I wish I had a recorder inside of my brain so I could play back all the absurd nonsense that flows through my ears. Some people would think it’s the creative mind at work, but my mind goes straight to instant paranoia or what normal people would say is irrational and absurd thinking. And by normal I mean my therapist.
I hate to categorize or label, but the truth of the matter is I am definitely not the same person I was 10 years ago. Okay, I get that everyone can say that, and people evolve…blah blah blah, but from the experiences of war, death, violations, and internal struggles of my actual reality; my brain has completely reinvented itself into a ball of absurd mush that I battle to control in my everyday life.
Now, completely doped up on anti depressants, pain medication, and anti-anxieties, the monsters are tamed, or for better words numbed. I can live my life on a day to day basis throwing up a fake “hello, neighbor” to keep the questions at bay, or the “hi, how are you?” slowly make eye contact, now get the fuck out of this aisle before my shaking voice evolves into my shaking body. Without even moving my heart rate can sky rocket to unbearable bpm’s, I’d say it’s pretty impressive. Because lately it’s hard to find anything to be proud of anymore.
Now that I’ve completely lost track, which happens to me in every day conversations, where my words lose meaning and my thoughts change to a subtle shade of gray and I have no idea what the hell I’m talking about until I’m reminded for the 5th time where our conversation went. Ah, yes…my therapist.
I find it comical walking into an office, sitting in front of a PTSD professional, who clearly hates where he works because he doesn’t bother to hang pictures which would lead to “settling”. But they are laying on the floor against the walls. Baby steps, right? Come on now, hang the pictures and fake the smile like I do everyday just to appease the masses.
The heavy sigh makes me feel like I’m bothering him, which infuriates me even more because I’m just trying to get “fixed” like society wants. I just want my brain to stop having sword fights with itself and calm the fuck down and not dream about being buried alive. But it’s just another day at the office. Except I get paid way less.
We sit and chat like we are total strangers, when in reality he really just wants me to get down to the raw and dirty details of why I’m so “traumatized”. He understands my brain more than I do, but for some reason there is still no insta-cure to why I am the way I am now. The hour passes, hopefully something is retained from the charts and exercises I’m urged to use to get through with my daily conflicts. Those papers are flooding the back seat of my car. I’m still trying to accept this forced change of life style. Time to switch hats. Thanks doc, see you in a month.
Dialogues of... 