So, counselling has come to a end. A decision I made. After 26 sessions, I’d had enough. All talked out. Even though there’s so much I could talk about. I’m done. I’m all talked out. It’s exhausting.
Still the reoccurring nightmares, the flashbacks of that final night are still there, but fading. The last night, spent with my mum before she died in the most cruelest, horrific scene, like something out of a horror film. The last nightshift I ever worked as a nurse, years before, that kick to the head, that I can still feel, plays on my mind like a broken record. And yet, I tell no one. Maybe two people know about my PTSD. Because it’s not something that’s easy to discuss.
So fast forward a year and 5 months. It’s taken time but here I am. Still healing, still struggling in my own silent way, but hoping I’ll get back on track.
We all struggle with something. Whether we want to admit it or not. Sometimes admitting to yourself you’re not coping is the hardest part. Hiding from the world, pushing it to the back of your mind because you don’t want to admit you’re failing or not coping.
We’re all human. We make mistakes, we fail, over and over again. I fuck up. I fuck up all the time and now, I’m paying the price. And fuck does it hurt. I’m a fucked up human. But I’m trying.
PTSD doesn’t help. Makes you paranoid, gives you delusions of doom and makes you see disaster on the horizon. Because that’s all you know, that’s what you’ve seen.
It takes time. It takes patience. But most of all, it takes energy to keep going and I don’t have that much anymore. All I can do is try.
@specsygurl
tetheredinthedeepend 