c-PTSD

Alright, I know the last time we covered traditionally “feminine” topics of dating and what guys want to use my body as a cum rag at that current moment in time versus which ones want to allow themselves to be enamored by intriguing wit, however, I had creativity spark whilst listening to the Nikki Glasser / Hannah Berner discussion on @beingbernz podcast, “Berning in Hell”, and I knew it was the appropriate time to address and confront some of my struggles with c-PTSD, all while listening to John Legend’s melodious voice. Bless Chrissy Teigen. Thank you for being the inspiration behind so much of this music. YOU da real MVP. Anyways, this is your one and only trigger warning. I am not notorious for the particularly “delicate” way I confront certain topics.  Growing up in such a military family, I am VERY aware of what PTSD looks like from a military point of view. My grandfather refused to, and probably couldn’t, talk about any of his experiences. He would scream and get irrationally angry at something like a football game–to the point where we couldn’t go visit him. He would drink a handle of gin a day. He bulk ordered gin like his house was a fucking bar or something. Was he happy? I think, yes, he often was very happy. His children, his grandchildren, his animals, the farm–we filled his life with happiness. Was he healed? I would say judging by the length he went to not die, constantly hallucinating and revisiting his life in memories, talking to us as if we were the characters in his stories–like the time he rode camels across Egypt, or when he encountered Agent Orange in Vietnam–his life was on a loop. He progressed, and moved on. He earned accolade after accolade. But he was certainly not healed. He was far, far too scared of death. Too irrationally angry over something as miniscule as to what professional athlete threw a ball into the endzone in time or not. Too obsessed with control, with image, that deviations drove him to chaotic eruption.  Frankly, he needed therapy. My family still really struggles with the idea that “needing therapy” is an insult. They hear that and recoil and are like “Shh! You shouldn’t say that!” But I honestly think every single person in this world needs to go to regular therapy. My dream world involves a baseline of primary care, mental health, and reproductive healthcare as the public insurance and “free”, government-supported level. It would help address a lot of our issues involving gun violence, school shootings, and substance abuse or suicidal ideology–we could funnel kids into the programs they needed quicker because we’re more aware of what they’re thinking. Or, we could also, literally, as humans, just start fucking paying attention to the people around us and allowing them to share what they need before they feel the urge to freak out and break shit or riot in the streets because they’ve pleaded, year after year, and are still not getting the results. As a society, we’re slapping a butterfly bandage on a wound that needs multiple layers of sutures. It’s trying to perform Mohs past stage 3 on a patient on Warfarin. We’re accepting dodgy, quick-fix solutions instead of addressing the deeper layers of both society and humans.  Our rush in the USA for capitalism and democracy to succeed has created this endless work mentality–which, if its being called out by someone who ABSOLUTELY LOVES to work, in most forms, is problematic. I can go hike twelve mountains in a day if someone challenged me to (and paid for me to) do it. I would go trek the Swiss Alps tomorrow for a few weeks if some guy offered to pay for me to accompany him and I could verify his identity with multiple forms and get 3 references and notify authorities when and where I’d be going and that, if I died, he would be the sole culprit.