Sanity Thy Name Is Not My Own

PTSD.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Shell Shock.
Combat Fatigue.
Post-Vietnam Syndrome.
Soldier's Heart.
War Malaise.
Battle Fatigue.
Effort Syndrome.

I don't care what you call it, it sucks, and I'm tired of it.
For those of you who aren't aware, PTSD is not just something that occurs in people who have been to war. Any traumatizing event can inflict this hell upon any one of us, against our will.
I survived two rapes. I have PTSD.
I have the nightmares, episodes of hyper-vigilance- and other episodes of hyper-anger. I have had more flashbacks than I can count, though, thankfully, by knowing the precursors and being very, very careful about the situations I choose to put myself in, I have lowered the occurrence rate of them for myself drastically. I have blacked out from anger.

If you have never lost control of your senses and your body, you have not known fear.

The nightmares have been increasing again, as of late, though, until today, I didn't think my stress level was quite at the point where they usually make an appearance. These new nightmares aren't limited to the same nasty film reel that's been such a big part of my sleep since I can remember. Some of my usual dreams are terribly graphic mental images and scenes that have been playing out in my head since before I can remember why they started in the first place. Some are revisiting the rapes, the guilt, the pregnancy and miscarriage that followed my first rape (and the loss of my virginity)... The new nightmares, though, are different. They are happening here, now. These are not memories I try to avoid contemplating in day light, these are battles that occur in this small, cramped barracks room, with people who's face/faces I do not see. There are some that involve my mother, with whom I have a long, painful history, but who I have wholly forgiven by this point in my life and after a long separation from her.

Today, I got bad news. I got bad news on top of that slightly off-kilter feeling that always drags me down a bit when I've had a rough night with memories, dreams, nightmares.... I tried to keep control, really I did. Fortunately, I didn't black out or become violent, but I sure did lose my temper- quickly- on someone who I should not have, and in a very inappropriate place, even if my sudden flash of anger had somehow been warranted.

I spoke to my supervisor, asked if we had anything going on that would preclude me from slipping a way until after lunchtime to detox my brain. With his okay, here I am, sitting in my room, wishing this battle for life, for control, for peace would just end already.

But this battle will never end.

It will never end, and I am not the only person who suffers from my PTSD.
My father suffers when I lose my temper at him when I simply cannot handle the stress.
My boyfriend suffers when I break down into tears and begin to shake uncontrollably, sometimes with no obvious trigger or reason.
My friends suffer when I am so ashamed of the way I have behaved, despite my best efforts, that, all too often, I simply do not want to face them any more.
My male friends suffer when I won't be alone in a vehicle with them, when I allow no male in my room, save a few very trusted individuals, without my door propped open.
I have knives hidden around my space, and often two or three on my person, because, somewhere in my heart, I tell myself, over and over, that if it happens again, this time I'll be ready, and this time one of us will not walk away. I will not go through this again.
I will not go to the emergency room, strip naked on a collection pad, in front of four or five people, only to be poked and prodded, wiped and rubbed, tested and medicated, questioned and judged, and I will never again be treated as a liar or a defendant.
Have you ever had a cop tell you to your face that you need to stop lying about what happened, accuse you of being racist, and demand to know why you're "putting that poor man through this"? I have. I was smart enough and strong enough to report my second rape, after regretting not having reported my first after I learned of more survivors he'd left in his destructive wake. After going through hell, after living in fear, after being humiliated even after the rape had been completed, I was called a liar and a racist.

I won't go through this again.
Except I know I will- every time I try to sleep, I will wonder if I'll have to go through it again tonight.
I'm living a battle that will never end.