PTSD

I haven't publicly told anyone I have PTSD.  Only a very select few knew prior to this post.  It's so hard to write about now. Why? It's silly, I know.  As a society, we can talk about our sexual encounters, demeaning rape, grievous suicide - and then there's domestic abuse and its subsequent PTSD; the subjects most don't want to think about let alone talk about. I didn't at first understand what in the world was wrong with me. Now I do. I've known for quite some time.  It literally comes and goes like the wind.  At first, it came unexpectedly.  Now I know the precipitating factors that lead to the spiraling emotional roller coaster.  Thankfully, the symptoms are less and less. My coping strategies are rather quite simple. I'm doing one of them at this very moment. Writing. It separates me from my mind. Sometimes I hide too much inside.  Writing lets it all out. Wikipedia and the WebMD say it's not a disease. It's a disorder. I kinda giggle when I write that. My "So there!" stance. A disorder is manageable. I can laugh about it now. Like when I get in an awkward situation or place full of awkward people, I openly say "Oh no. I have to go. My PTSD is kicking in. I need to burp." It's funny, but darn if it ain't true. I also have GERD if you're keeping a secret list.

It isn't that I'm making light of any of this. It's that I now have the freedom to make light of this. The exhilarating freedom to laugh it off. That was so not the case 3 years ago. This has been all about me learning about me. Diving into my oceanic soul and discovering the depths. I've learned so much.