Slowly, the shock begins to wear off, a good/bad thing. I am still existing from one breath to the next, trying to keep my footing amongst a roller coaster of emotions which periodically careen about, gradually demolishing the
numbness which was my first reaction to the death of my vet. Every skill set I own is out in full force as I attempt to forestall a crash landing should my defences not hold. For those of us who have Complex PTSD, our sanity depends
on keeping dragons in boxes. Should I dissociate, the boxes crumble, and the monsters come out to wreak havoc. Time and space have no meaning, flashbacks become my reality, and I lose my identity in a whirlwind of terror and
sensory overload. I return to the killing fields of my childhood, subsumed by the horror of the memories of that experience. So much anguish and death. Of fifteen children, only I remain. I am well aware that my continued survival is predicated on my ability
to disarm the emotional mines of my youth should they be triggered. (Of course, my vocation is not the best job for someone with my vulnerabilities. I love it though, and it gives my life purpose.) I have set all the “helpers”in place,
therapy, meditation, T’ai Chi, medication, for the first time in years, respite from work, and any other stressors which can be lessened or removed. However, there is no magic to do list, or collection of distractions which will offer any immediate healing.
The human psyche is fragile, I know full well that my life will never be the same. I must learn a new normal, the old one is gone forever. I must be patient with myself, not be swayed by
those well meaning souls who push me to be Uber proactive and push myself to heal ASAP. Realistically, I will never be healed, but I can learn to live with it, most of the time. We slay the dragons we can, live with the rest.