Living with C-PTSD

It starts off small and slow. I begin to feel anxious for no reason at all. I begin checking the time, counting down the hours. I begin to feel strung up so tight, like everything my snap and fall apart in the blink of an eye. I feel so restless. Everything is foggy. Everything is blurry and out of focus.

It's so much more than a feeling, I have completely become someone else. I'm not myself anymore. The woman they all know me as is gone, hiding away inside of me. I'm becoming the survivor. The small frightened, damaged girl just trying to make it out alive.

I go over the paperwork, flip through the books, and scan the articles. I'm using every self-care tactic I can. Little noises begin to startle me. The sound of conversation becomes unbearable like nails on a chalkboard. The lump in my throat grows bigger, suffocating the words out of me.

Little by little life begins to feel heavy again. My ears focus on every sound at once, my mind begins to re-live every memory. The tremble in my hands, in my body, begins to make me clumsy. Everything is overwhelming. I remind myself to breathe. I focus on the good, but even as I take a drag off my cigarette to calm my nerves, the little voice inside me whispers, "Press it into your skin." I imagine what it would feel like. Although I'm tempted to try, I don't. "Coward," the voice sneers at me.

I'm honest but I'm not authentic. My words and actions are so guarded. My emotions locked up tight. For me, it's not safe to feel. The nightmares gain intensity. I wake up drenched in sweat and tears. My throat horse from silent screams. I will make it worse. I will begin to torture myself. My darkest fears and thoughts become obsessions that I can't shake off. I detach from the world. Every mistake, every flaw is amplified. I'm a statue. I'm cold and silent, yet my wounds are open and fresh.

I take every comment, every criticism and cling to it. I will obsess over every word said to me. Every look, every touch is examined carefully.

My mind is racing, looking for answers it can't handle. Inside I feel like a tornado. I fight back those urges to scream, to fight, to unleash the raw energy building up inside of me. I want to cry, to scream. I'm so numb and scared I'm tearing at my skin and hair.

I toy with death, my favorite fantasy. I know I'm supposed to fight, I know I'm supposed to remember this won't last. I'm supposed to look at everything and everyone around me and want my life. It doesn't matter what I've learned, how far I've come, how strong I have been.

I hold tight to the bottle of pills I take daily. Each morning, each night. I have to remind myself to take just one. That little voice inside taunts me until I can't breathe. "Take them all."

I remind myself of all the possible outcomes. The only thing that truly stops me is the thought of failure. If I make a mistake I make everything worse for those around me, I become a burden, or even more so than I already feel I am. Waking up in the hospital could be a nightmare or a dream. Maybe it's what I need to finally "fix" myself.

My head and heart are filled with dreams that feel too big for me to reach, and yet so close I can brush them with my fingertips. When will I get to stop picking up the pieces and putting myself back together? When do I get to just live? I'm exhausted from healing, from fighting.

I know it gets easier, I know it can be worth it, but that part of me is nowhere to be found in times like these.

"Stop being so depressed." "You need to let go." "Get out of your own head." It's amusing the things they tell me to do. It's amazing how many people know what I "need" to get better. I want to laugh and scream in their faces at the same time. I'm doing the best I can. I know that.

I'm my world, it feels like everyone is waiting for me to "get better." People are only willing to tolerate it, to tolerate me for so long. It's easier to pretend to be happy. Everyone looks at me so expectantly. They're waiting for me to smile, to care, to live. Too busy listening for me to say I'm happy they ignore anything less than. I'm supposed to flip some magical switch, sing the praises of medication and therapy as if it's a cure-all.

It helps. But it doesn't fix it. I'm standing in quicksand and all they see is a mudpuddle I was too lazy to step over.

But I'm trying. You may not see it, but I'm trying to lure out that woman inside of me who doesn't have to fight to stay alive. I'm trying to not give in to those whispers in my head, to find the light at the end of my tunnel.

I feel eyes on me, watching, waiting, judging. "How will she screw up next?" I feel like I'm surrounded by wolves waiting for me to trip so they can tear out my throat. But I still walk through the woods. You see it will always be me against the world, and no matter how many demons I fight, none will ever be as big or as powerful as the ones inside my head.