I posted a photo on my FB page about PTSD but later when I visited the page it linked back to, I erased it. There’s probably valuable information on the page so I do not fault it for that. I removed the link because of theÂ memes and quotes….and how they landed this hour of the night. In other words, they didn’t do anything wrong……it’s just hard right now.Â I’m ranting, anxious, triggered and tired.
I completely object to the idea of showing PTSD as pretty, the same way I am disgusted by people showing Lupus in a dreamy way. I assure you, when I’m in pain I don’t think about purple butterflies with trailing light. When I’m up this late I don’t think about anything other than running from the brain vomit produced by PTSD.
I’ve been up too long, and I’m mad….at everything. I can’t get myself to go to bed. It’s hot and sticky. My brain won’t shut off. Â Why do I only think to take something for the anxiety whenÂ I’m far gone, like this?
I hate this world. I’ve thought recently of just walking away and living quietly in some place…who knows where……just some place. I’m weary, worn outÂ and appalled by the human condition. I’m appalled by the lack of reason, the abundance of openly hating one another and purposeful harm in action and words. It’s like there’s blatant behavior to inflame and keep communities unsettled. From top to bottom people seem to want nothing more than to upset and destroy each other. It’s hard to watch.
I want no part of loving anyone….or hating them.Â
PTSD isn’t pretty so why do so many memes aboutÂ PTSD show a beautiful, thin woman with flowing hair and professional make up? Why do the women in PTSD meme’s sit gracefully in the meadow with a dandelion flower gone to seed, blowing in the wind? PTSD isn’t pretty. The symptoms of this ravaging disorder crowd out perfect fitting dresses, fabric that falls just right and hair that catches the light, like flames. Â There are no orbs, no unicorns, no quaint sayings or quotes, by the known and unknown, that help me fall asleep before the sun comes up.
My PTSD is all over the scale. It’s the color of loneliness. It smells like feces. It’s cold and clammy, on fire, numb. It stutters and flinches. It’s stone, It’s blind and yet records every word ever said with the exception ofÂ the positive. It doesn’t dance or twirl, doesn’t walk in the rain or look longing in the camera at the right shutter speed. It’s not pretty. It’s not a phrase, a slogan, a meme.
4:12 am EST