Difficulty Handling Joy
My personal experience with PTSD triggers
Trigger warning: discussion of PTSD and triggers
I read a sentence about two months ago that said something along the lines of this: “PTSD doesn’t make it difficult to handle the tragic things, it makes it difficult to handle the joyful ones.”
I am in the car with my husband, Jordan, on the way to buy Christmas gifts for our two amazing daughters. We are listening to a podcast where the hosts are reading outrageous relationship stories from Reddit. We are laughing together at the trivial problems people harp over and reminiscing about the years between us being high school sweethearts and having two daughters to shop for. We are thrilled to have even a day date together to remember what it is like to just be us. We plan our lunch at Cheddar’s in the mall, which we think is super underrated. We stopped at a red light. I start shaking. My left leg is tingly. It could just be asleep from the drive. Or it could be another stroke. I need to move it right now. I can still wiggle my toes, so it must be okay. No, I have to get out of the car. But we are at a red light. But I have to get out of the car right now. I can’t. How will the ambulance get to me if I step out of this car at this busy intersection. If I’m having a stroke, time is of essence. Stay calm. You can make it to the parking lot. Wiggle your toes. Keep wiggling your toes. Remind yourself you’re alive. “Jordan, I have to get out of the car right now.”
I am in my kitchen helping Jordan cook dinner. Our house is small, but we built it, so we designed it will a kitchen fit for a chef. The speaker is blaring music of all genres. We love music. “Ain’t It Fun.” Paramore. I am chopping vegetables while Jordan heats oil in a pan. We stop occassionally to dance along with our daughters and sing in imaginary microphones. “Toxic.” Britney Spears. We laugh when Jordan dances. “American Idiot.” We rage along with Green Day. A song from Morgan Wallen’s One Thing at a Time Comes On. I put the knife down. I call for Jordan to skip it. He doesn’t hear me. I begin sobbing. I am back in a room full of nurses and doctors who are fixing to put me under conscious sedation before sticking a catheter in my artery through my groin and moving it up my body to my head and neck for a cerebral angiogram to look for aneurysms that may have caused my unexplainable brain hemorrhage. I am more scared of this than I was the craniotomy I had a few days ago. I am conscious the whole time. Though I feel nothing, I do hear all the conversation, vaguely see the x-ray of my insides, and hear all the music. It's all Morgan Wallen. It’s March 3, 2023- his newest album dropped today and the doctor is apparently a fan.
Photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash
I am in the local coffee shop having lunch with my mother. We chat about the goings-on, share family updates, plan activities for my girls. Occasionally, we throw in some petty gossip. My daughters giggle and play with giant dominoes in the seating area beside us. Locals stop at our table and chat with us about community happenings. We eat and order coffees to go. My mom leaves me while I wait for coffee. I’m standing at the pick-up with my daughters beside me. Is something happening? Something could be happening. No one knows. You could drop dead in this coffee shop right now. It happened once. It could happen again. Can you feel your leg? Is that numbness creeping in? Oh my god, I can’t have another stroke in front of everyone. God, can I least be at home? God, can I least not be in front of my daughters? Please don’t let my daughters have to see me be taken away in an ambulance. Will I die this time? Probably. Call Mama. The girls need someone if this is going to happen. “Mama, can you come back? I think I’m going to have a panic attack.”
Some sources:
Thanks for sharing and allowing me to understand anxiety at another level.
I read this. And restacked. Thanks for your bravery and vulnerability Kendall.