Want to walk?

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Dear ....,

PTSD: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, the diagnosis I ought to have, if
Social Security Disability would recognize it. As it is, I'm "diagnosed" cough with garden variety "depression." Yeah, I'm depressed. Snort.

When I go into PTSD, I relive old traumas, as though I were in them. This includes physical pain. It makes it very hard to focus on the present. I've healed myself from the worst of it.

Episodes last hours, perhaps days, rather than weeks and months now.

The major problem is that the chronic abuse from childhood seems to have rewired my brain. My adrenaline levels escalate to toxic proportions.

I can't control all of it, but I can now fairly efficiently prevent a cascade effect, in which my entire being is about terror. The cascading makes it impossible for me to come back to reality, until my body becomes literally exhausted and drained of its ability to produce adrenaline for awhile.

Seeing myself begin such an episode adds to the anxiety: I fear losing control, and that puts even more pressure on me, increasing the likelihood of severe panic.

I never want anybody to see me when I'm like that. I'm completely insane: hair trigger, irrational, paranoid, cruel and potentially homocidal. I've caused tremendous damage and hurt in these episodes.

I haven't had a severe episode since the late 80s.

Frankly, it's why I asked you to walk with me tonight. I was afraid to go out into the streets alone in such a vulnerable psychological condition. But I know I can trust you. And, frankly, your emotional self-care is reassuring to me; your state of semidetachment is a balm to me.

I didn't want to talk about the issue; that generally makes things worse for me, and I feel terrible, falling apart in front of another person.

I just wanted to walk, see trees, ground myself in Earth, and talk to a sane person whom I respect and trust.

These microvacations often save me and short circuit the episode. Walks like these are, if for no other reason, why I miss living in Pacific Grove so dearly. They saved my mind.

Since I couldn't do that, I imagined that I was walking with: you, Richard, Kate and Marianna. I listened to your stories and told each of you the WONDERFUL things about me--not the troubles.

As a result, I calmed down enough to reread the correspondence I'd misinterpretted, and discovered I wasn't in danger, after all. I'd STILL like another person to read that correspondence for me, and confirm that I'm understanding it correctly. Just to be sure.

I'd love to walk with you on Sundays. It's so beautiful up there, and I'd like to see it change over the next weeks. I'd volunteer for months, if you're interested.

Ah, another Something, out in the open. One of my worst, too, and I don't feel anything but relieved.

Thanks,

Rogi