Still more...

When speaking of vigilance, I forgot to mention that I have to be vigilant about the dryness in my mouth.  If not, I can lose my teeth.  Teeth.  Vision.  Fingers and toes.  SIGH.

I realized, too, that I forgot another area where I need to be vigilant: my PTSD.

I streamed something the other day that has triggered me.  I am not sure why.  I cannot remember what it is that has me triggered.  I mean, I remember what I saw, but I do not know why it has brought me back to the place where I am trembling in my soul.

Shut up.  Be still.  Wait until it is over.

If my mind turns to what I saw on television, I am right back there.   I am terrified.  I am cold.  I am no one.  Being there is not good for anyone, but especially not for me. 

I have not been vigilant about taking care of my mind, of late.  Or at least taking care of the part of my mind that is ... bound ... by my past.  There are things that I have learned about myself, but there is still much, much more that I do not understand.  And I wish that I did.  I wish that that part of me could be better. 

Walking Amos, I live with constant pain.  Every step hurts.  My beloved Fluffernutter has embraced walking so wholeheartedly that a mere glance of mind toward the deacon's bench where my walking pants are or if I pull a plastic baggie from the drawer in the kitchen (he knows what size I use to pick up his poop) or if I grab the bluetooth earbuds to listen to music, then Amos races toward the front door where he has a conniption fit in his excitement, sometimes knocking himself over as his joy spills over.  And so I walk.

We both live with constant fear, but Amos' fear has grow less, at least whilst walking.  He is a trembling leaf in the back yard still, but out on the leash, Amos can now bear to have others walk by him.  He can bear for cars to drive by.  He can bear for leaves to fall.  Amos' startle response is so much less whilst walking.  And so I walk.

But me?  I walk in constant fear.  Each time we encounter another dog, adrenaline rushes through my body as fear strikes.   It doesn't even have to be a large dog, but the large ones are difficult to bear.  Occasionally, I see a pit bull, and even on a leash, the sight causes me struggle to breathe as my panic reaches terrifying heights.  I hate the pain and I hate the fear, but I love my puppy dog.  And so I walk.

[Of course, I try to get Becky to walk with me (via Sprint) every chance I get because I want don't want to be alone with those things.  So, walking doesn't make me brave.]

Working on the pit bull attack and its impact on my life by walking Amos these past 102 days has helped with the PTSD.  My exposure therapy in a way.  But I have no way to help myself with the sexual abuse.  And so I have not been vigilant in trying to at least protect myself from things that trigger me when I am streaming to escape my bodily misery.

That has left me trapped.
Shut up.  Be still.  Wait until it is over.

Tonight, though, Firewood Man called because our plan for my trashcan-view-less haven in the back yard hit a snag.  Actually, they came to a crashing halt.  He ended up talking with me whilst he visited three stores trying to resolve the problem, then sitting in his truck whilst searching the Internet for a solution.  Menard's, Lowe's, and Home Depot all didn't have lattice in the size wanted.  The choice was either too large or too small.

Four hours later, we worked out a new plan.  Perhaps, it might even be a better plan.  That's how merciful Tim is.  He's patient with me and willing to work miracles to make an idea come to pass.  And, today, he helped me forget for a few hours that I've become trapped again.