Pardon the interruption...

I felt I should interrupt the normal flow of posts with a couple administrative announcements:

1) This blog will not be updated daily.  I post as things come to mind, or as I have issues.  A lot of it will be memories, and those are kinda difficult right now to remember stuff.  So please bear with me.

2) The posts in this blog are not chronological order.  So for instance, the first post was from this past New Years a few weeks ago, but the nightmare post has been ongoing for a year now.  So as memories surface or events occur, I post.

3) If you know me personally, don't get all weird around me.  If something bothers you, if you're worried, or whatever, please talk to me about it.  I'm sharing this as part of my healing, and I would never be offended if you showed enough caring to ask if I'm ok.  :-)

4) That being said, don't flame me.  I'm sharing my thoughts and feelings, and I know other folks have them too.  I shouldn't have PTSD, I know that.  Others have served far more valiantly, courageously, and suffered far greater danger than I.  But this is my story, and the only one I can share.  Thanks for your understanding.

Now, back to the pyschosis....

Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright

It’s always the same.  Not necessarily the time I fall out, but almost always my first wakeup for the night is at the same time, just after two in the morning.  It’s not a full wakeup, no, that would be too easy.  That would mean I could get up, grab some milk, maybe read a book in a chair until I’m sleepy again.  No, this wakeup is the kind of wakeup where you’re not alert enough to realize what’s going on, but you’re definitely not asleep.  If I was drunk, this would be the time I send out a text that I don’t remember the next day.

The time isn’t the only thing that’s the same.  It’s the feeling.  The sweat, the tightness of the chest, the pounding in my ears.  I’m lying in bed perfectly still, so how come I feel like I just ran a 10k?  I roll over, my muscles scream.  Always the same.

Oh, and of course the nightmare is the same.  The same demon comes and visits me every night.  Doesn’t matter if I’m at home in bed, downstairs on the couch, in a hotel room in some faraway city.  He always seems to find me.  And oh so punctual.  Yup, set your watch on him.  Just after two.

I’m not really sure when the nightmares started.  I understand that most folks going through this can pinpoint a cause, but can’t pinpoint when they start.  I can point at the cause, hell, even the date and time.  I find myself looking on Google Maps at where I was sitting, measuring off distances.  They truly need to update their satellite pics to a tad more detail, eh?  Just under 100 meters.  Or over.  I’ll measure it again.

I never know what to do.  I’m a smart guy, I’ve solved a lot of puzzles in my life.  It’s been over a year now and one would think that I could figure out a good technique to defeat all this shit.  Drugs don’t help.  Alcohol only helps me fall out, the nightmare still happens, but I just don’t care because I’m drunk.  A friend recommended a talisman, no workie.  Tried the aura thing, astral projection, prayer, meditation (with and without the om’s) and zilch.  Nada.  Still the demon breaks in.  Still he takes the kids.  Still he does to the wife what he does.

It would almost be easier if he killed me too in the dream.  But as soon as he’s done with everyone else and turns to me, I wake.  I never get the chance to fight.  The ropes remain on me as he turns and grins…if only I could break free.  If only I could grab that knife from him and turn it around.  If only he could simply do me in and end the torture…

But instead I wake.  And lie there.  Knowing that the next time my eyes close, he opens the front door again.  He heads straight to my boy’s room.  And the rest plays out, over and over, again and again…

Madness?  I embrace it.  Hopefully when it takes over, I can forget.  So close…I’m so damn close.  But will I forget?  Or will I forget to care?  And does it matter?

Two cheese pizzas, please.

"Sir?"

"Sir?", she asked a second time.  Poor girl.  She was looking at me like I was a loon.  Which, I quite conceivably could be.

"I'm sorry, what did you say again?" I'm able to stammer out.  My hands are sweating.  I hate it when my hands sweat.  They aren't supposed to be doing that right now.

"I said that if you instead want two large pizzas, we have a special today.  Two large, two topping for $18.  Would you like that instead of the two medium one-toppings?"  She had a nice smile.  She really was trying.  Trying to be nice or understand what the hell was going on with me, I'm not quite sure which.

"I....uh....I don't know."  My response causes her to lose the smile.  God my hands are sweaty.  "Look, I'm not doing very well right now.  I'm sorry.  I know it's an easy question, but I really don't know."

What the fuck is wrong with me?  It's a damn pizza order!  One would think this could be an easier decision among today's activities.

"Look," I try to explain to the cashier, "my wife is outside in the car.  I'm going to ask her to come in and order.  She can do it.  I'm sorry, I just am not doing good."

To her credit, she gave a half-hearted smile and a slight nod.  Did she understand?  Has she seen this before?  Unlikely, I thought, she's probably just happy I didn't start singing the macarena.  Or maybe she knows someone...maybe she's married to one.  And that guy has the same thing going on. 

Or maybe she's just uncannily polite.

As I turned to walk out the other customer waiting on his pizzas shot me a quizzical stare.  No uncanny politeness there, he was freaked.  I about ran over a third person walking in as I walked back out to the cold.  The car.  It was over there.  I count the steps.

As I opened the door and slid into the seat I handed Nikki the 20 dollar bill.  "Here," I told her, "I couldn't do it."

"What do you mean you couldn't do it?  They were closed?"

"No," I had to close my eyes to continue, "I just couldn't do it.  I walked in, asked for the two medium pizzas, then I lost it.  I couldn't do it.  I just froze.  I just stood there, staring at her and froze.  All because she offered me the special.  And I couldn't decide."

By this point the sweat stopped.  The tears began.  God I hate that burning.  Is it allergies?  Is it burning shame?  Is it the feeling like my entire being was consumed in fire...a fire I could never extinguish, never escape?

"I told her you would go in and order," I turned to Nikki in the car, my eyes full of fire.  "She gave me options.  I didn't know what to pick.  Please just go order and apologize that I'm fucked up."

Nikki ran her hand through my hair, caressed the back of my hot, shameful neck.  "It's ok Bob.  We can just go home.  It's ok."  Hearing her say that was so soothing.  I almost believed her.

I put the car in drive.  Funny, I can drive a car hurtling down the freeway but can't figure out the special at Domino's.  Driving is nice though.  It's cooling, calming, comfortable.  I know all the options here and which ones to choose.  It's not too much, it's just enough for me.  And if I try really hard, I can just make out the lines on the road through my burning shame that is still on my eyelids.