THE PTSD FLU

(Flashback, Trigger, Burn)

 I don’t feel better.

I woke up normal.

Like, my eyes opened. They reluctantly opened to the brightening lights forcing their way into the morning skies. But, they did open. My bed is parallel to a window. The rare morning rays of winter, break through the shades.

Without looking, I know there are dark circles under my eyes. I see clouds, imagine the sun, and work hard to find some motivation to drag my feet out from under the down blanket covering my body. A dull pain rests behind my eyes. It resists morning.

Amid feverish chills, and sticky sweats clinging to my body, I lie back, looking at the ceiling. I have this one moment. My pillow cradles an aching neck holding a heavy head. Rocking my head back and forth, I attempt to iron out knotted neck muscles. The dull throb in my forehead intensifies in the silence. Outside, no birds chirp. They aren’t ready, yet.

Jittery inside, I drink the water I’ve set next to my bed and try to decide what to do next. Do I really have a fever? Am I warm? Hot? I have the chills. I am cold now, too. 

I think, The weekend is over. I’ve been going, going, going… until I stopped this morning. It’s Tuesday. My week is re-starting. I haven’t rested and need to power through more days until I can allow myself to rest. Of course, I am feeling sick. My body is worn down. Tired.

Last night I was on the 7:55 p.m. ferry from Seattle to Bainbridge Island. I had a bunch of clients ‘no-show.’ My boss graciously let me leave early to catch the 7:55 p.m. ferry, gifting me precious time. Looking at my Uber app, I decided it would be a kindness to pay for a ride to guarantee I get home a bit earlier to my family. It worked. I got an earlier ferry. A friend picked me up from the ferry when it docked. She drove me to my car parked a mile away. I park far away to save money on my commute. However, late night ferries make me regret the decision I make in the daytime. It’s easy to agree to walking when the day is starting.

That was last night. This morning, the kids aren’t up yet. There are no leftover nightmares invading morning, just lingering pain in my joints. This must be the flu, I think.

Bodies are intelligent. Bodies protest. Bodies are story tellers. Aware my body is trembling, there isn’t much to do. I can’t call in sick to life, not when the thermometer won’t read a temperature above 98.6 degrees.

When I take a shower, I know I will erase the sweat my body produced. It’s as if my body needed to sweat to make the memory of a memory of a memory, real. If I clench my fist long enough, I’ll engage stillness through force, forcing the shaking to stop. Or, that’s what I hope is happening.

The words, “Trigger” and “Flashback” are used in so many ways. They are personal. They change. They are familiar.

Out of the shower, I shrug off pain, trying to make sense of the “triggers” and “flashbacks.”

Trigger puts your finger on a gun’s trigger.. A gun that is cocked and ready. The bullet flies out. It flashes me back to trauma which will shoot cracks in my day. 

A flashback sounds more sudden, momentary – images racing. It’s a drive by rapid film spraying debris of trauma.

The sharp edged debris is propelled like a machine gun fast, only trapped in slow motion. I often find the fragments are slow burning embers, lying just beneath my skin. When the scab is ripped open, the oxygen gives way to a massive wild fire. Body pains are activated, glimpses of perpetrators, fragments of memory come or don’t come.

If they do appear, they quickly go, but what lingers are the embers of trauma, compounded into a firecracker waiting to be lit.

“Pull the trigger” the body dares, “Just go ahead and pull it. See what I have to say.”

I shudder a bit. I know my body is telling the truth. It has a lot to say. It’s a question of how do I function as a mom, student, wife, colleague and allow the body the space it needs to heal at the same time?

How do you put into words the slow burning embers that light spontaneous wildfires in your only safe places in the world, threatening to destroy people, family and structures you have in place to survive? It’s a self-mutiny in the making. 

How do you tell the difference between the present and the past once the wildfire is lit? The spark lights the wildfire, activates the senses and high alert tells your senses something is wrong. There is no discerning what exactly can be done once the senses become wired for action. It’s a shit show of inaction and all action.  

Deep breath, dear body. Deep breath.

I don’t say flashback or trigger anymore. I feel that they’ve lost the potency of the wildfire embers burning underneath my skin -  24 hours a day - 7 days a week.

There are times the coals burn low — a hug and gentle bath cure the aches and fog. Other times, laughter blows holes in the atmosphere of harm. Those are the best days. On others, its’ raging flames consume my concentration, recklessly carry me into dark places, while I try all of the grounding techniques good therapy teaches. 

 Either way, PTSD burns just underneath the surface. 

There is no predictable season for the PTSD flu, no vaccine to prevent it. 

The post-traumatic stress disorder influenza symptomology (not a complete list): chills, fever, body aches, pain in joints, night sweats, trouble breathing, congestion, and restless sleep.

If you or someone you love suffers from the PTSD Flu, consider reaching out for help, community, and care. Connection is the key to beginning to heal.