The time bomb appears to have detonated.
I did that fabulous thing where I freak out to the extent that I can’t cope with the situation so much that I just… don’t (I’m kidding, it is far from fabulous, and I know this even as I’m doing it). When people talk about admitting me to hospital, PTSD triggers fresh terror, and guilt takes my other hand and drags me out of the door before rational thought even gets a look-in. Denial pats out the flames of we shouldn’t be doing this, it is stupid and soothingly whispers “It’s ok, it will go away, it will all be ok this time. You don’t feel like you could be dying, so you aren’t. Breathe. Trust the freak out. The freak out is protecting you. The freak out knows all.” Until, in situations like this one, denial loses its grip and runs for the hills just like everyone else whose words I ever found comfort in. As it fades away it shouts one final sentence, “The freak out is an idiot. You’re going to die because of him, kid.”
The freak out is an idiot. But it takes over. And there’s nobody left who knows how to override its message, and so the freak out continues to rule until the situation is so bad that there is no more capacity to freak out. Like now. Rational thought did too little too late.
I woke up this morning, and after being awake for a few minutes I went back to bed, freezing cold and somehow drenched in sweat at the same time. Each time I tried to wake up it felt like somebody had tied lead weights to my eyelids and was rubbing sandpaper across my corneas. My grandparents and I walked all around Sandwich today because they’ve shut a bunch of roads and have stalls and bunting and things everywhere (it is a french themed weekend coupled with a load of street parties for the queen’s 90th birthday). This of course meant meeting a bunch of people who knew all about my life, but whom I couldn’t remember ever meeting before. I walked a minuscule distance to the car park and by the time we got there I was done. I needed sleep. My legs were threatening to give out on me, the world was starting to spin. Luckily (and embarrassingly) we’d gone to the carpark to get Winston the wheelchair from the boot of the car. My granddad assembled him and I reluctantly took my seat. (For the record, being in a wheelchair driven by my grandparents is ABSOLUTELY TERRIFYING. Steer clear. They took out an ankle or two and there were many times when I was nearly tipped out, but there was no way I could have walked and I was grateful.) It was hot, and my grandparents got hot and out of breath pushing me around, which only added to the shame that was making me want to crawl out of my own skin. But then they bought me paella which is one of my favourite things to cook… And I couldn’t eat it.
They went out again and after watching another episode of Breaking Bad on my DVD player (I love it! Can’t believe I waited so long to watch it) I realised I couldn’t actually leave the sofa. And then came the sleep. I’d at first thought I was tired but then I realised it was the sleep – the involuntary sleep which I struggle to ever really wake from once it starts. The sleep that comes right before ambulances and central lines and panicked doctors and intensive care and a smile and a wave to the grim reaper. And yet, I slept anyway. I woke feeling drugged. I’m not hungry (a very bad sign), in fact, I don’t have the energy to eat and the thought of food now turns my stomach, which is a shame, because there are some fresh apples on the side that I really wanted to eat (you know what they say about an apple a day). My head hurts, the world is starting to look funny, I feel lousy, my heart is starting to have a tantrum, and I am experiencing the “you come back here right away” symptom that I was told to look out for but know all too well.
I have no way of checking my bloods, I have no idea what is going on. My grandparents are out at the moment but they will be back soon and I will have to somehow hide the fact that this. Is. Bad. I’m trying to fix it. I think it’s too late.
Who am I kidding, I know it is too late.
And we are a very long way from the nearest hospital.
The truth is, I don’t want to go through this again. I am tired of it. If I’d known in the earlier stages it would never have got this far and that is even more frustrating. I don’t want to go through all the trauma again. I don’t know how to. Not now. Not this soon. I’m not ready to be that person again. I’m not ready to throw more fuel on the fire of my PTSD by putting myself back into an environment with so many triggering smells and sounds and sights.
I shouldn’t have let her let me go yesterday without more bloods, without getting properly checked out. There was a reason London always admit me with bloods half as bad as that. Denial has shifted enough for me to accept that now. Way, way too late.
I don’t like this. I feel properly unwell. I’d go to hospital if there was on here, but then my mum would break all over again.
The freak out is an idiot. I do stupid stuff when I’m under its influence.
It’s getting worse, I have to go.