I could get over my anxiety and then become gleeful as I finished up the dishes. But that wasn't the case. Even after I rested the last glass to the side, I pressed my face into Erich's chest and sobbed. My heart aches just remembering all of this.

Anxiety is real.

Panic disorder is real.

Depression is real.

Mental illness is real.

And it hurts all it touches.

Erich can't do this alone. That's what he said. He cannot take care of me, take care of our animals, take care of the house, and take care of himself. He cannot do it alone. That's why I pushed myself. That's why I tried so hard. Do you want to know how the story ends? The next day, after work, I came home and went to the couch. That's how the story ends. Nothing changes. I am still depressed. I am still too anxious to move. The pain is still present. There was no lesson​ in this. There is no point to any of this. I am a burden. I am useless. Erich needs help and support I can no longer provide for him. And there isn't anything I can do to change that.

May is Mental Health Awareness Month

Credit for pictures goes to Shawn Coss and you can buy from this series at Any Means Necessary.

So I am going to do this differently. I discovered this series recently and related to so many of the pictures. So I am going to showcase a few of the pictures and tell you how they relate to my mental health.

This is one that I didn't go into much detail about, yet. But for a while - at the airport - I truly believed I was dead. I thought that I was dead and I was merely a ghost. It's a weird feeling, thinking you've actually were the one shot. That there was no way to survive that mess alive. But somehow I did. 

When I first got home, I didn't leave the house for almost two weeks. The only time I left was for my Psychiatrist appointments. Even after that two weeks I hated going outside, or to places/stores/restaurants/back yard or anywhere outside the comfort of my home.

EVERYTHING Made me anxious. Noises especially. I was almost immobilized by my anxiety. I just kept thinking that at any moment, when I let my guard down, that would be the moment I would die. The anxiety of death, of something bad happening to me or Erich, or of leaving the house and being out in public was powerful.

With anxiety, I was also terrified to be around other people. Socializing or being out in public made my anxiety spike. The only person I was comfortable with was my Husband. Eventually other people coming around to take care of me, helped ease this anxiety. With baby steps, I am now able to be out in public spaces.

When having a dissociate episode, Acute Stress or Post-Traumatic, I felt like a stranger in my own body. I felt like everything around me was fake and that I couldn't see the true reality in front of me. I still don't know if I have fully explained this feeling, although I've written about it several times. It's unreal, thinking you are not real.

Ah... Insomnia. Something I've been battling with off and on these last few months. Eyes wide, scared of the darkness, scared of the nightmares, wanting nothing but rest... If you read my previous post you know it was something I was suffering from to the point of being a danger on the road. It's miserable.

 This one is pretty self explanatory. When I get anxious, I start to panic. Then I have panic attacks. I am averaging between 1-3 panic attacks a day. The BusPar helps keep them at bay, but sometimes an attack can be triggered by nothing at all.

Everyone, meet my ghost. This is the image I relate to the most. Feeling chained to him. Have him being in control over me. The emptiness I feel inside. How it's bigger than me. Monstrous. This is the epitome of how I feel living with PTSD.

Last... Depression. This is how I've been feeling lately. This is how I feel now. This is the drowning feeling I've been talking about...

No official diagnosis for many of these things. I know I am depressed, have panic disorder and anxiety, and PTSD, but the other things - like Cotard Delusion and agoraphobia didn't last, and I guess that's also why I don't talk about them as much as my present diagnosis. But I understand how it felt living with those temporarily. I feel like a nutcase sometimes. Like I truly don't know what's in my head - which illness is controlling my thoughts. All I can do is try to keep pushing forward. I am going to keep trying as long as I can.

I encourage you all, to look through his full set of pictures on his Facebook page. This was an inktober challenge, so there are 31 mental illnesses that he drew and showcased.

Drowning

These last few days I have been drowning in a deep sadness. It feels like I am drowning. I feel it, inside my chest. Just a deep emptiness. It hurts so bad. I need help.

Good days and... days like today.

Today is hard.

I don't know what else to say. Soul crushing comes to mind. My eyes are watery because tears keep rising to the surface. I feel heartache.

I just don't feel like being here anymore. I just don't feel anything positive today.

Pills. Pills. Pills.

This entry is all about pills. I am on 3 different types of pills: Sertraline, Prazosin, BusPirone. I take the BusPirone up to 3 times a day. Some times less. I take everything else once a day, Sertraline in the morning and Prazosin at night.

Here is a breakdown on what each pill does for me. (Although I have posted something similar before)

Sertraline, aka Zoloft, is for PTSD symptoms including reexperiencing (intrusive thoughts, nightmares, flashbacks, images, or memories); emotional numbing and avoidance (flattened affect or detachment, loss of interest and motivation, and avoidance of any activity, place, person, or topic associated with the trauma); and increased arousal (startle reactions, poor concentration, irritability and jumpiness, and insomnia or hypervigilance). So... it's helping a little I suppose. I am less on edge, my flashbacks are nearly gone, It's not a miracle drug though so I have to take these other pills to help keep me balanced. I have posted before about what it's like to miss this pill. It's something I don't want to reexperience. This is my most important pill!

The BusPirone helps me stay calm. It stops my panic attacks, as much as it can. It makes me stay levelheaded when a loud noise triggers me. It's almost instantaneous. If I take it before a stressful event, at least 30 minutes before, I should be fine. No panic attacks, no crying, just me being calm cool and collective. 

Prazosin is the new one. It was supposed to help me sleep better, by taking away my nightmares. I think I can officially say that the nightmares are just about gone. I cannot remember the last time I had a dream about a shooting. It has to have been at least a week since a shooting nightmare. Maybe a little less than a week from a regular nightmare. So it took about a month to see any benefit from this one. I am not sure if that's average or not.

Video Jessica pretty much says it all. I have to take all of these pills to have the illusion of being normal, when my thoughts are anything but normal. When my instincts tell me to do something completely different like scream or run away or quit my job... It keeps me grounded. These medications are my new normal. This life is my new normal. That incident that happened in January will forever be apart of me. I just have to accept that pills will also be apart of me until I am ready to live life without them.

Now that you have my take on it things, here is a video by The Mighty about Medication for Mental illness.

Brown Shoes

I couldn't stop thinking about them yesterday. Terry and Ann. I literally just found his Facebook page. What's that old saying about curiosity? I hate that I can't stop myself from googling his name. I am conflicted that I found his page. On on the day of this entry. I knew I was going to write about him today.

I had a thought, but more like a prayer, yesterday.

I thought about his brown shoes and remembered begging him to move them. Then something strange happened... I saw movement. I saw his feet move. Then he slowly got up from the ground as his wife came over to him. They hug and kiss and stand up together. I fantasized about their vacation and the cruise. Taking pictures on the deck, swimming in the ocean, drinking out of pineapples. Face-timing with their children and grand children. Later, I imagined them walking through a door, with fresh tans, albeit slightly burned cheeks. As they put down their stuff, their grandchildren run to them and hug them. Their children kiss them both on the cheek. Then they sit around the dinner table telling fun stories and showing pictures of their cruise and all the fun they had. I imagine them going to bed feeling love, happiness, and peace.

"That's my husband," she wailed.