Trigger Warning: PTSD

It has been over a year and a half since I had a stroke and was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. My heart is now functioning normally (with the help of medication) and an MRI to check for permanent damage from the stroke came back negative. I should be thrilled, and I am. Really. I went from having doctors tell me that I may need a heart transplant to having the kind of turn around that other people would consider miraculous. I’ve also managed to lose more than thirty pounds and have gone down multiple dress sizes.

Physically, I’ve made a monumental recovery. Mentally, I’m still nursing open wounds. So, at this point, here is the reason for my post... TRIGGER WARNING: PTSD.

Yeah, no that wasn’t just a trigger warning, it was the reason for the season, y’all. I’ve been told that I likely have some residual trauma from many things that have occurred throughout my life. For those situations the triggers were so specific, so distant, that they have become easily avoidable. Or at least more easily avoidable than not. I mean, I may have ceded the entire state of Utah to one child molester and about sixty people who made my life a living hell when I was a child, but it’s a lot simpler to avoid the state of Utah than it is to avoid my living room.

My living room, where I had the stroke. For months I would get uneasy anytime I was alone in the room—whether I was home alone or not. We bought new living room furniture and that helped a lot, but there seems to be something about this room that makes me feel like something’s been left unfinished. For a long time I thought that unfinished thing was my dying. While the path I took to recovery may seem miraculous for its brevity, it was actually horrible. I was so overly medicated that I couldn’t do anything but watch TV for nearly a year. The dosage on my beta-blockers was so high that I could literally feel the medication fighting against my body any time I tried to do anything, whether it be walking to the mailbox or brushing my teeth. The beta blockers also set my nerves on edge and kept triggering my syncope which made showering such a terrifying ordeal that I often opted out of showering for as long as a week at a time. Bathing with baby wipes seemed like a better plan than passing out on the tile.

I was continually told how lucky I was to have survived, but I didn’t feel like I was living. For a long while, there was no end in sight to the medication side effects, and while my heart and brain got better, my quality of life got worse.  My brain stopped working the way it was supposed to, not because of the stroke, but because of the medication. Words, concepts, and memories were slow to form and almost impossible to recall. Even reading was difficult, as I found myself having to reread the same passages over and over again to simply comprehend the words.

The anxiety induced by the beta-blockers was the worst though, because it fed the PTSD. Whenever I felt like I was being backed into a corner, when fight or flight would kick in, the anxiety would send those memories of nearly dying into the forefront of my mind and I would immediately wish that I had died. Since the anxiety was nearly constant, I ended up thinking about dying a lot. It seemed to me that the constant patter of thought revolved around the same recurring theme: Why did I live for this? Am I more of a burden alive than I would have been dead? Why am I not dead?

Then things changed. I went through months of Xanax and depression and one day it was just…different. I took control. I started a diet. I began doing little things and being proud of the accomplishments, no matter how small. Losing weight lowered my heart rate and resulted in a lower dosage of beta-blockers. The brain fog cleared, the fatigue abated somewhat. I was able to read, then write. I was able to get out of the house for more than just doctor appointments. I was able to reconnect with an old friend who has been a blessing I never expected. 

My living room has become the place where I write and snuggle with my cats. I can’t guarantee that all the triggers are gone. Sometimes they sneak up on me, and I fight the panic, take a Xanax, and try to remember all the good things. Because there are good things and the something left unfinished has become all the wonderful things I have left to do. 

Phoenix or Fail

As of this posting, I am thirty-four years old. Approximately a week and a half ago, I had a stroke and was diagnosed with Congestive Heart Failure. As if that wasn't sobering enough, I was informed that this was not my first stroke, that it was, in fact, my fourth. I'll find a way to heal from this. The important thing about this experience was that I realized, as I lay upon the floor, unable to move the right half of my body and mostly assured that I would probably die there and my cats would eat me, that I was living for everyone except myself. The decisions I'd made about my hobbies, career, religion, clothing, friends, activities, and abilities had all been based upon what other people thought or wanted. I had lived in constant fear of offending someone. Anyone. 

Then life drew the Tower card on my behalf, and I got the opportunity to fall apart. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it really is the way I've always seen the Tower card in Tarot. Often portrayed as the big baddie of divination, the Tower card can represent sudden, cataclysmic, devastating change; but, as is usually the case, once you've been destroyed, you get a choice: Phoenix or Fail. What the hell does that mean? Well, it means that you can either rise again, like the mythological Phoenix who is reborn from its own ashes, or you can wallow in give-the-fuck-up. 

Well, I've got some shiny new feathers, bitches.