I hate admitting I have PTSD. Today it seems it's thrown around so nonchalantly by anyone who has experienced any level of stress in their lives. It feels like the term has been cheapened and is now a disorder that makes people roll their eyes when you claim to be affected by it. When some think of PTSD they think of battlefield gore, loss of comrades, and other horrid experiences. So when I admit I have PTSD, I sometimes feel that *I* am one of those people cheapening it, because I've only seen a few dead bodies, but none blown apart by battle or dying in my arms. I have it despite all my rationalizations, I do have it and I think it can go take a long walk off a short pier because it sucks.
A musing on one of my roots and how triggers can be caused at the most inconvenient and unsuspecting times:
I took two of my girls shopping at IKEA. Man and I, mostly Man, built bunk beds with a trundle so the girls can have beds and not have to deal with air mattresses during visitation weekend (Man has two awesome girls and they deserve awesome comfort when they're here). Man's oldest daughter had never been to IKEA before so it was a literal wonderland of decorating and furnishing as we walked through the tiny apartments and living areas set up to show just how stylish their furniture can be.
As we circulated through the living areas we came to one that had a little rolling storage cart with many thin drawers, I didn't even notice it until Man's girl pulled it out and called me over to share in the marvel of just how organized she could be with limited space. As soon as I saw the cart I managed to calmly tell her it's awesome, but a bit of a pain to build before moving away as quickly and calmly as possible. I was so thankful we were by the couches because I had to sit down immediately as my legs wouldn't support me. I sat on the couch shaking, trying to center myself with breathing exercises, and attempting to look normal when I was probably white as a ghost and obviously disturbed. I couldn't stop shaking.
I felt stupid because seeing a little rolling cart with many drawers to organize my chaos caused such a reaction, but it wasn't stupid. No, not at all.
My ex and I had purchased that exact same cart many years before. He had visions of organizing art supplies, hobby projects, or something of that sort and I was fully supportive since I was sick and tired of hobby detritus vomiting all over the living room in a choking hazard wasteland. When we got home with our loot from the shopping excursion, we set to building our flat packed furnishings with verve. About six bookcases in, I had to take a break because assembling IKEA furniture is frustrating, but building it with my ex made it doubly so. He has no patience and his frustrated outbursts can be terrifying.
While I sat reading in the living room chair he continued onto the rolling drawer cart, figuring it was small and should be easy to build. He was using a small ax, the kind you use to chop kindling and such, a hatchet perhaps would be a better term. One side of the ax was blunted to work as a hammer and it was much more efficient at hammering than our cheap hammer, so he was using that instead.
He got the body of cart assembled on his own with much swearing and cursing, but he got it together. As he started to put the drawers together they resisted his efforts in every imaginable way. The final straw was when the bottom of a drawer did not fit properly into it's groove. In less than a second he went from frustrated to infuriated, picked up the ax, and began to beat the sharp side into the cart. Because the cart was on wheels, it rolled closer towards me with every blow of the ax.
I looked up in shock to see his face mangled and distorted with rage, it was actually purple. For one moment I wondered if he was going to have a heart attack right then and there before it registered that this very angry, enraged man was lifting an ax and advancing towards me as the cart came closer.
I froze. I couldn't think of a way to escape. I was miserable, but I didn't want to die, not that way. I watched in silent, frozen horror as the cart rolled closer and closer in jolting bursts with each smash and my husband came closer and closer to me with that look on his face and blank expression in his eyes.
He wasn't there anymore. The man I loved was gone and there was a monster in his place. As the cart bumped into the front of my chair I unfroze and attempted to protect myself from the next blow that would surely be directed towards me. I curled into a ball, covered my head with my arms, and shrieked in terror.
There was never another blow. I peeked out of my arms and saw my husband standing there, a blank look on his face as he stared at me, then as if a curtain was pulled open in his mind I saw it there, for a brief moment: horror. He was horrified at what he had done, at the fear he had caused me to feel. For one moment he had clarity of what he'd done and what he was doing. Then it closed again and he started laughing.
He thought it was absolutely hilarious that I'd ever think he'd hurt me, it was just that piece of shit cart he had to teach a lesson.
So as I recall that story, I feel a little less foolish about being overcome by panic and fear in an IKEA full of happy people searching for the ideal furnishings for their home. I just wish there was a way to explain it to others without going into such nitty gritty details or feeling as if telling them my PTSD caught me by surprise makes them roll their eyes and think I'm stupid. I'm not.
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