Safe...

My cardiologist asked for the number of my counselor.  SIGH.  I gave it to him.  SIGH.  I mean, he is the most expert medical personnel whom I have met in Fort Wayne when it comes to dysautonomia.  And, well, he does want to help me.

My counselor told me last night the main question he asked:  How can I help Myrtle feel safer when she comes in to see me?  Sweet, yes?  But oh, how I want to not be the person who prompts such a question.  SIGH.

I am still greatly off-kilter, despairing, hopeless, and feeling all is rather pointless when I think about the encounter with his nurse.  Words oft fell me and the ones she chose in particular—not, I believe, from any sort of unkind or malicious place—were just brutal because they highlight my greatest fear: that I will always be so ... fragile.  I will always be the person who cowers in the face of ire and whose fear and shame hold her captive.  As it is, I am already very much not wanting to go back there on the 7th.

Three days in a row now, I have had day-long fires.
I need more wood.
Just a week after getting a full rack delivered.

I am also in dire need of an ash bucket, if I am going to continue with my emergency fire therapy.  Yet another thing I have made do without.  However, the coals last about 18 hours in my fireplace, so if I wish to have day long fires, day after day, I need a metal bucket in which to put the hot ash that is now spilling out of my fireplace.  Yes, I have melted more plastic grocery bags than I care to admit.

Safe.

What does that mean to me?
Sometimes, I am not even sure.
Sometimes, I am most certain.

I had the safety of my home rocked violently whilst my family was visiting, even though I know none of them knew or understood.  None of them knew I spent time in my closet.  None of them knew how hard I battled to hide my fear.  For one, my nephews wanted hugs and kisses, frequently.  They all wanted hugs and, especially since the hospital, I am in dire need of not being touched.  I gritted my teeth and endured it.  I tried to point out that it was painful to hug me, since the surgery, but that didn't stop the personal contact.  The other was that my nephew walked into the kitchen naked.  I just cannot handle the sight of male anatomy.  The sight and all that I felt in that moment still troubles me deeply when I become quiet, when I am not keeping so busy as to block as much out of my mind as possible.

Safe, to me, is no touching.
Safe, to me, is no nakedness.
Safe, to me, is no embarrassing stories.
Safe, to me, is the freedom to lie on the floor or crawl into the closet ... to be who I am right now.

Maybe who I'll always be.

Neurological anxiety stinks.
So, too, does what trauma does to the body and the mind.
And PTSD, of course.

I have written before about trauma and the mind.  And I have written about how dysautnomia wreaks havoc on the autonomic processes in my body, including vastly exaggerated responses to the slightest bit of stress.  Again and again and again, adrenaline, cortisol, and norepinephrine are being dumped into my system.  The physiological response is not something I can control.  Startle me, even the tiniest bit and the hot flash of adrenaline washes over me from head to toe, my heart starts racing, my limbs tremble, my body gets ready to fight, but I instinctively want to flee.

My counselor told me that what I am feeling right now, the thoughts about all this hard work being pointless, stems from the constant stress response I have been in since before the surgery.  The stress response in my body engenders negative, not positive reactions in my mind.  Between the surgery, the adjustment (or lack thereof) of living with a pacemaker, getting my house ready for a visit, losing my Medicare insurance, not having a COLA and having my medications, co-pays, premiums, house insurance, and care insurance all increase, and the triggers that are bringing up both nightmares and memories I would rather not have right now are pummeling my body and my mind ... all that is understandably too much for me to hold onto the small hope that had been building whilst talking with her this fall.  Besides ...  I'm not even to the worst part yet, though clearly that journey has started.

Hence the charge do nothing else but try to practice grounding when the onslaught becomes too much.

I personally think that my greatest problem has been spending five weeks denying Amos' begging for me to pick him up.  Ever since the pit bull attack, when he was seven months old, my Fluffernutter has preferred to be held or to be perched atop my shoulders.  Often, after picking him up, I slow dance and whisper sweet nothings to him as he relaxes against my body, rests his head on my shoulders with at least one paw around my neck, and falls asleep.  I ache to hold him once more.  Waiting another month seems like and feels like an eternity to me.

Amos is safe to me.
I want to hold him more than words can express.
Even if he did "water" the Christmas tree skirt.
Three times.