P.T.S.D.

Posted on | November 22, 2010 | No Comments

as written September 29, 2008


Spent the weekend watching Mikey go through various stages of withdrawal. Friday night got there, and he was affectionate albeit a little irritated. I caught the flash in his eyes that told me he was using, and that fact in and of itself didn’t really bother me. The fear that hit me had to do with my trauma from one week ago, not the in-check codependent part of me that used to say “How COULD you?”

But he snapped a little at someone, and told me he was irritated that I rooted for his friend (playing my Pats in Madden) instead of for him. As we sat on the couch, he was sweating like mad. My heart started to race, and I kept looking at him. He started nodding off, and my eyes raked over him, terrified he would start seizing and turn purple and die right in front of me – again.

My body reacted, it was flashback and it was pure terror, and I could do nothing to stop it. He went into his room and I followed, and I asked him, “What are you on?” He was caught off guard, at first said nothing, and I just shook my head, and he said, “It doesn’t matter anyway!” and walked out. I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t see straight; the fear twirled inside me and rose like a dark ballerina from the newly processed reality of watching him die so so so so so so recently. I looked out of his window to the moon from his small room, my hands shaking. I sat down on the edge of his bed and tried to keep my arms from trembling. I tried remembering how to breathe.

In…out…in…out…in………out. What the fuck! My stomach heaved and the nausea came and I went downstairs to his bathroom and sat there while the coldness seeped through my veins and I tried to keep from vomiting. After a little while, it calmed just a little, and I went back upstairs. He came back into his room where I was, and I didn’t have any words. He said, “So this is what it’s going to be? You’re going to throw this in my face and shame me?” He was angry and I couldn’t see anything but his face, purple, his eyes rolled back in his head, the sick dying sounds of him trying to breathe. And now he’s angry at me. He sighed and closed the door and faced me as I leaned against the wall. “We’re going to talk about this. We’re going to figure it out.” I was still shaking a little. But I was glad he didn’t just leave again. Didn’t just escape. He was upset, but at least he was still breathing.

“You’re not going to say anything?” he asked me. Finally, I found my tongue and told him that I didn’t mean to shame him. I was sorry, what I meant was please tell me it’s not what you used last weekend and not as much so I can stop believing you’re going to die right in front of me again. I told him it was a reaction. That I wouldn’t normally shame him like that. That I just needed to know he was okay. That I wanted him to know that I knew he was on something, not that I couldn’t believe that he would. Make sense? He said it did. He said he was sorry, he never thought I would say something like that to him, not from me. He apologized for getting upset at me, told me what he had taken. Suddenly, the air cleared, and he gathered me to him and I could breathe again. It’s okay. We’re okay. He’s okay. I’m okay. I remember thinking, wow. That was good communication. W. would be proud! I couldn’t believe how quickly we resolved it, and how it cleared the air immediately. It really is about communication, no matter where you are in your life or what you’re doing or how sick or healthy you are. Good communication makes everything healthier…and I know that it’s crucial that Mikey and I have that if even our friendship is to continue to be healthy.

Friday night though, Mikey wouldn’t touch me. Cuddled with me a little bit, but wouldn’t kiss me on the lips. Wouldn’t reach for me much. I tried to let it go. Listened to him breathe, he was snoring bad – counted the seconds between his breaths and fell asleep somewhere in the middle of it. Saturday he watched football for the entire day. Asked him if he wanted to do something, but he wasn’t talkative and didn’t answer any of my suggestions. I didn’t really know what was going on. Got something to eat. He wasn’t talking to me or looking at me or acting like I even existed. He went in his room and fell asleep. I was frustrated and hurt. I went in and asked him if he even wanted me there. He said yes and didn’t open his eyes. I grabbed my keys and purse and walked out. He asked where I was going. I got in the car and drove up the street, just was going to write an inventory and clear my head since none of this was about me but I was taking it personally. I don’t like being ignored. It sucks. I called his mom instead  She said, “he’s just so tender. He just needs love.” and my heart filled with patience and understanding and love for him. As I pulled back up to the house, he came out and sat on the front porch. “He’ll be worried that you’ve left.” Debbie said. No matter how he acts like he’s not paying attention, he pays attention and notices everything.

I went up to him and he asked how my little stroll was. He told me he thought he was going to be withdrawing all week and how stressed out he was about it. Another click in my head. Shakes his head talks about how stupid it is, how he got himself in the situation and hates it. I looked at this beautiful boy and felt understanding. The rest of the day he continued to not really pay attention to me at all. I felt ignored again and discarded, unwanted and forgotten. He was tired and got up to go to bed at 11 pm. “What fun I am,” he said. I wasn’t really tired either. But he crashed and I told him I needed 3 kisses before he fell asleep. “I didn’t know I had a quota to fill.” he said and I laughed even though it stung me, hard. He lay there and wouldn’t do anything. So I left the bed and went back to the TV, feeling completely rejected and unwanted. I was so upset, angry; thrown right back into my wounds – they were seeping and crept up on me through his cold words.

My carefully placed stitches had come undone, and I was bleeding all over the place: rejection rejection rejection unlovable undesireable unwanted unlovable rejection rejection no one wants you no one wants you something is wrong with you something about you is so unlovable that even a sex addict won’t touch you…that’s how unlovable you are. That’s what a reject you are. You are worthless, see? I told you so. You are nothing. Stop fighting it. I told you so. And here’s another man proving it to you…the voice hisses in my head. And I listen and I try to think of the things that are beautiful about me and then wonder, “who wouldn’t want to kiss me?” and the voice whispers in demonic softness, “….no one…”

So I sat there, alone, in this house while he tried to sleep away his own pain – and I had to deal with my own. Mikey wouldn’t accept my pain, he had enough of his own, so he didn’t even try to make me feel better or try to fill my need. So I faced my need, alone, by myself. In that place, I felt the feelings that surfaced, the agony and remembrance of all my months having Brent not be able to stand even being in my presence – let alone the lack of his touch…the revulsion I felt he had towards me…all the years of me turning to men to bring me comfort, to want me, to desire me, to give me love, affection – to soothe away all my own terribly deep beliefs of worthlessness and self-hatred that I hid behind my own beauty. Slowly, slowly…as I felt the emotions that came…they passed. I said a prayer and asked the Lord to fill that need and that emptiness – and as I let Him into my heart and my pain, I didn’t need Mikey to fill it for me. My anger and hurt and stinging heart eased, and replaced with love and patience once again – and a sense of accomplishment and almost awe – that doing this works! After a couple hours I was really okay again. Climbed in next to him and fell asleep. He didn’t touch me all night, but I was okay.

Sunday morning came, he was still trying to sleep. I went out on the porch to start my Sabbath with the Lord. As long as it’s me and God, and not me and Mikey, or me and Brent, or me and anyone – then I won’t be steered wrong. God and me come first. So I was reading my pages and writings and revelations, and he came out to smoke and sit next to me. He asked what I was thinking. He was struggling with withdrawals, and they were getting worse. He talked to everyone he could think of. Can’t find any Suboxone to help him come down easier. As time passes, he falls back into his stress and anxiety and his withdrawals get worse. Sit on the love seat and he puts his legs over me and he’s getting worse, shaking his leg and foot and I see it get worse in front of me. He’s calling all kinds of people, trying to find anything. He’s hating life and hating how he feels but he still wants me there, and he’s struggling with that. Hating that I see him like this, but wanting me there still. I am strangely calm – able to be separate from all of it, not being invested in a dysfunctional way. Someone calls. He leaves for a few minutes then comes back.

Pulls me down on the couch with him, and puts his arms around me. “I feel like I’m dragging you down.” he says to me. I turn towards him, look into his eyes, and tell him that “Mikey, you are not my drug. You can’t bring me down if you’re not my mood altering substance.” More than that, I told him how amazing I thought it was that even in the midst of his disease he had changed so much, brought about things to better his life even while still struggling with using. I told him that I’m where I’m supposed to be, and that I’m not going anywhere, and that since I’m taking care of my own shit I’m able to be around it and not be in it. He looked at me, and I looked at him, and we both smiled. After this he wouldn’t let me go. How he got a little frantic there for a while, not being able to handle it. I just was able to be calm and peaceful through the whole thing. It’s not about me. I just felt through the whole deal that I was supposed to be there. Not to leave. That little things were of such importance that we could never realize how such a seemingly insignificant thing was monumental. This weekend was all about the monumental things we couldn’t see. But God sees…

Big deals. Communication. Reading him what he means to me. Telling him he’s not dragging me down. The light that shines through him in moments like that. Being there around him – feeling like there is no where in the world I want or should be more than right here, with him.

I wrote “I love you” on his calendar and left.

When I did, he was back in withdrawals and it was hard to leave him like that. But maybe he needed to feel them. To not have an escape so ready for him like they always were. To solidify his need to stop – to get back to recovery. To be reminded of things he could lose. Now, in his life, he has things to lose. Good job. Me. A future that he’s for once in his life excited about. Maybe it had bigger purpose…everything has had bigger purpose. He kissed me on the forehead and then on the lips as I left.

Putting my limited strength where the Lord wants me to put it, and can’t put any anywhere else. Don’t have it in me. My light and power and strength is being directed towards myself, towards Mikey and his family, and towards the Lord and my relationship with Him. I am facing my biggest issues and they’re being presented to me in Mikey, by Mikey. He is the epitome of every wound I have, every attraction I have, the encapsulation of my greatest pain. Mikey: the pill that carries in it every issue I have with myself…he is presenting me with each of my own issues and letting me face them (in my recovery). He is not even trying to fill my needs; he’s simply handing them to me without trying to fix them – and so I take them from him (taking it personally) and since he won’t take them back – I have to deal with it! wow wow wow wow wow wow. My knowledge of recovery is now being tested in the field! Is now being APPLIED in my life, in my heart, in my codependency, and in my pain. The understanding, the knowledge, the light of learned recovery is not going to be simply a book left on the shelf to gather dust. I’ve gone from training camp and from hell-week to being flown me overseas and put ON THE FRONT LINES (yes, already).

He put me in front of Mikey: an addict, a sex addict (awakens the “I need to save him!” part of me and the Martyr part of me and the Victim part of me and the Controlling part of me and the Pattern of my Life since my Father is also an Addict part of me), a beautiful man, desireable, fun, powerful, spiritual giant, emotional connection between us, physical connection between us: the vessel of the type of man that I have always always been attracted to and who I have always expected to fill my needs and deep void within myself.

For reasons unknown to me, I’m supposed to be here. Like God wants me on the front lines of my own personal war; applying the truths, healing, consciousness, direction, change of heart – solidification of my RECOVERY. The application of the great truths I have learned. The Application of His Atonement. I was never meant to sit on these truths, He always meant me to live them. And how could I live them without having LIVED them?!?! Impossible.

My PTSD pain continues to serve a purpose…

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Category: Brent, Feelings That are Horrible but Honest, It's all about the Feelings, Thank God for Therapy, The Deadliest Disease

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