PTSD, repression, and other not so happy things

*DISCLAIMER: This will not be a happy read.  This will be another of those blunt, raw blog posts that I just let my fingers do the walking on.  I'm not even entirely sure what the full post will contain nor how long it will be.  PLEASE, if you can't handle raw emotion, close out of this post.  There will be no sparkly unicorns farting rainbows, burping sunshine or sneezing glitter here today.*

Okay, take a good long look at the above picture.  That thin strand in the middle?  That's where I feel like I've been teetering for about 2 months now.  I have it in perfect balance right now but the slightest movement forward or backward and it will snap and to the left or the right, I'll crash to the ground.  It's been just shy of six months since my diagnosis of PTSD, and I've learned a lot of things in that time that you don't normally get told when you are in the office.  

1. For example...for about 6 weeks, every night from 9:30 to 10:45 I would have contractions.  Not cramps.  Contractions.  I thought I was losing my fool mind and I was fully ready to tell the doctor when I went for my follow up that if they needed to commit me they could.  Evidently, as your mind and body are able to start dealing with the pain of what happened, in some cases, you physically relive the event.  Who would have known?  
2. I also learned that just because night terrors go away, it doesn't mean they won't come back.  For me, the majority of my flashbacks happen in my sleep.  I suppose this is because I keep so busy when I am awake that I don't have time to have one.  Anyway, I started having night terrors again about a week ago, only now they don't involve the delivery, birth and death.  These seem much more grisly.  The main recurrent one is that I am a labor and delivery nurse and it's a really, really busy day.  Lots of babies are being born.  Big, healthy, crying, pink babies.  The moment they are handed to me, they either go limp and turn blue or they turn to almost jello and just melt through my hands.  The worst part is that it is one of those dreams you can't wake up from.  I have no doubt it has to do with the guilt I still feel and the helplessness of not being able to better protect and help Kaidance.  
3. PTSD isn't something you go through alone, even if you feel that way.  It completely and totally affects everyone around you that spends any amount of time with you.  I thought PMS mood swings were bad...they are nothing compared to PTSD mood swings.  I don't mean any disrespect by this next comment, so please don't take it that way, but much of the time I feel bi-polar.  I'll go from an extreme high to an extreme low in a matter of seconds.  It's tiring and terrifying. 
4. My doctor actually added a "booster" antidepressant to my regiment because by mid-day I was just about curled up in the floor crying.  I hated the idea of being on yet ANOTHER medication, but I'd rather be on it now and get better than to have problems down the line that I can't handle and risk something worse happening.

And then there's the grief...  The only way I can describe it is as being exactly like ocean waves.  There are always at the very least little tiny waves that lap at your ankles and remind you that they are there.  That's how a good day grief wise is.  You remember it's there, but it's just an annoyance, not anything that keeps you from functioning.  Then there are the days that it's a little harder to force that smile and the waves come in  near waist level.  You can still walk through them, but occasionally you lose your balance a bit or falter.  And then there are the days where you have to look up through the water to see daylight because a big old tidal wave has come in without warning and submerged you.  Sometimes you have the oomph to fight your way to the surface and other times you just want to float there, staring up at the sun.  You know that it wouldn't take much effort to break the surface and feel the sun's warmth again, but you just don't have the strength or the want to.  Or even if you have the want to, you are just exhausted in every way imaginable and can't do it.

And then there's this feeling.  The one that sucks the most.  It's the loneliness.  No matter how many people are around you, loving on you, being there for you, helping however they can...sometimes you still just feel alone.  Even in the presence of other moms who have been where you are...sometimes you can feel completely isolated.  Since everyone's grief journey is different, even two people who have endured the same exact type of loss (death at birth in this case) won't view or deal with it the same way or even similarly.  Unfortunately this extends to spouses and immediate family as well.  In some ways, we are closer than ever - we know what it is to lose a child and be missing a piece of yourself.  However, where I am one that feels like you have to choose to get better, ask for help, etc., my husband has been trained by the military to put it off until a better time and deal with it later.  However, how do you know when "later" is?  And when it gets here, how do you deal?  While in some ways it's good that we aren't down at the same time, it can make you feel like you are grieving alone too.  It's hard to know how to react when you know your husband is being honest with you but says, "It all happened so fast... it doesn't even feel like she was our daughter."

In short, the whole process SUCKS but we know it has to happen and we have to go through it.  Only time and God know how we'll come out on the other side.