The PTSD of ASD and BP!

War, conflict, psychological assault.  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Quick, scan around for the dismembered soldier.  That's the rule right, only applies to boys and girls with blown off limbs, that we then fawn over and thank endlessly for their service, regardless of what that "service" entailed.  It's not these people in uniform that we should question for the reverence for the military, a reverence that boarders on psychotic sycophantic God worship.  I have see the latter in people I would call friends, who outside of this deification of the military are quite rational and reasonable.

The military, especially in the post September 11th world appear to have a patent on PTSD.  I know it's unbelievably prevalent in the forces and as they have all filtered home since the end of the Iraq War it will bubble up in the societal euphoria, thus quashing it like sand kicked on the glowing embers.  PTSD though is a human condition, not quartered off by the need to enter a mine riddled desert or IED strewn dust road.

Autism, Pediatric Bipolar Disorder.... ha, gotcha.  See the first sentence again.  The experience is so very different, the road not as dust ridden and choking.  Still the psychological experience, the reaction, the outcome, unless treated is the same.  

"Psychiatrists believe that PTSD can only be correctly diagnosed after at least a month has passed since the traumatic event. Before then the condition is considered a post-traumatic stress, but not yet post traumatic stress disorder. In addition the person must display all 3 classes of PTSD symptoms & necessary bases to differentiate it from other mental disorders.

• Class 1 symptoms: the sufferer re-experiences the traumatic incident
  ex. nightmares, flashbacks.
• Class 2 symptoms: the sufferer displays avoidance, wants to stay away from anything that may possibly remind her/him of the trauma. May also display lack of responsiveness or interest to all life circumstances.
  ex. sights, smells, sounds, conversations associated or reminding of trauma, unable to enjoy once joyful activities or have loving feelings
• Class 3 symptoms: hyperarousal
  ex.  irritable all the time or inability to sleep.

To raise and parent a child with a complicated neurological disorder is a draining existence, especially for the primary caregiver, usually the Mother.  Let me explain my symptoms as I hold my beating scarred heart in my trembling hand for you all.  I don't really have nightmares or flashbacks per se, although I do have vivid dreams, almost always being chased by people who are supposed to love and accept me unconditionally.  I do avoid, I stay indoors, I dislike meeting new people; it's a mental and emotional wrench to even answer the phone to close friends.  Mainly as they wish to talk about fluff; I am no where near fluff on a daily basis.

I have a marvelous wall, it has a retractable trigger, it can shuttle up or down depending on my mood, my company or my environment.  I used to read constantly, everywhere even  as I walked, I mean I would shove books under my school sweater and sneak out to recess with it just to read.  These days I can barely get though an article without losing focus.  I do not sleep.  I nap.  It's the best I can manage.  I am scolded constantly by those who truly love me that I never sleep, or sleep awkward hours.  I liken it to a recurring illness.  I can not control it. 

Irritable.

I laugh in a silly ironic way here.  I spend my days pulling myself out of irritability and living an open, cheerful exterior for the one's I love.  Periodically I slip, little things trigger me.  Having said that I have always been like that with irritability and anger, but an abusive alcoholic father and childhood sexual abuse ensured that one, (no the sexual abuse was not due to my father.....put your knives away ;).

I was dealing with my PTSD (as we all do in our own way) and slowly working through it.  Then life gave me childhood neurological disorders, from birth.  Jacob came out screaming and throwing up, and it didn't stop for two years.  By the time he was three I 'knew' this was something else.  Took another year to get a psychiatrist to concur. John arrived in a gentle earthquake, happy, quiet and non verbal until he was four.  Again I 'knew.'  I spent the next 6 years with psychiatrists, psychologists, neuropsychologists, developmental pediatricians, special schools, special education meetings, occupational, speech therapy.  I fought with the state for medicaid, I fought with anyone who tried to nail my children into their designated corner. I simply fought.; I fought all....the....time.

It got to the point that anyone who even raised a quizzical eyebrow was deemed an enemy combatant and I was in immediate conflict .  I have been doing this for 11 years.  I am burnt out.  I have nightmares, I avoid life, I choose numbness over feeling, my central nervous system is in constant flux.  

I am tired, yet, I know no other life.  PTSD is like the Python that consumes prey.  We are digested slowly.

  

Lollie Laughs

It was agreed upon.
I knew we were to meet; her photograph presented, yellowed with age and youth,
On the bus I held his hand, the one with the serrated scar.  I trace it's zagging map with the pad of my finger,
Comforting.  A trauma story told in each depression and jagged rivet,  x-rayed against the light touch of my swirling print.

Chattering's of a thousand women saturate the top deck, embroiling it in the years of gossip and floral scented regret. Today, the bones of women talk about nothing, talk about everything.

We do not talk, we sit, hold hands, I trace his trauma.

Stop please!

The gates are wrought with iron, imbued with hands that have pushed and pulled for one and a half centuries. Our steps mocked with each pebbled cry, and swift stride.  His mission pure.  He knows she is here. She knows too.  I can hear her, she's laughing. I think we would have played together once.

Trudging slender lanes of pebble, dust and marble.  Cracked tombs like gaping open jaws.  I ignore them, he hears her.  He knows her playground is here.

Grandmother May's etched name embraces her in stone, warming it. Twin yellow tall stemmed flowers sit at it's margin, one knocked over in slain solitude.

Instinct affects me like an electron; a leap and it's fixed.

A need to leave something overwhelms me.  I do not.  Standing, we share and it's done.  I walk with him, holding his trauma in hand, I squeeze it a little harder.  Lollie laughs.

Nice to connect!

It's important to be real.  If I'm not I will implode, both physically and emotionally.  Raising three kids is work (of course), raising three with special needs is beyond that, that is a cosmic production.

I bring up being real as I have found so many special needs parents, especially Mother's, are intent on sculpting themselves into these pert, wee 'every mom.'  They were given these angels for a reason and God dammit they will make sure they are painted into all corners of the globe and with a bullhorn just in case.  People retweet and share lovely, cosy, fluffy links on being a parent with a special needs kid.  Not just "us" Moms, but others, who only read what they want....only see what they are comfortable with.  Yes, yes this is life.  Reality and ick and tar and feathers and cold hard glares in cracked mirrors is not socially acceptable.

Too heavy?  I agree.  Today I was in the grocery store, by myself, thrilled with wheeling around the cart like it was on crack...mini vacation.  I watch a perfectly quaffed, very attractive Mum swoop by with two toddler aged boys in her cart.

One made a break for it; I mean a full on sidekick, slash, upside down lower body backwards thrust out of it. It was a fucking sight to behold.  Oh for Ashton Kutcher and his camera then!  I was mesmerized as I watched Mum yank said prodigy back by his undies, like an act from Cirque De Soleil, all the while politely swearing and he roaring in all his stolen glory.  She caught my chuckle, looked mortified and tried at act like nothing had happened. We all know, I am not exactly the shrinking violet kind, so I did say "Hey, got three myself."  Her face melted like a gooey smore.

Why do I write about this?  Well, after the last few days of feeling awful sorry for myself (which I refuse to take back) I was witness to a typical reality for a million Mums out there.  There was a moment, a connection,  a chink in my armor was loosened.  In essence, these wee bastards are hard fuckin' work.  Still, periodically we can grab them by the knickers and look up and another parent gives a look that communicates "Ok...you too???"