Nobody Truly Understands

 I started this with the hopes that others would learn the complexity and seriousness of PTSD.  My writings come as close as I can get to describing how I feel and yet they are lacking.  There are parts of my life and suffering I haven’t mentioned yet.  I either haven’t found anything to write about to cover those angles, or they are so engrained into my life that I don’t even notice that they are different from everyone else.  Some of my closest loved ones read the first couple entries.  Reading it all at once was overwhelming to them.  They were fearful for my life, and cried for my pain.  All of a sudden the gravity of my illness dropped on them like a ton of bricks.  For the first time they saw the big picture.  I had shown them each individual piece and they accepted them.  Now I had shown them how they all fit together.  Instead of seeing a slide, a barrel, and a spring, they saw the gun.

The people I share my life with often do things without realizing how much different I am.  There are countless examples, but even the simplest of things make a world of difference.  I used to drive around with a family member who was extremely supportive of me.  Even they, having not been in my shoes, would do things like park the car in the wrong direction.  Think about it for a second.  When was the last time you were doing circles in the parking lot looking for a spot?  We have all been there and all of us can relate to it.  How many of you when circling were calculating people’s movement and possible attack angles so you could park prepared for them?

I spent a night at my mother’s house not to very long ago.  I got there in the early morning.  My mother is an extremely family oriented person.  She has family that comes over all the time with a “don’t call, just come on over” policy.  My arrival to town after months of being away brings about a certain level of “let’s go see him” and the door may as well revolve.  To any normal person, this is a welcomed family response.  In my mind I know each person, but it is chaos and excitement and a distraction from my vigilance.  My nieces and nephew playing with my daughter turns from watching the kids have fun into “I need to find a quiet place to watch over everything.”  The gun range roughly a mile away should just be background noise.  Instead its cover for other gun shots that I need to be very concerned about.  Sitting at the family dining table having dinner with everyone is supposed to be a happy everyone talks and enjoys a good meal.  I used to thrive on this.  It was one of my favorite things to do.  Now I can’t find a good enough defensive seat.  The numerous different conversations that I can’t keep track of, means that I can’t listen for other things like the door slowly opening.  This visit ended with my mother in tears telling me she is sorry and that she doesn’t know how to help me.  MY sickness made HER sorry for living her life the way she has always loved.  How is that fair in any way?  The end result is that my mother walks on egg shells around me because she is afraid to take a wrong step.  Let me rephrase that a little bit.  When I am there, my mother is afraid to live her life.