PTSD: Living Through the Suck

Usually when I write, I have a starting point, an endpoint, and plenty to say along the way. Not today.

Years ago, I made the decision to be painfully transparent in sharing my journey. That is, at least in a small part, the nature of an advocate.

Some things are easy to talk about. Ask me about my grandbabies, and you’ll get an earful. But some things really suck. I don’t mean vacuum cleaner suck; I mean literally suck – as in suck the life right out of you. And that type of suck really sucks to write about.

This is… tough to share.

Last Sunday found me in a literal crisis. I’m not talking about the “what on earth are we going to have for dinner tonight" challenge that so many of us face. I was struggling... just to make it.

Yeah, I got this lil’ brain injury thing. While it has a suck factor, it’s become livable. But it’s the PTSD that comes close to taking me down. If you are rolling your eyes now, thinking, “there he goes again,” perhaps it’s time for you to move on.

It was right after my accident that PTSD became part of my life. Early on, a dozen, maybe fifteen horrific, wake-up-screaming nightmares a month defined my life. To continue overusing the word “suck,” that really sucked. I do not believe in unnecessary suffering. For many years, I threw everything I had at it. CBT, EMDR, prayer, jeepers, early on I spoke with a Native American medicine man at a local pow wow. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Nothing really worked. I simply got used to bad nights. And as much as they sucked (there he goes again), the day after was an upper-case SUCK. Abysmal brain fog, slow processing speeds, word-finding challenges. Not fun days.

But I got used to the PTSD life. I really had no choice. My PTSD proved time and time again to be treatment-resistant. It felt like it was chained to my very soul.

Last December things got bad again, life really bad. It super-sucked. In complete desperation, I made the decision to get back into treatment. I did not want to do this, but life was unlivable. If you are nodding now, you have my sympathy. It sucks for you too.

In the time since, I did months of CBT, tried a new EMDR practitioner, and for the first time, went to see a prescribing psychiatrist. The CBT ran its course with no results. My therapist actually stifled a yawn at our last two sessions. I never clicked with the EMDR doc, but felt like I finally found hope with my psychiatrist.

She started me on Prazosin, the same medication used by military veterans for PTSD. While it initially showed promise, my PTSD was clearly stronger. Month by month, she increased my dosage. A couple of weeks ago found me back in the land of three bad nights a week. She added a new medication, Hydroxyzine, to my bedtime ritual. A strong antihistamine, it literally knocked me out at bedtime. Trouble is, it knocked me out the following day as well, leaving me zombified, sluggish, and with double the usual helping of brain fog.

Worse still, the nightmares continued, but there was a change. Being so knocked out, it became hard to wake up from my night terrors. I was left drug-trapped in my nightmares. It was the epic suck situation. Last Sunday, after three horrific nights, I hit bottom, a hard bottom.

What do you do when you can’t keep living like this, when everything you’ve tried has failed, and when you are just lost in complete, utter, and unfathomable exhaustion?

I cried.

A lot.

Sarah is my safe human. She could already tell my state, but I told her anyway, telling her that I was close to those dark thoughts that no one likes to admit. That I couldn’t see any light any longer. I felt like Frodo on Mount Doom. It was horrible.

The first action item was to immediately stop taking Hydroxyzine. While I advocate for others, sometimes self-advocacy is needed. It’s been two days off that, and I can think again. Tomorrow I tell my doc that I can no longer take that med. It feels like it’s time for radical changes, but I’m still trying to define radical. I am using my phone very little these days, stepping back from watching politics, and doubling down on my mindfulness practice.

Today I did something I’ve never done before. I spent some time writing about every single traumatic event in my life. It was a long list, but this was the first time I ever put them all on paper. I asked Sarah if we could talk for a few minutes, and I shared the list with her. She knew of all of what I shared and added a couple of things that I forgot. After ten minutes in her office, I went out to our fireplace, said a prayer, and burned the list.

“Here, Universe, this is yours now. I have to let it go, I have to let it all go. My very life depends on letting it go.”

That was seven hours ago. I am spent. I am emotionally weary, and I am tired of the fight. But I’m also a stubborn son of a you-know-what. I can’t believe that I’ve been living with this for almost fourteen years. That alone sucks. But I refuse to let this beat me. If it did indeed beat me, that would suck for Sarah, and I do what I can to protect her from the suck.

((Deep sigh here))

I don’t know where all this is going, and I really don’t know what to do next, but I’m not quitting. No way, no how.

Because that would be the ultimate suck.