The Devil of Christmas.
I'm suffering PTSD following Christmas.
I live a silent life. I hide from crowds. The bustle of buses is so horrifying to me that it makes up 80% of my Facebook status updates - my appalled collision with other humans is deemed worthy of comment.
At home the TV is low. The radio a burble. The music is soft classical or muted jazz. The walls are solid, the colours dark and soft. Things I own are all around me, familiar things, comforting things. Movement is slow and deliberate, nothing darts in the peripheral vision, there are no sudden noises or screams. Increasingly I write here and increasingly I write in silence. I used to play music while I wrote but now I find I can't even transcribe without quiet.
I live in a cabin in the woods, a dark lonely forest. I like it.
Christmas is not quiet. Christmas away from home was jarring and hot and noisy and a melee of thrashing movement.
I had a panic attack on Christmas Day. It happened as I went to the corner shop after Christmas dinner to buy more wine. I felt as though someone had just lost a game of Kerplunk in my chest, or was preparing popcorn. I stood hyperventilating against a wall for twenty minutes. The cool air was nice. Then I bought the wine.
Since we got back home I have been dealing with short breath, anxiety and stress, aching limbs and insomnia. I have read quite a lot of Jonathan Coe's "Middle England" that I got for Christmas. The book isn't making me ill, its just eating up the insomniac hours.
I feel a lot better. No twitching, no arrhythmia. I'm weaning myself off the booze. I'm calm back in the old house. The house of long shadows and ticking clocks. We start rehearsals for the new play on Monday. I need to be at the peak of physical fitness.
That's a stretch.
I live a silent life. I hide from crowds. The bustle of buses is so horrifying to me that it makes up 80% of my Facebook status updates - my appalled collision with other humans is deemed worthy of comment.
At home the TV is low. The radio a burble. The music is soft classical or muted jazz. The walls are solid, the colours dark and soft. Things I own are all around me, familiar things, comforting things. Movement is slow and deliberate, nothing darts in the peripheral vision, there are no sudden noises or screams. Increasingly I write here and increasingly I write in silence. I used to play music while I wrote but now I find I can't even transcribe without quiet.
I live in a cabin in the woods, a dark lonely forest. I like it.
Christmas is not quiet. Christmas away from home was jarring and hot and noisy and a melee of thrashing movement.
I had a panic attack on Christmas Day. It happened as I went to the corner shop after Christmas dinner to buy more wine. I felt as though someone had just lost a game of Kerplunk in my chest, or was preparing popcorn. I stood hyperventilating against a wall for twenty minutes. The cool air was nice. Then I bought the wine.
Since we got back home I have been dealing with short breath, anxiety and stress, aching limbs and insomnia. I have read quite a lot of Jonathan Coe's "Middle England" that I got for Christmas. The book isn't making me ill, its just eating up the insomniac hours.
I feel a lot better. No twitching, no arrhythmia. I'm weaning myself off the booze. I'm calm back in the old house. The house of long shadows and ticking clocks. We start rehearsals for the new play on Monday. I need to be at the peak of physical fitness.
That's a stretch.
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