The Depression Monster put me in an illegal sleeper hold. Usually, this would have pissed me off, but I couldn’t muster the necessary energy. Instead, I rolled with it. I went straight for the nuclear arsenal. I gathered my weighted blanket, my favorite tops, my bag of dice, and my pillow. I headed for the living room and made my nest in the Lay-Z-Boy recliner. I turned on Netflix and watched Louis C.K.’s new special. He was wearing a suit! He looks like he’s taking better care of himself. (I hope I’m right.) Within minutes, I could feel The Depression Monster begin loosening his grip. Laughing always trips him up. When it was over, I had a huge grin my face, and I was on the verge of belly laughing for hours after.
I wasn’t fucking around. I don’t have time for days when I can’t lift my head without intense effort. My PTSD begs to differ, but I’m becoming a ninja when it comes to coping with depression. Sometimes I wonder if my PTSD is improving over time. I push myself to my limits as often as possible because I’m convinced they stretch and loosen under stress. I also do this with my running to satisfy my methodical inclinations. I periodically run as fast and far as I can so I can run faster and farther in the future. The results are easily measured. I’d like to think the limitations caused by having PTSD are being stretched and loosened, and therefore improving. I wish it were that simple. The tricky part lies in being retraumatized. I honestly don’t think it’s easy to avoid being traumatized while living on earth for more than twenty years. It would take a lot of effort, and you’d probably be in a bubble.
Life is traumatic. Fucked up things are happening to someone right now. Others are being traumatized by witnessing. Collectively, we’re the most destructive force on the planet. Individually, many are deeply scarred by humans behaving badly. Or accidentally. Or unfortunately. I’m one of the many who got pushed too far. I say pushed too far because there are so many things that can trigger PTSD it’s mind boggling. I found myself in a situation my mind wouldn’t believe was a reality in real time. The process of accepting it was a lot like grieving the loss of a loved one, only it was done alone in a hostile environment.
The combination of shock and isolation led to acquiring PTSD. Had I been able to fathom the possibility, or had I been around someone I trusted enough to allow inside my personal hell, I likely would have avoided getting PTSD. There may be other factors that increased my susceptibility, but I’m skeptical. On second thought, I do have a known bug: I’ve been told I’m overly certain. It hurt my feelings the first five or six times, then I got over myself and accepted it’s the likely truth. This bug might have contributed, too. It’s usually debugged in early adulthood, but my trauma occurred before I got there.
I think what people mean when they call me too certain now is I’m militant. I like this about me. It’s an efficient mindset. It’s a bit cold, but warmth is sacrificed for readiness. I’m just paranoid enough to stay ready. (Yep. Zombies.) It also acts as a filter. People who are immediately repelled by my well adjusted weird don’t like me after spending more time with me, either. I like my rejection up front. I just cracked myself up.
I’m so happy I can walk across the room without using The Force, today. (I chanted, The Force is with me, I’m one with The Force while doing it earlier, of course.) Making fun of Rogue One is as fun as watching it. It’s the cotton candy of the Star Wars saga. Well, except the final moment. Even She can’t make us overlook such a vast uncanny valley. I’m still pissed they did such a shitty job on such an important few seconds of fan candy. Disney needs to remember fans are the only reason buying Star Wars was profitable. Without us, it’s just another movie. I’m off to read.