Monday, January 20, 2014

PTSD Dance and I

This last week has been filled with plenty of tears and laughter. For a bonus I released I still suffer from PTSD. I thought I was much better now seven years post-Fundigelical but I'm not.

The laughs - Jim: He called me up on Monday night on the train from DC and said, "Can you make a meal with heavy foods, a real heavy meal?" Obviously I had to ask why. He had decided to sign up for the community weight loss competition called "Drop It" and wanted to weigh heavy. After a super-sized fast food meal and drinking about a gallon of water he signed up and got them to weigh him.

He's so competitive over anything that's a contest that it always makes me laugh. His trying to game this was just so ridiculous.

Will he lose enough weight to win? Only if he stays away from those frozen coffee drinks, which there's about a fifty-fifty chance he'll be able to do.

He did call me on Monday morning with a funny tale of drinking one on the train in to the city and having to jump off at one of the stations because it gave him sudden diarrhea! He took that as a sign from God that he was to give up the sugary coffee drinks.

The tears - They reorganized at work and it was announced on Friday. I was shaking in my boots that I was about to lose my job. I survived, but now will be doing other tasks as part of my job was eliminated. Whew.

Overdid it at the Gym and re-injured that foot the fat women rolled over in her electric scooter over a year ago.

The PTSD - On Wednesday I'd been working in the master patient charts in a cabin when I was suddenly downloaded in my brain something I had long forgotten. My fourth grade teacher Mrs. Bullock. She was cruel nearly every day and for some reason I was her target that year, 1970. I was already a sensitive and shy child, plus I was at the tail end of dealing with being sexually molested by the dentist and my parents continued their nightly drinking and fighting. I couldn't tell my parents, hell, I didn't even have words to describe what the dentist was doing to me. My parents were towards the end of their marriage, my mother was cheating, both drank and it wasn't unusual for me to be pulled out of bed in the middle of the night with both demanding who I was going to live with after the divorce.

I am telling you this not because I'm seeking pity, It is what it is, but because I want to make it perfectly clear when and how I started having PTSD.

That year I'd go to school after only about 3 or 4 hours of sleep from the drama and my own nightmares involving the dentist and sit there in my seat like a bumper stunned toad on a log. Mrs. Bullock would zero in on me, and before the encounter was over she'd said something hateful and I'd cry. I cried almost every single day in her classroom and she openly mocked me for it in front of the other kids. You know what assholes many kids can be, so it was a lonely horrible year. At nine years old I was considering taking my own life to escape my hell.

The year ended, my mother finally realized something not right was happening to me when I went to the dentist and stopped taking me and things settled into a cool detente between my parents. Best of all I left Mrs. Bullock behind. This was one of the only school years when I didn't get top grades and teachers pet status.

Looking back last week with the benefit of age and life experience I realized that her behavior was exceedingly cruel, much worse than I thought as a kid. What type of decent adult decides at 31 years of age to pick on and humiliate daily a child in their care? Some sick person.

I was very upset, the more I thought about it the worse it seemed. I googled my old teacher and found her. She's alive but she's ancient now, too old to be picking on any other kids, making their lives hell. That's some small comfort for now.

This process of healing is strange, just when you think you've gotten a handle on all your old hurts something else jumps out to bite you on the butt. I'm thinking I need to go back into therapy again because I'm still processing all that past junk at random times.


Anonymous said...

Sometimes I wonder if we ever get free from it. Some days, I will have, where in the hell did that thought come from, moments. Stuff from 30, 40, 50 years ago. It was one of those moments a couple of years ago that helped me see that a Christian family member had done something that was quite inappropriate when my brother and I were young. I had forgotten all about it, but as I thought about it, I was enraged. It was just another reminder that this person was not the loving, kind, Jesus lover everyone thought they were.


Persephone said...

I had a teacher like that. Not as bad, as she wasn't openly belittling to me in class, but I'm sure she selected me because i was a quiet, sensitive kid. The icing on the cake was when she reported me as being a behavior problem and that my grade had dropped to a C- from an A, my usual grade. My mother had to come in for a parent-teacher conference with me in attendance. It was a bloodbath for me. My mother did not support me at all. My teacher had me crying in front if my mother. That was the day I realized that my mother didn't really love me, and that I would never be able to count on her.