First off, Pax has gas (even Ice-T in the picture can smell it). For those that know him, they will say, “what else is new?” No, this is an exquisite combination of something he ate and the long-term anti-fungal he is on for valley fever. It seems that he has a dormant case that never seemed to get treated years ago. Thankfully the veterinarian that he sees is familiar with it. Anyway, condition improving, just gas. I guess that we all still can smell at the castle is sort of a negative Covid test (non-scientific and mainly used by teenage boys as an excuse for passing gas).
I had the experience of ketamine therapy this week. For those that don’t know, nursiepoo has PTSD. Ketamine is showing some promise in treating the more persistent symptoms of both PTSD and depression. A few quick thoughts in no particular order.
First, no, I am not magically cured after one treatment. The provider told me that it would not happen. I think at the moment, I feel the raw nerves exposed that I wasn’t sure I needed to have exposed. All of this occurred the following day after the treatment. Then, I felt ok again and functional. The net benefit for roughly three days was an almost Zen approach to everything. What I mean is that I felt like a part of my world, participated in it, and reaped some relaxed, better feelings.
Slowly over the weekend, reality has found its way back to my Zen. To put it lightly, I crashed last night and crashed hard. Not suicidal, but man, I could have done with not being in that moment. I felt all the old inadequacies amplified by Metallica’s sound system. I was in tears, convinced no one loved me, misread every fucking thing. All this, of course, in the midst of actually having to be a functional human.
I do not know whether to expect this emotional crash on the first treatment only, or is it a harbinger of how I will feel after each? If I am going to be this emotional a couple of days later, this may not be for me. I can feel sad, but feeling rejected when I clearly wasn’t rejected was not what I signed up for.
Yeah, I had no fantasy (ok, maybe a small one with all the hype the therapy gets) that I would magically be “better” and be able not to have all the fun effects of PTSD. Honestly, it gets tiresome to feel like you finally have a leg up on it, only to discover it found another way to mess with you.
It’s been a long road, and I think I will only reach the end of it when I die. No not feeling suicidal, just the stark realization that nothing will change in the course of my life and that I will always have new and fun things pop up as I learn to manage and deal with old aspects of this disease.
Today is an anniversary, and that may be this re-triggered shit. Well, kids, I never thought about the dark place; this is until the bulb went on over my head just now.
Thirteen years ago, I came home on a “happy Friday” to find my beloved dog Tasha in respiratory distress. I was scared; I panicked. We got her to the vet, but there is nothing I could do. I recall that day a lot, and I just realized it for two reasons. The first is obvious watching anything you love die is hard. I will, however, not be with a dog until its dying breath. They mean that much to me (so do humans, but I am talking dogs).
The second reason is that it was the type of breath I was taking all those many years ago when I choked during my rape. My grief had shielded me from that all these years, and honestly, I would rather grieve about a great, frisbee-catching companion than remember my assault. Wow, I guess getting the hot tub finally (fingers crossed) fixed and being outside with my current pups (they are begging for food because I brought breakfast out with me) helped the light bulb kick on. Shit, I am too slow on this thing. It took me 13 damn years to realize I was watching a beloved animal in the same pain I was in. Honestly, I wish many times I had died that night. I do not anymore (mostly), but the healing is damn slow.
Yeah, I am safe. I am not suicidal, but it is crucial for those who have those thoughts, be honest, acknowledge them (and not act on them), and have a safe place to do it that does not involve going to the psych ward.
The post on FB talks about the vigil last night that My Sisters Keeper (a sexual assault survivor group) dropped on my friend Paul. He worked his ass off, and the symbolism was not lost. No one showed up but Him, nursiepoo, and the media that he contacted. A fitting symbol for how we treat survivors, especially men. I hope he continues, but he sounds more “done” than ever. If I had a second wish, it would be that folks could contact through his Facebook and his web page and tell him he is doing a good thing and that you support him.
Anyhow be the kind of person your dog and your mom hope you are.