Come Join the Murder
“There’s a black bird perched outside this window. I hear him calling. I hear him sing.
He burns me with his eyes of gold to embers. He sees all my sins. He reads my soul.
One day that bird he spoke to me. Like Martin Luther. Like Pericles.
‘Come join the murder. Come fly with black. We’ll give you freedom from the human trap.
Come join the murder. Soar on my wings. You’ll touch the hand of God, and he’ll make you King.'”
– “Come Join the Murder,” The White Buffalo and The Forest Rangers
I hate it. I hate this THING. I hate this thing i HAVE.
The biggest downfall of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is that it is so fucking subtle. So subtle that most of the time others forget I have it. Hell, most of the time even I forget that I have it. And then it rises up in me, and I still don’t even recognize it. And then it pours its filth, its acid, over my relationships and knocks the wind from me when I see the trail of decay it leaves.
As the bridge collapse becomes a faint dot in the rear-view mirror, I still deal with it in certain aspects, top of mind. The headaches from all the metal used to construct a new face. The left ankle that reminds me it’s the end of the day as it pulses in pain. The fact that I can’t smell my son’s hair after a bath or the roses I buy my Love. The voracious snoring that accompanies the sleep apnea. The bouts with imbalance as I try to tie my shoes while standing. They are all constant reminders of how I am broken, less than I once was.
But the PTSD, it comes and goes. And you never know when and how it manifests. And it turns me ugly.
I am scared. So scared. I want to be unshackled from it. I want to be able to see the storm before it hits. I want to steer safely from it rather than be forced to skim the salvage from the aftermath.
I want to know this THING, pull it apart and examine it so I can outsmart it, crush its head with my heel.
I have lost so much, and by the grace of God regained much as well. I fight each day to retain what is most important to me, those whose love and support buoy me, whose smiles keep me laughing when once I thought I could never do so again. I won’t let PTSD take the only things that mean everything to me.
That being said, I can’t lay all the blame on PTSD. I have to take responsibility for the things I say and do (or don’t). I have to be bigger than it. I have been and I will be again. It’s just that this time I can’t think that it’s cured, or gone, or never coming back. It’s my thorn I can’t pluck.
I have a son who only knows THIS person. A Love who only knows THIS person. So THIS person must do what needs to be done so he can be the leader he calls himself to be.
Subtle signs of PTSD include:
An anger of injustice stimulated to an excessive degree (sometimes but improperly attracting the words “manic” instead of motivated, “obsessive” instead of focused, and “angry” instead of “passionate”, especially from those with something to fear)
An overwhelming desire for acknowledgement, understanding, recognition and validation of their experience
A tendency to oscillate between conciliation (forgiveness) and anger (revenge) with objectivity being the main casualty
Extreme fragility, where formerly the person was of a strong, stable character
Numbness, both physical (toes, fingertips, and lips) and emotional (inability to feel love and joy)
Clumsiness
Forgetfulness
Hyperawareness
A constant feeling that one has to justify everything one says and does
A constant need to prove oneself, even when surrounded by good, positive people
An unusually strong sense of vulnerability, victimization or possible victimization
Feelings of worthlessness, rejection, a sense of being unwanted, unlikeable and unlovable
A feeling of being small, insignificant, and invisible
An overwhelming sense of betrayal, and a consequent inability and unwillingness to trust anyone, even those close to you
