So, amid all of this chaos with our post making it incredibly difficult to have a service dog, I was informed today by my doctor at treatment that I need to be involved in things that are, you know, outside my home.
Crap.
The only thing I still have the heart for is service dog stuff. Even though the military is trying it's hardest to break me so that I might give in and let them separate me with fewer benefits, even though they're trying to make it harder for me to have my service dog, and definitely harder for others to get service dogs, THIS is what has made a difference in my life. The doctor actually point-blank said she was glad I had a service dog because, among other reasons, it meant I had a responsibility to someone else.
I just checked in with our former trainer, and there's a session this Thursday that we'll go to.
I guess we're going to do this.
We're also looking at adopting a male dog, as a secondary service dog. She gets along fine with male dogs, more often than not, and I intend to make her a part of bringing home a second. I want another dog around her size, maybe bigger, that she gets along with and that we can train. I know seeing another dog doing what I'm trying to teach her has helped her, so I think training a second may be easier.
So much going on in my head....
Showing posts with label therapy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label therapy. Show all posts
Monday, April 9, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Save Me
Today is my daughter's almost-birthday.
It would have been her birthday if I hadn't miscarried her a few months into the pregnancy, when my fourteen year old body, riddled with drugs my mother forced me to take every day, which I didn't need, could no longer keep both itself and a child alive.
I still love her.
She would have been eleven today.
It's been a long day, and the new therapist at treatment is most assuredly the devil incarnate.
Fortunately, I bring my journal to treatment with me- well, one of my journals- and I get more therapy from that than this woman most days.
Today, I cried- just like the last two days. The husband and I are still happy together, but the PTSD, in a combined effort with the military, is making our lives a living hell. Between flashbacks, ab responses, nightmares, blackouts, and field exercises, when we're together, we're mostly struggling just to avoid hurting one another.
I made a decision this afternoon that I'll have to make again in the morning. I'm going running tomorrow morning. I'm not going JOGGING in the morning, I'm going RUNNING. I'm going to run down the street, with my dog, around the corner, to the light and back, and if we have to stop, we will, but I'm going to try really hard to just let loose tomorrow morning. I don't want this primal side of me to be caged anymore. I can't open up at treatment most of the time, now because I don't trust the therapist, but also because of the guy who admitted to being a sexual predator and the guy who won't talk about anything but his penis and sex life. Maybe if I push myself to the brink, if I stop being scared of feeling fear or anger and just feel it anyway, and RUN like my life depended on it, maybe then the tears and sweat and pain and weakness will have a place to go. Maybe if I open the floodgate, I won't have to prod anything to come out.
I need this.
It would have been her birthday if I hadn't miscarried her a few months into the pregnancy, when my fourteen year old body, riddled with drugs my mother forced me to take every day, which I didn't need, could no longer keep both itself and a child alive.
I still love her.
She would have been eleven today.
It's been a long day, and the new therapist at treatment is most assuredly the devil incarnate.
Fortunately, I bring my journal to treatment with me- well, one of my journals- and I get more therapy from that than this woman most days.
Today, I cried- just like the last two days. The husband and I are still happy together, but the PTSD, in a combined effort with the military, is making our lives a living hell. Between flashbacks, ab responses, nightmares, blackouts, and field exercises, when we're together, we're mostly struggling just to avoid hurting one another.
I made a decision this afternoon that I'll have to make again in the morning. I'm going running tomorrow morning. I'm not going JOGGING in the morning, I'm going RUNNING. I'm going to run down the street, with my dog, around the corner, to the light and back, and if we have to stop, we will, but I'm going to try really hard to just let loose tomorrow morning. I don't want this primal side of me to be caged anymore. I can't open up at treatment most of the time, now because I don't trust the therapist, but also because of the guy who admitted to being a sexual predator and the guy who won't talk about anything but his penis and sex life. Maybe if I push myself to the brink, if I stop being scared of feeling fear or anger and just feel it anyway, and RUN like my life depended on it, maybe then the tears and sweat and pain and weakness will have a place to go. Maybe if I open the floodgate, I won't have to prod anything to come out.
I need this.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Pushed Into The Mud
Our group started off today with our burn-out therapist saying she'd watched the movie Restrepo over the weekend and "got" why we're all messed up. She then proceeded to discuss in detail certain gory aspects of war and how she understood why it would mess us up.
Let me remind ya'll- this is a group for people with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The majority of these guys have been through multiple combat experiences AND a lot of us have childhood abuse backgrounds too. Our therapist is a perma-stoned woman old enough to have grandchildren, and has been divorced from an abusive guy with combat-related PTSD for a couple decades.
And this __________ _________ thinks it's a good idea to start off our Monday by speaking graphically about violent, bloody images and experiences.
Five of us walked out.
Let me explain why the therapist is stuck on this movie- sorry, documentary: we have a female soldier (and I use that term lightly in her case) who insists that was her unit and she went through that with them. I don't have to see a bloody, violent infantry movie to know that females aren't sent to places like that was filmed. The stories she tells have no emotional value- they could be taken from a shrink's notes, rather than real life. She talked about going to court, and, when prompted by the therapist she said- in these words- "I spent the entire time searching for an exit."
Nobody spends two hours "searching for an exit". You know where the blasted exit is, and you might spend a lot of time wanting to blow the joint to bits (let's be honest here) but you KNOW WHERE THE EXIT is.
Anyway, five of us walked out when we couldn't handle it anymore. Five of us might sound a lot, if you know that the most common process group therapy size is excessive at about thirteen people. However, there are more than 20 of us in ONE GROUP right now, which is insane at BEST, so it's really a miracle they even noticed we were gone. They "wrote our names down" (holy second grade batman!) and sent the admin dude out to "negotiate" with us. I went off the second I saw him coming out- I got three hours of sleep last night and had two anxiety attacks yesterday, I was in prime shape- and told him our therapist was unable to keep control of our group and discussing things that were setting us off- though I may have been more graphic and not quite as calm about this explanation. We also went off about the two people in our group who lie constantly and obviously and BS about everything. He pulled them out of group individually and spoke to them, the details of which I don't know.
Tonight, I got a phone call from a good friend from group, and he was crying. He'd already taken the drugs, they hadn't kicked in, and he was in meltdown mode. He described the "time-traveling" I do, trying so hard to hold on to reality, while being drowned in memories he didn't want to remember, feeling like he was barely hanging on. This is one of the toughest, most honest, most unbeatable dudes I know, and he calls me crying! I love this man like a brother- we understand each other so well it's scary, like looking in a mirror sometimes. Someone had made a comment about his service dog, and another had made several comments about violent stuff in front of a lot of children. He asked the guy to stop- more than I'm capable of in similar situations.
I am so angry at this therapist and at all these people allowing my friend, my brother to be hurt like this, to be dragged down in the place that's supposed to help pull him up. I'm so upset that these people put him in this situation.
He's better now, it's been a couple hours since the last part of this went down, but.... can nobody be trusted????
Let me remind ya'll- this is a group for people with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The majority of these guys have been through multiple combat experiences AND a lot of us have childhood abuse backgrounds too. Our therapist is a perma-stoned woman old enough to have grandchildren, and has been divorced from an abusive guy with combat-related PTSD for a couple decades.
And this __________ _________ thinks it's a good idea to start off our Monday by speaking graphically about violent, bloody images and experiences.
Five of us walked out.
Let me explain why the therapist is stuck on this movie- sorry, documentary: we have a female soldier (and I use that term lightly in her case) who insists that was her unit and she went through that with them. I don't have to see a bloody, violent infantry movie to know that females aren't sent to places like that was filmed. The stories she tells have no emotional value- they could be taken from a shrink's notes, rather than real life. She talked about going to court, and, when prompted by the therapist she said- in these words- "I spent the entire time searching for an exit."
Nobody spends two hours "searching for an exit". You know where the blasted exit is, and you might spend a lot of time wanting to blow the joint to bits (let's be honest here) but you KNOW WHERE THE EXIT is.
Anyway, five of us walked out when we couldn't handle it anymore. Five of us might sound a lot, if you know that the most common process group therapy size is excessive at about thirteen people. However, there are more than 20 of us in ONE GROUP right now, which is insane at BEST, so it's really a miracle they even noticed we were gone. They "wrote our names down" (holy second grade batman!) and sent the admin dude out to "negotiate" with us. I went off the second I saw him coming out- I got three hours of sleep last night and had two anxiety attacks yesterday, I was in prime shape- and told him our therapist was unable to keep control of our group and discussing things that were setting us off- though I may have been more graphic and not quite as calm about this explanation. We also went off about the two people in our group who lie constantly and obviously and BS about everything. He pulled them out of group individually and spoke to them, the details of which I don't know.
Tonight, I got a phone call from a good friend from group, and he was crying. He'd already taken the drugs, they hadn't kicked in, and he was in meltdown mode. He described the "time-traveling" I do, trying so hard to hold on to reality, while being drowned in memories he didn't want to remember, feeling like he was barely hanging on. This is one of the toughest, most honest, most unbeatable dudes I know, and he calls me crying! I love this man like a brother- we understand each other so well it's scary, like looking in a mirror sometimes. Someone had made a comment about his service dog, and another had made several comments about violent stuff in front of a lot of children. He asked the guy to stop- more than I'm capable of in similar situations.
I am so angry at this therapist and at all these people allowing my friend, my brother to be hurt like this, to be dragged down in the place that's supposed to help pull him up. I'm so upset that these people put him in this situation.
He's better now, it's been a couple hours since the last part of this went down, but.... can nobody be trusted????
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Nightmare On My Street
Incredibly rough start to the day today.
I woke up after a restless night of the worst kind of nightmares, to my husband leaning over me. I maintained enough control not to swing at the man three inches from my face. I pushed him away gently and told him I needed a minute. He got upset and went to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. I got angry- instantly. I got dressed, grabbed my service dog's stuff, my keys and wallet, and took off in my truck.
I spent at least an hour driving around, alternately crying and angry.
Matt text me to apologize, and I came back after a while. I had to break it down to him, in true Barney fashion, and we talked. It got better from there, but I've been a train wreck all day.
We went bowling with some friends today, and that went pretty well. Then we got home, watched a show that had a gnarly, violent abortion scene in it that sent me into tears all over again.
I'm struggling to stay present, always feeling on the edge of "time traveling"- something between a flashback and a memory. It can turn into a flashback very, very quickly if not managed, though flashbacks do not always start that way.
I'm starting to feel like the floor is dropping out from beneath my feet. Every little thing sets me off lately, and I'm sure it's because I'm raw from all the wounds I've opened with therapy, and, in the long run, I'm sure it's a positive, but.... I want it to go away.
The new doctor (the one we like, people, keep up!) says the fact that I no longer remember the majority of my nightmares is a positive thing- and doesn't believe I need to remember all the gory details to get better. She also thinks that I'm doing the right thing by fending off the drug-pushers. It's a relief to know that there's a doctor out there that believes drugs are no more than a quick fix as I do, but it's also scary to know that I'm now working with someone who is like-minded. I guess the scariest part of it is feeling like I might be held accountable in some way nobody else has. I'm not sure if I'm afraid she'll tell me it's time to try to face the real world and go back to work (where EVERYTHING is a possible trigger- and I wish that didn't sound like I'm exaggerating, because I'm 99.9% sure I'm not) or if I'm afraid she'll tell me I'm doing the right thing and push me towards trying to accept that I'm as bad as I feel lately. I don't want to believe I have PTSD, need a service dog, need klonopin, need to be in therapy, etc. I can't accept all of this is ME, or real... I want to wake up one day and realize I'm faking it all and that I can stop the act now.
I just want it to stop.
I woke up after a restless night of the worst kind of nightmares, to my husband leaning over me. I maintained enough control not to swing at the man three inches from my face. I pushed him away gently and told him I needed a minute. He got upset and went to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. I got angry- instantly. I got dressed, grabbed my service dog's stuff, my keys and wallet, and took off in my truck.
I spent at least an hour driving around, alternately crying and angry.
Matt text me to apologize, and I came back after a while. I had to break it down to him, in true Barney fashion, and we talked. It got better from there, but I've been a train wreck all day.
We went bowling with some friends today, and that went pretty well. Then we got home, watched a show that had a gnarly, violent abortion scene in it that sent me into tears all over again.
I'm struggling to stay present, always feeling on the edge of "time traveling"- something between a flashback and a memory. It can turn into a flashback very, very quickly if not managed, though flashbacks do not always start that way.
I'm starting to feel like the floor is dropping out from beneath my feet. Every little thing sets me off lately, and I'm sure it's because I'm raw from all the wounds I've opened with therapy, and, in the long run, I'm sure it's a positive, but.... I want it to go away.
The new doctor (the one we like, people, keep up!) says the fact that I no longer remember the majority of my nightmares is a positive thing- and doesn't believe I need to remember all the gory details to get better. She also thinks that I'm doing the right thing by fending off the drug-pushers. It's a relief to know that there's a doctor out there that believes drugs are no more than a quick fix as I do, but it's also scary to know that I'm now working with someone who is like-minded. I guess the scariest part of it is feeling like I might be held accountable in some way nobody else has. I'm not sure if I'm afraid she'll tell me it's time to try to face the real world and go back to work (where EVERYTHING is a possible trigger- and I wish that didn't sound like I'm exaggerating, because I'm 99.9% sure I'm not) or if I'm afraid she'll tell me I'm doing the right thing and push me towards trying to accept that I'm as bad as I feel lately. I don't want to believe I have PTSD, need a service dog, need klonopin, need to be in therapy, etc. I can't accept all of this is ME, or real... I want to wake up one day and realize I'm faking it all and that I can stop the act now.
I just want it to stop.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Anxiety
I wasn't anxious, angry or even particularly aware of my symptoms when I woke up this morning.
Then I started focusing on the thoughts about our service dog training session that would happen at the airport this evening, and the anxiety went wayyy up.
Then I got to treatment, and got particularly aggravated by a female soldier who talks about what she insists is PTSD in terms of war movies and text-book-entry-sounding (and ENDLESS) monologues of her "symptoms". Anybody who can sit there and say that she "repeatedly looked for an exit" who doesn't normally sound like a walking dictionary is, in my opinion, full of it.
Judging people is wrong.
I know.
Yet, it's so hard to avoid such sentiments when repeatedly one-upped during group "therapy". Mind you, this group therapy was once nearly life-saving to me. It's incredible how one person can monopolize entire days to the point of ruining it for the majority of the group.
So, anxiety and anger present were en masse.
Usually, anger negates my anxiety- anger allows me to feel in control, while anxiety is an "under attack" sort of feeling.
Today, though, they just seemed to be tag-teaming. I felt like I was fighting the Hardy Boys old-school WWF style.
Once we got to the airport, I was so grateful to have two of my friends from treatment with me. I was on edge already, but hoping I didn't need the "chill pills". I should have taken one.
I almost started crying when a loud buzzer went off to signal the baggage carousel was about to start moving. That wasn't the only time I was fighting back tears.
It's been a long, long, emotional day. We were also informed that our group's therapist is leaving next week. It looks like the lady we'll be getting is the burnt-out hippie that has yet to keep anyone under control. In a group full of combat and rape survivors, all of whom are soldiers, maintaining control over the chaos is VITAL.
Having our trust would help, too.
Sugar did great with training. I'm very proud of her.
I wish I were proud of me, for a change.
Then I started focusing on the thoughts about our service dog training session that would happen at the airport this evening, and the anxiety went wayyy up.
Then I got to treatment, and got particularly aggravated by a female soldier who talks about what she insists is PTSD in terms of war movies and text-book-entry-sounding (and ENDLESS) monologues of her "symptoms". Anybody who can sit there and say that she "repeatedly looked for an exit" who doesn't normally sound like a walking dictionary is, in my opinion, full of it.
Judging people is wrong.
I know.
Yet, it's so hard to avoid such sentiments when repeatedly one-upped during group "therapy". Mind you, this group therapy was once nearly life-saving to me. It's incredible how one person can monopolize entire days to the point of ruining it for the majority of the group.
So, anxiety and anger present were en masse.
Usually, anger negates my anxiety- anger allows me to feel in control, while anxiety is an "under attack" sort of feeling.
Today, though, they just seemed to be tag-teaming. I felt like I was fighting the Hardy Boys old-school WWF style.
Once we got to the airport, I was so grateful to have two of my friends from treatment with me. I was on edge already, but hoping I didn't need the "chill pills". I should have taken one.
I almost started crying when a loud buzzer went off to signal the baggage carousel was about to start moving. That wasn't the only time I was fighting back tears.
It's been a long, long, emotional day. We were also informed that our group's therapist is leaving next week. It looks like the lady we'll be getting is the burnt-out hippie that has yet to keep anyone under control. In a group full of combat and rape survivors, all of whom are soldiers, maintaining control over the chaos is VITAL.
Having our trust would help, too.
Sugar did great with training. I'm very proud of her.
I wish I were proud of me, for a change.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Recovery?
Being in outpatient therapy is scary.
Scary.
I said it.
It drudges up so much, and makes you look at every. single. emotion.
It's like everything you've felt is suddenly under a microscope and you can't avoid looking at every detail of it now.
Today, our group moved through three different rooms. I was surprised when I realized it was stirring up anxiety in me. I was shocked when I found out I wasn't the only one.
Anxiety.
So much anxiety.
Soooo much anxiety.
Sunday night, my roommate came home very drunk and very angry.
He started yelling at me about my dog, and just kept yelling. I started to black out, and left the room. I spent three hours in an anxiety attack. Three hours. Three HOURS!!!
So, the boyfriend and I are moving out of the house and back into the barracks, and taking our dog to his dad's house.
I hate the thought of not being able to live with him, but I know it's the right choice right now.
That night brought up so much for me, and made me understand so much more about myself. Once I started to come down from the anxiety a little bit, I started talking to my boyfriend about how much I hate it when my home is taken away from me, and how it's always happened. I never had a home I felt really safe in, and even the better ones were taken from me, one way or another. I've never really had a true home. As he and I talked about that, I realized this was also the reason I was so eager to get married. I wanted a home. I wanted a place I felt safe and that wouldn't get taken away from me. I told him that, and he promised me we would have it.
I love this man. He stayed by my side the entire time I was going through that anxiety attack. He did everything he knew how to comfort me, but never once questioned my emotions or my reaction to it all. My dad thinks he's a saint. He said that.
I keep thinking about my fiance- the one that died over a year ago. The one I broke up with only months before he died of an asthma attack. The one I hadn't seen in years (I was stationed in Korea when we got engaged, and were in a long-distance relationship the entire time, but had been friends for years before) and who I hadn't come to see when I first came back to the states. The one who I still have so many questions about... I loved him, and I still do. My gut told me something was wrong though, and I never have gotten any real information on anything he told me. I don't know if everything he told me was a lie, or if all of it was true. All I know is that he promised me the world, and I believe he loved me, even if I don't know what he believed. I had loved him for so long, and had wanted to be with him for so many years. When it finally happened, I was practically blinded with happiness. When I started questioning things, I don't know if it was fear of commitment or just that something didn't feel right... I don't know what to believe, and I can't ask him. I have never felt more guilty than I do about him. There are so many pieces that just don't fit, and so many things he told me that other people know nothing about... It hurts so bad to think of how I might have hurt him... and it hurts even worse thinking that it all might have been a lie...
I don't know how to get past this...
Rest in peace, no matter what the truth is....
Scary.
I said it.
It drudges up so much, and makes you look at every. single. emotion.
It's like everything you've felt is suddenly under a microscope and you can't avoid looking at every detail of it now.
Today, our group moved through three different rooms. I was surprised when I realized it was stirring up anxiety in me. I was shocked when I found out I wasn't the only one.
Anxiety.
So much anxiety.
Soooo much anxiety.
Sunday night, my roommate came home very drunk and very angry.
He started yelling at me about my dog, and just kept yelling. I started to black out, and left the room. I spent three hours in an anxiety attack. Three hours. Three HOURS!!!
So, the boyfriend and I are moving out of the house and back into the barracks, and taking our dog to his dad's house.
I hate the thought of not being able to live with him, but I know it's the right choice right now.
That night brought up so much for me, and made me understand so much more about myself. Once I started to come down from the anxiety a little bit, I started talking to my boyfriend about how much I hate it when my home is taken away from me, and how it's always happened. I never had a home I felt really safe in, and even the better ones were taken from me, one way or another. I've never really had a true home. As he and I talked about that, I realized this was also the reason I was so eager to get married. I wanted a home. I wanted a place I felt safe and that wouldn't get taken away from me. I told him that, and he promised me we would have it.
I love this man. He stayed by my side the entire time I was going through that anxiety attack. He did everything he knew how to comfort me, but never once questioned my emotions or my reaction to it all. My dad thinks he's a saint. He said that.
I keep thinking about my fiance- the one that died over a year ago. The one I broke up with only months before he died of an asthma attack. The one I hadn't seen in years (I was stationed in Korea when we got engaged, and were in a long-distance relationship the entire time, but had been friends for years before) and who I hadn't come to see when I first came back to the states. The one who I still have so many questions about... I loved him, and I still do. My gut told me something was wrong though, and I never have gotten any real information on anything he told me. I don't know if everything he told me was a lie, or if all of it was true. All I know is that he promised me the world, and I believe he loved me, even if I don't know what he believed. I had loved him for so long, and had wanted to be with him for so many years. When it finally happened, I was practically blinded with happiness. When I started questioning things, I don't know if it was fear of commitment or just that something didn't feel right... I don't know what to believe, and I can't ask him. I have never felt more guilty than I do about him. There are so many pieces that just don't fit, and so many things he told me that other people know nothing about... It hurts so bad to think of how I might have hurt him... and it hurts even worse thinking that it all might have been a lie...
I don't know how to get past this...
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