I held off writing this until after March 8, after the second anniversary of John's death date. To be completely honest, I held off most of my life until after this day. I knew, deep, deep in my heart that I was going to be a mess, and I was right.
I'm keenly aware of the PTSD in all the alone times of my day. My brain turns on in the shower, my hour long commute to work each day, when I find myself in an odd moment alone with nothing else to think about.
The anxiety is crushing and it is heartbreaking every single time. I am overtaken by my grief, but I am well past the expected "expiration date" of mourning. People really do think that I should be "over this" by now. John died two years ago. I'm coming up on what would have been Drew's first birthday. I'm coming up on the anniversary of the exome results. I have a new baby boy and a wonderful family - so I should get over it.
Never. Gonna. Happen.
It isn't that I'm being stubborn - it isn't that I'm just not letting go. The grief is real and strong and soul bending, even now, even today, THIS DAY, this minute.
You might not see it, you might not know it, but I know it and I see it and I feel it. And it isn't OK.
PTSD is like an iron fist around my heart, directing my emotions without my consent. It comes up on me here at my desk or when I'm out in the yard, or when I'm doing the dishes. It hits me when I accidentally call Clark by one of his brother's names and I have to take the journey. I have to ride it out. There are no such thing as big triggers or small triggers. Tiny fragments of memory explode into full anxiety attacks while big long stories about people who lost their babies can roll right off my back with no effect. It makes no sense, most especially to me.
But John's death date was two weeks of trouble and sadness and it seeped through me and bled into every part of my life. I know that I need help with this, but there are shockingly few places to turn to. Even with insurance, hardly anything is covered from a talk therapy standpoint unless you are willing to be medicated.
So here I am, stuck again.
Again.
