Here’s what I don’t talk about with my photography gear…
Probably half the time I have my gear out, I just hold it, sitting in my lap. Not for pictures…. It is my security blanket.
I did it last night at the Marina when I snapped the selfie with Jared, with the X-S20.
This morning on the way out the door to church, I knew I’d want to hold the GFX after we dropped Porter off at UGA this afternoon, so I threw it into my purse. So here it is, now in my lap as Jared drives us back home to Carrollton.
I’m sure I’m not the only person in the world with security blanket-type object.
It’s just that mine have doubled as professional and hobby-type tools at the same time.
I’m feeling fairly anxious this week. I stood up for my 18-23 year-old self on Thursday, and also my 45 year-old self as well.
And then I drove to Athens for my oldest.
And I spent a good portion of the weekend hiding. Because that is what I do.
And I’m probably going to spend some more time in the next few weeks hiding while I try to get my mental health back in some semblance of equilibrium.
I’ve lost my laundry routine since before October 20.
Dishes sit undone for days on end.
It’s been rough.
I’m determined to turn a corner, but for now, I hide.
Jared says I have been less afraid of him this year; that I am making progress.
He says for years in the 2010s to the early 2020s I flinched, as in actually jumped, whenever Jared reached out to touch me.
Jared says it hurt, but he knew it was not him I was reacting to: it was ghosts of the past.
The body keeps score.
And even now, my nervous system is highly wired and worn out.
But I do love my husband, and I am learning to trust the love that he has shown me consistently for 22 years now.
Trust is hard.
Trusting men is harder.
The body keeps score and even with 22 years of careful and tender care, there are confusing outbursts occasionally. It’s hard to remember that my husband is not the enemy sometimes.
And when my nervous system feels short-circuited due to high alert, the best thing I can do is bury my head in Jared’s chest and let him tell me, without me saying a word, “You are safe.”
In fact, when I am at my most distressed, Jared takes off his shirt to hold me, telling me I need the contact of his warm skin.
Jared says, “You are safe,” at the most unexpected times.
The situation is delicate enough that Jared’s incredible employer lets me hang out with him at work whenever it’s practical.
Right now, I am drafting this post from the hallway of the press box while Jared is working with the broadcast kids for the Halloween football game tonight.
Lots of afternoons, when I have been unable to drag myself out of the bed due to despondency, Jared will say, “Come see me,” and when I manage to get cleaned up and out of the house, I just go hang out at his office.
Jared is truly my safe place.
How I got so lucky when that man with the online profile “Maxtheape” sent me a message in early July 2003, I will never know.
I remain convinced that Jared Price saved my life.
So I don’t write when I’m in a funk. Not when I’m deep in a funk, anyway.
Then I go into survival mode. And I forget to write. And I get caught up in doing what has to be done to function.
I crochet a little. I do random creative things to distract myself.
I forget to get out my camera when it would be most therapeutic.
And when I get like this, it’s when I really need to be writing the most.
For most of the past 14 years that I have been on SSDI, I have severely glossed over the PTSD bit that was included in my qualifying conditions for SSDI. I spoke of it out loud among friends today. I don’t often do that.
I don’t gloss over it in my own home. That’s pretty much the only place I don’t gloss over it. I don’t gloss over it in the middle of the night when a noise makes me jump and I send Jared running to the living room to check out whatever the random (nonthreatening) noise I heard was.
Nevertheless, Jared goes. Jared goes even when he is exhausted, even when it means he will likely sleep out in the living room instead of with his CPAP on in the bedroom. Jared goes even when he knows what the sound was, and that there is no problem in the house.
I didn’t gloss over it the night that the wind blew open one of the double doors in our living room after dark right next to where I was sitting, and I screamed bloody murder, the most vivid time in my memory that I screamed reminiscent to those awful February nights in 2001, back to back Saturday nights. The boys had never heard me scream like my life depended on it.
I never told them it wasn’t the first time I’d screamed like that.
And PTSD….is it PTSD because of assault? Is it PTSD because I was held captive in the night, begging to be let out? That night that I experienced bonafide legit torture?
If it’s PTSD because of assault, which one? One of the ones I experienced myself, or the one I witnessed at the hands of someone I thought loved me, toward someone else?
Is it PTSD because of actual medical stuff that had to be done to me to save my life, long before any of that?
Is it PTSD because I am afraid of pretty much all men? Including my husband, if I am completely honest?
Is it PTSD because of all that? Or is it something else I don’t even remember?
The why of the diagnosis is less important. I have a difficult time even seeing that I have PTSD. I have a difficult time understanding that not everyone walks through their lives terrified of everything around them. I have a difficult time understanding that something about my neurological wiring is different.
And sometimes, I have a very difficult time remembering that love is not supposed to hurt.
I suppose that is the PTSD, too.
You can read more about me here, to see how I got to where I am today.
Privacy & Cookies: This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use. To find out more, see our terms.
