JenJam’s Complex PTSDiaries
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My harsh reality is that sleep is not something I look forward to most nights. At least until I’ve reached the point of utter exhaustion. And even then, my heart speeds up and my legs involuntarily shake when I do lay down. Every night starts with the same questions: Will this be a peaceful night? Will this be a nightmare filled night? Will I be able to slow my brain down enough to actually sleep?
I dread every night when my husband is ready for bed. My heart skips a beat when he asks if I’m ready. The truth is: I’m never ready anymore. I spend my days constantly trying to ward off thinking about the real life nightmares I can’t erase. I spend my nights wishing it was day time already so I can have more control (with distraction) over where my brain takes me.
My dreams are mostly haunting. Sometimes I wake up choking on nothing; but I know why. (Not ready to talk about that yet). Sometimes the slightest noise in the room makes me shoot straight up in bed and jump to my feet. Sometimes my dreams show the perverse faces I cannot bear the sight of anymore. Sometimes the faces are that of the deceased, bloody strangers I was unable to do anything for.
My brain has not let go. It has refused to process on some experiences. I’ve been working through all of this for this long with great success on some of the symptoms my body presents and dealing with what triggers my body to shut down. It happens less frequently but not entirely. Nights are a different story. Almost every night, I lay beside my husband as he falls asleep then I quietly leave the room to allow him his much needed rest. The sleep I crave doesn’t come and the images will not subside. So I cope in the healthiest way I can.
Nights are when I do most of my best work. Writing is what I believe is my greatest strength and always has been. I used to study in college to build a career with writing but chose the wrong field of study. Mass communication was not for me and I didn’t realize it until I was immersed in the program. I discovered that the structure of my writing needed to be completely my own and not based off of an AP Stylebook. It needed to be more creative and flowery.
It is the most effective way that I can express myself. In person, I feel so ignorant because I can’t eloquently speak what I think. I stay quiet in large groups except to chime in when I have truly gotten to think out what I’m going to say or to make a joke that easily comes into my head. My brain is always overwhelmed with thousands of thoughts at the same time. If you know what this feels like, you know how difficult it is to hear what other people are saying sometimes. You’re likely unintentionally tuning people out and then asking them to repeat what they’ve said.
Writing is the greatest form of communication I have with myself even if it never reaches anyone else in the same way. I feel like I comprehend what I’m thinking if I read the words that spill out as I write. It will come as a surprise to some that when I write, I have no idea where the writing is headed. I just let it out. It feels like one solid and straight line rather than the spaghetti catastrophe that is my mind. It’s therapy between actual therapy. It’s the only time that I am not overthinking but rather following one train of thought. It calms the rest of the mind to a dull roar.
After I write, I find that I can sleep easier. I find that my body relaxes and my dreams aren’t always the same. I feel like I’ve conquered a black hole inside myself long enough to rest. It usually ends with me falling asleep where I write. Which, unfortunately, is not beside my husband sometimes. But he’s never gotten angry at me or suspected foul play. He doesn’t hold a grudge the entire next day. He doesn’t take it personal. He just comes to where I’ve finally fallen asleep the next morning, kisses my forehead, and goes onto his morning routine like it’s completely normal.
Maybe this is my normal right now. Maybe it’s temporary. Maybe it’s permanent. I truly do not know. I hate with everything in me that this time in my life has no definitive end. The beginning is also undefined because all of the ways my body has always reacted to certain things, places, scents, noises, movies etc are similar to that of what they do every day now. But they used to be staggered and I never knew why I just knew to avoid these things. I didn’t realize it was just so I didn’t have to think about it. Now it’s all consuming. I should have taken the time to identify what this meant. But I didn’t. So here we are. Another night of sleeplessness that leads to reflection and another following day of dreading the night to come. But at least my noodles are no longer knotted for the time being.
