Head down working through my job as best I can, overwhelmed by my chest, so tight my heart felt like it was going to explode. This has been the way for as long as I can remember, only broken now and then by the ringing in my head or the sudden feeling of utter despair, so deep I cannot breathe, or forget to breathe subsequently finding myself forcing a sudden gasp for oxygen. Panic attack is the new norm. Attack.? Mmh? Not many medical professionals talk about constant panic, so much so one becomes used to it. This is then often followed by a powerful sadness that often evolves into depression. On occasion my eyes well up with tears until one may eventually trickle and if things get exciting, the tremors come to visit usually in the left arm and sometimes in both.
When it all comes too much to bear, when suicidal thoughts start invading my mind, I think of my children. Survival mode kicks in and I pull myself together. Think positive! Think gratitude! Think anything else… Go to CrossFit, do yoga, stroke the cat, clean the apartment. Anything to keep my mind occupied, to keep it away from the stark reality of the past few years and the magnetism of loss and self-pity.
I’ve invested more time in cooking, learning the culinary arts both for the benefit of me and my son who has developed a keen interest. Tonight, he requested egg fried rice which I of course indulged. An opportunity to impress, to cook healthy, to inspire my best mate. Did I f**k. One leek, some Pak Choi, carrot, egg, onion, a fusion of spices, finished off with soy and fish sauce – he refused to eat it, the little ****** - I, on the other hand….
Sometimes we work wonders together and then sometimes….not.
This is my first entry for this blog that I’m writing for two reasons. Primarily as a therapeutic tool, a journey, in the hope of regaining some kind of sanity and secondly, should I get that far, that other people that have been through such traumatic periods may find some kind of comfort in someone else’s experiences, to know they are not alone and even find tools of their own to take away from all of this and I hope, laugh at some of the amazing (or perhaps shocking) things that have happened. For me humour and trauma go hand in hand, laugh in the face of adversity and laugh at the things we should not. Humour and music, without which life would be just wrong.
I have always been anti-blog, anti-blogger, anti-bloggiest – however in a dark moment I had an epiphany. I really am not typing to tell the world, I am typing in the hope I find some sense in everything, to exorcise and exercise a part of my brain that physical exercise simply cannot reach and because I told my psychiatrist I would do it as part of my recovery. I have decided to tell people I am going to do things and that way I’m committed. Doh!
HAL 3.0… tell everyone you are doing something, the things you always intended to but never got around to doing, so you actually have to do it, or be perceived in a way one would prefer not. So… started CrossFit, yoga, meditation, eating self-help for breakfast lunch and dinner. I am even considering fight training. boxing or Thai boxing. MMA nah! Not one for wrestling around on the floor. Focused on developing my relationship with my kids, engaged in their education, stroke the cat at least once a day, doing my best to be better, feel better in body and in mind. A spiritual deconstruction following a series of breakdowns, losses, and trauma. Badly trying to extend social networks and now…writing. Tick, tick, tick, and tick – pat on the back HAL 3.0, long may this continue and continue it will.
So that you may understand I went through and exceedingly difficult period in my teens, doing the wrong things, hanging with the wrong people, going out with the wrong girl. It became a perfect storm resulting in a breakdown, panic attacks and paranoia. I went travelling for a while to get away from everything to reflect and relax. I came back reborn and enrolled at university. This I regarded as HAL 2.0 and hence 30 years later using the term 3.0. Another perfect storm only this time far worse.
One thing has become apparent to me that as soon as I stand still (if not meditating) the horror begins. Extreme trauma has been a powerful motivator for me when harnessed correctly, it’s like being told happiness is on the side of the river and the only way across is by stepping over a hundred hungry crocodiles. Not something anyone wants to do unless they must.
When I say, ‘as soon as I stand still (other than meditating),’ yes, I also mean sleeping too. Daytime is bad, nighttime is worse and when one experiences such ongoing and complex trauma, the human mind, or at least, my mind, ventures into the wacky world of dreams and more often anxiety dreams or even nightmares of which we have little control. Giving oneself motivational talks instead become an adventure into the unknown where anything is possible, though that is for another time.
Now time for the sleeping pill. Note to self - Cheeky sleep-in tomorrow as boy starts late – woo woo!
Friends… do not try this at home, theses writings are forced on the unfortunate that must endure them and I promise no animals (excluding people) were harmed in the production. Everything is true, fact not fiction, though aliases and anonymity applied.
Rather fitting - Under Deconstruction by Liesbeth Willaert, Belgium - all yours for $2870 at the Saatchi Gallery - some time before I get there.
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