Last week I peered into the rabbid blue eyes of death.
If you’re aware of the details of the situation, I ask you to not to comment as I am in process of working with the legal system.
Due to PTSD, I’ve sobbed uncontrollably several times a day.
One moment I’m walking forward in life, and then in a second I see violent replays in my mind.
The emotions flood over me, eclipsing every aspect of life.
This crime happened in a place where I’d always felt safe, in a lovely setting.
The pain – for me, wasn’t physical.
Yet my insides felt ripped to shreds.
As I wrote the report, an ocean of tears poured out of my heart. I sobbed uncontrollably.
Many stores, people and situations “trigger” me into a sea of tears.
Children, babies, pregnant women, certain animals, smiles, a squeaky swing set, hamburger meat, certain words, and colors trigger me. A white door triggered me the other day.
Even my husbamd’s snoring. (I almost laughed when I realized this.)
The way such crimes work is the victim pays for all medical and counseling bills herself.
Then, someway or somehow -she can address the costs through the legal system.
I’ve never written a police report and have Hand written the report while sobbing and shaking.
People don’t get PTSD unless they have experienced it.
I have lovely friends and family and many have reached out in kind-hearted ways.
I don’t want sympathy. I really don’t.
All I want is for people to grasp that a person can look okay on the outside, but on the inside they can be shredded, and ripped into pieces.
But people don’t understand pain they cannot see.
I can’t eat much, I can’t work and I can’t hold a conversation without getting triggered.
“I’m glad you’re ok,” they say.
They mean I look fine and the same physically. On some levels, this reminds me of a person dying of internal injuries.
Some people – trying to help – have done the Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda on me. The thing is, my brain and body were in survival mode. I had a split second to decide how to respond to the situation.
I pray you never experience a crime such as this. Let alone any crime.
When you’re shocked to the core, wailing and attempting to manage someone else’s injuries, your brain responds in a severely traumatized condition.
The first week I cried many times a day. Various situations and events reminded me of the crime scene.
I’m now in week two of recovering, and experience fewer flashbacks.
God wastes nothing. The beauty of this situation is I know that He will use this in glorious ways.
A gentle whisper of hope streams through the dark, tarry puddles of despair. God will heal every aspect of this scene of my life journey.
I will be a better therapist when I heal enough to begin working again.
But in the meantime, I need to concentrate on healing.
Writing this helps me heal. I know most people don’t understand the impact of PTSD.
Maybe after reading this a few people will begin to grasp the depths of internal trauma.
This is the hope streaming through my soul.~