From picture frame to PTSD in 10 months...

It appears that something new is going to happen.

2007-02-05T18:24:06+01:00

'Cause there's distinctly more activity around the place than there was an hour ago.

The explanation is that it's "rounds time", which doesn't mean much to me until someone says "Mr Morgan"s going to see you now and in walks The Man.

He's trailed by a collection of people much in the same way that comets and other astronomical things are trailed by debris. In this case, the collective name for all of his trailing debris is "Students" and I'm told once, simply, to "pay them no heed". Yes Sir.

He looks at me, checks the monitor and immediately asks why I'm still on Oxygen when my sats are back up to 98%. No arguements, it's taken off. Bit of a relief.

He then picks a victim and asks quite simply how the unfortunate would tell if I was still bleeding.

Brief pause. Minor panic, then enlightment strikes and victim #1 gestures to my bottle and asks to cross-check it with my charts and records. Makes sense.

Except it isn't the answer The Man was looking for. He's of the opinion that people can mis-read bottles and mis-record things on charts. Silence and confusion from the rest of the crowd, and then he cuts through the technology and documentation to perform one of the most brilliant pieces of observation that I've ever seen.

He picks up the hose that connects my drain to the bottle and asks victim #1 "hot or cold ?". Victim has a brief pause, mutters something and then the rest of the crowd get let in on the secret : If I was still "active", the hose would be warm and because it's cold, he knows that I've stopped bleeding.

Simple, inspired.

Then he takes a long hard look at the charts, read-outs and the bottle, looks over at me and says "You're doing remarkably well, Sir. Keep going". More of an instruction than a statement of facts.

Think I'll be OK with this guy.

Comments

I've been moved up to a ward while I wait.

2007-01-30T18:27:57+01:00

Ward six, floor six. And the only ward that matches it's floor according to the porter who pushed me in here. Not sure I can handle layout logic just now.

'Cause I'm all over the place. I have no idea what's being pushed into me via the drip lines now but one of them's got some odd gadget that's either trying to make sure that either a certain dose of whatever's released or it's trying to physically pump it into me 'cause I can't/won't accommodate it. Either way, it's doing what it's doing at 100ml per hour.

I'm being overwhelmed by technology.

I'm tired.

Fish tank accessory's still going every 15 for my pressure, got an oversized paperclip on my finger, ECG 'trodes are pulling, hose to the drain's pulling, can't move my arms for the four IV lines that are still plugged in there and to cap it all, it looks like a combination of high-purity oxygen, sweat and tears makes for a corrosive lining to an oxygen mask.

I hurt and I've had enough. I drift.

And I look at the clock on the wall over the nurses' station and it reads 10:05. Dark outside so it has to be the night after the morning before.

Some instinct make Sue, the duty nurse look over at me. See looks at the drain bottle, checks my pressure, pluse (I've twigged that much of the monitor by now, it's 135), sats (twigged that too - got an oxygen saturation level of 82%), takes my temperature, drops back to the station and picks the 'phone up.

Brief conversation.

Comes back, smiles and tells me that I've stopped bleeding, they don't need me in OR. Offers me a cup of coffee and I realise that since this whole thing started, I haven't been able to eat or drink.

Coffee ? Hell, yes.

Never tasted anything quite like that coffe.

I can go to sleep now.

Comments

There was some conversation in the ambulance...

2007-01-30T18:24:52+01:00

...but I don't remember much of it at all.

Brief burst of light as I'm taken out and them run 'round another maze of corridors as we get into the BRI.

Slight delay as Darren (ambulance paramedic) hands me over. People come and go, glance at my monitor, charts, bottle and then I'm ordered to be hauled away to "resuss".

This 'aint clever. Sign on the door reads "Resuscitation".

It's horribly quiet in here. 'Specially considering the number of people clustered around two of the other beds. It's difficult to see if there's any occupants in there what with all the kit and people around but whatever's happening, it's way beyond the rushing in and out and yelling stage. Just a lot of people having terse conversations and making reassuring noises to the shapeless bundles that they're working on - things too far gone to do anything other than make slight, liquid noises by way of reply.

I really don't want to be here.

Someone's in, looks at my monitor, looks at me and apologises about the surroundings. Seems like I'm a lot more alert than most of the people they get in here, but it's "the best place" for me to be at the moment.

Don't like this place.

Guy materialises at the end of my trolley, geared up for the Operating Theatre. He's Radjec, and explains very, very clearly that they know what's happened to me, how my body's reacted as a result and because they know all this, they can and will make me better. He's pretty direct as he tells me in no uncertain terms that they can fix me, he just needs to wait a little while to see what's happening after my trip up from Weston and then he'll make his mind up.

OK, I can deal with this.

My parents and Jules are ushered in to see me.

So I lied about being able to deal with this.

I DON'T WANT TO DIE IN THIS PLACE. GET ME OUT NOW.

Not sure if I thought that or said it. Doesn't stop it from being true though...

Comments

"Blood's here".

2007-01-25T17:47:28+01:00

Background noise. Doesn't seem worth it now but they're going to plug it in anyway, which is a bit of a feat 'cause they've run out of suitable veins to throw extra needles into - my blood pressure's so low that they can't get a vein to inflate.

Brief discussion around tapping into an ankle, but that's dismissed on the grounds that whatever they plug in there won't go very far anyway.

One of the colourless bags is deemed to be sufficiently low that it can be replaced. Seems a waste - s'only going to run into my arm and go straight into the drain.

Too tired to bother with the arguement.

There's still some low-level awareness running. I know everything's shutting down - I can't feel anything except the pain down the side of my neck. Aside from that, nothing exists.

Except for some gentle pressure on my right hand.

It's Jules, and she's still sitting there telling me to relax and think of something good, not this place, not now. Mental stab of some more odd non-emotion. Don't like to think that she's been here all this time seeing this.

Head starts to nod towards the rail of the A&E trolley. Too weak to stop it but somewhere in there I'm sure the one thing I shouldn't do is go to sleep. Can't. Won't.

Not made any easier by starting to get a sensation of warmth. I actually relax and concentrate on breathing.

Tim notices the change in attitude. Asks if there's anything he can do.

I tell him I'm feeling warmer.

That's not good - may mean I'm reacting to the whole blood they're pumping in, so they stop it.

Tim asks for a fluid level check.

"100"
"How much ?"
"100"
"Sure ?"
"100"

Lightening of the mood. Syringes of stuff are run into the IV line. OK, I'm officially interested...

"Total ?"
"1400"
"Still ?"
"1400"

New bag of colourless who-knows-what is attached on the left along with a new blood bag on the right.

"How are we doing ?". We ? Haven't got a clue. Me ? You know the answer to that...
"1400". Prat. He wasn't talking to you.

Now he's talking to me : "You may have stopped bleeding or it may just be that your pressure's so low that you physically can't pump much more out. You've lost a lot." Where'd you get that idea...

"We're going to let things settle for a bit and then we'll see if we can get you to the BRI".

I'm still not going to sleep.

Comments

I'm just aware that a lot more kit just got wheeled in.

2007-01-24T11:59:34+01:00

Tim's back too. Explains that 'cause the glass has come out and they're still not sure what it hit and was therefore blocking, they're going to have to go in and drain the blood off.

Apprehension - I have no idea what's going to happen next, but the gown's coming off (don't know how that got there) and I'm being surrounded by various sheets of material.

Tim explains : The drain's a tube that they're going to have to put in through my chest wall (he indicates an area somewhere near my left armpit). He's trying to keep it light but there's a certain tension there as he explains that as the damage site's so low down (7th rib, I'm told) the drain will have to be pushed all the way down onto my diaphragm. Says it may "not be too comfortable" going in.

Everyone goes off to get scrubbed up and I get my own personal iodine experience.

Tim's back again. Sudden thought. Anaesthetic ?

Apparently it's all going to be done under local.

Problem : I'm resistant to lignocaine. Rather than the advertised 1-2 hour gap it gives you, I shake it off in around 30 mins and need something like a six to one dose on top.

Seems like Tim can't risk the chance of getting any form of anaesthetic inside my chest caviity, so he's going to have to go with recommended doses. Yet another needle. Slight delay to let the local take effect.

Left arm back behind head, stare at ceiling and start to count holes in the tiles. Can't believe that they can work in such a low level of light.

Local hasn't taken and I feel the scalpel blade part the skin. Disorientating stinging sensation that you get directly after you realise you'e cut yourself. Sharp, intrusive.

Tim apologises and gets on with it. Stroke after stroke of the scalpel, each one a stinging reminder of the layers that are being cut through.

Pause. I glance down. Mistake.

Tim's picking up a pair of scissors and my rib cage is being dissected in front of me.

Scissors have an added mechanical impact that's way worse than the scalpel cuts.

Count ceiling tile holes, breathe.

Very sharp pain that prevents me breathing.

Tim apologises - ribs have their own nerve supply, and this one's completely active. Don't know if he's telling himself or trying to reassure me but all I can hear is "nearly there, nearly there".

One more impact from the scissor blades, a sharp blow and then the obscenely intimate sensation of someone's finger hooked over a rib, moving inside my chest to check the incision's all the way through. I can't breathe.

I hear "deep breath", inhale and feel a wash of warmth covering me from armpit to hip. It crawls between my side and the matress and seeps underneath me, cooling and slowing as it goes. Takes a long time.

Pause, try to draw the next breath and hear the most disgusting slobbering noise. It's the same sound as a wellie boot being pulled out of semi-liquid mud but it's in time to my attempted breathing. Smell hits me. Blood. You need a fair volume of that in the open before you smell it.

Pushing sensation on the side of my chest.

In terms of pain, what's gone before is just a sample.

Left arm feels like everything from my shoulder down that isn't bone is being pulled off.
Pencil's been hammered down the side of my neck.
Feels like someone's pulled a knife across my stomach and thrown battery acid into the wound.
Never had indigestion like this before.

"Nearly there, nearly there". Don't care. Want it to stop.

"Nearly there, nearly there". Fresh wave of indigestion and my arm's been plugged into the mains and set on fire. I'm not breathing. Just can't.

"Nearly there, nearly there". Feel the tube slide 'round towards my back, lift and settle.

"Bottle ?". Movement below the level of the matress.

"Deep breath". Amazingly, I can.

"Get another". Another what ?

Pulling sensation just under my arm, then someone rubs something down my side. Assume it's all over and I'm being tidied up. Cold. Dim.

New chant's taken up.

"300".

Pause. "Now ?".

"300".

I'm aware of two things. The only bodily sensation I can feel is the pain like the pencil hammered down the side of my neck - nothing else. Somewhere down the line, in the absence of any other input, my awareness of the whole cubicle's expanded.

Each bag on each IV line has a nurse hanging off it, trying to pump fluid back into me.
Pressure cuff tries to inflate, gives up. No-one bothers.
Tim and Duncan staring at the monitor.
Can't see how they could do what they did in this crap lighting.
See a bank of portable spots. Still on. Still looks dim.

"Now"
"300"

Tim sees me. Explains that there's no throacic surgery unit at Weston and that they'll have to get me up to Bristol if the bleeding doesn't stop. They don't have that much blood of my type so they can't risk running it into me now as they'll have to use it in the OR if they have to go in to tie off whatever's been hit. Glances at his watch. Can't move me until I'm stabilised. To do that they'll have to run the blood into me. Bit of a dilemma. Checks his watch again.

"Now"
"200"

Awareness : He's upped the sample rate. Numbers relate to blood flow.

See a nurse take a container away. It's full of viscous, purple fluid. Looks to me roughly the same size as a 6 pint milk carton but it's got a wierd chamber on the side of it. It's pretty much full.

Awareness : Seen something similar. Chamber's a non-return mechanism. Container's graded in ML.

"Now"
"200"

Cold. Tired. Very tired. Had enough of this.

Tim says something but I can't be bothered to listen. Awareness cuts in again. Reassuring noises don't quite stack up with the tone of the conversation being held at the foot of my trolley.

Tim looks at the nurse who's monitoring the blood flow into the bottle. Doesn't even ask the question. She makes a "what can I do ?" face, people let go of the IV bags and Duncan moves away elsewhere.

Other people drift away leaving Tim and two others looking at the montior.

I get a wave of, well, something.

Awareness : Emotions don't work properly when you don't have enough left for your body to react to them.

Awareness : I'm going to die.

Comments

Enter a second Doctor.

2007-01-23T18:57:07+01:00

This one's Tim. Brief handover conversation between him and Duncan over the CAT result which apparently shows that there's more "fluid" than there was on the X-Ray.

For the first time I hear a word that's going to be significant : "haemothorax"

Tim comes over. The opinion is that the glass has hit "something" and I'm bleeding into my chest cavity or lung.

Secret's out now - it isn't just "fluid" any more.

Third IV line goes in. Pressure cuff goes off. For a moment I think it's broken 'cause a nurse wraps her hands 'round it. Then I realise that they're trying to get a reading out of it. Something put on my finger to show what my "sats" are doing. Don't know what the monitor's saying but there's five people staring at it.

Fourth IV line goes in (don't give a stuff about needles now). Do I have low blood pressure ?

Next significant words : Tachycardia, type #1 shock, type #2 shock.

Breathing's occupying most of my attention. Can't remember when the Oxygen mask appeared but it doesn't feel like I can do more than a maskful at a breath anyway.

They're not bothering to take me to Radiology any more - a portable machine's brought in.

ECG 'trodes come off again.

General call of "X-Rays". People back off.

Film comes back. Blood level's rising.

Tim comes over to explain : I'm bleeding into my chest cavity, the volume and weight of blood's collapsed my lung and is putting pressure on my heart, my diaphragm's been displaced by the sheer weight of it and what they can't tell yet is how fast the bleeding is. They have to monitor it and there's two items of news that aren't too good : I have a rare blood type (AB Rh-) and there's only four units available. Two of those will have to be brought in by bike carrier ("but don't worry - those guys are maniacs and they'll get it here...").

Machine's brought in again, "X-Rays" call goes up but before the picture's available, the pressure in my chest blows the glass out. Don't like the look of this - the thing's shaped like a filleting knife blade and it's comfortably more than three inches long.

Looks like it's covered in rust. No, idiot, it's blood. Yours.

A&E kicks up another gear.

Comments

Somewhere down the line I've acquired a Doctor

2007-01-23T18:23:04+01:00

Name's Duncan. At least I've got something to work with - shouting "Nurse" or "Doctor" in a room full of 'em seems a bit random.

I can't remember how but I've also got an X-Ray. Doesn't look good if the opaque patch in the lower left corner's anything to go by. According to Duncan "there's some fluid in there".

Can pretty much guess what that is.

I've also acquired an IV line (hate needles) with a bag of something colourless, a bunch of ECG electrodes and a pressure monitor that inflates to order every 10 mins or so with a noise like a hyperactive fish tank air pump.

Lots of questions - date or birth, am I allergic to anything, do I have low blood pressure, do I know my blood type, am I suffering from anything. Then Jules gets the same set along with where do we live, name of GP just to check...

I acquire a second IV line.

Decision's been made somewhere - I need a CAT scan 'cause the glass doesn't show up on X-Rays and there's some interest of the volume of "fluid" that's building up.

Back to Radiology as soon as the CAT techie arrives. Absolute agony as I have to hold a position to maximise the picture and someone tells me that they're going to put something into the IV line to show everything up. Apparently it may make me feel like I've wet myself. It does.

ECG 'trodes come off, everyone backs out, scanner does whatever & I'm back into A&E complete with ECG 'trodes, drips (got a second one now) and the fish tank accessory pressure cuff.

I know that it's sometime between 3AM and when it gets light but why the hell do they keep it so dim everywhere ?

Comments

Errant thought in the X-ray suite. Why do they keep the lights so dim ?

2007-01-19T17:58:38+01:00

Not important really.

I'm wheeled into position in front of the relevant piece of kit.

Big, square, white-fronted box with an arrangement of grab handles 'round the side and a convenient cross-hair pattern in the middle of the box.

Think I can figure this out but I'm given some instructions by the radiologist anyway.

"OK Mark. Just stand up when you're ready, go over to the machine, stand up against the plate as straight as you can and when I tell you, take a deep breath and hold it until I tell you to let it out."

Deep breath ? Hold it ? Bit of a challenge.

Quick bit of sympathy from the porter. " Sorry we can't get you closer to the thing but the trolleys intefere with the X-Rays".

Not a big deal. It's only a couple of paces.

Lever myself upright. I'm getting used to when the pain's really going to hit so it's not quite as surprising. Plant feet firmly on the floor. Push off from the trolley on a wave of pain and stand. Take a pace.

Cross-hairs on the X-Ray box slide upwards and to the right in a graceful arc and this time I don't feel the floor when I hit it.

Comments

A&E trolleys are too short.

2007-01-19T17:42:25+01:00

'Cause my legs are hanging off the end of this one from my calf muscles down and the cramp's starting to set in.

Moron. What did you expect ? You're 6 foot 6 and these things aren't built to that length.

OK, shouldn't get stroppy but must have been locked in this position here for a while if I'm going lactic. Lost track 'casue concentrating on breathing's my reason for existing just now.

Can't breathe deeply enough without pain and the strange sensation that there's something solid stopping me.

Nurse comes over. Didn't get her name but things are happening, the Doc's on the way and I'll need to get into X-ray.

She checks me over. Say's there's a "a couple of drops" of blood on the back of myT-shirt and lifts it to check.

Pause, calls Jules over.

"Did you know that was there ?".

What was where ? I have visions of ribs looking at open air.

Jules comes back 'round. Looks grey/green/white and her face has reduced to three black circles of two eyes and an open mouth.

Pause.

"There's a piece of glass sticking out of your back."

Nurse goes into high gear.

"We can't tell how big it is and we can't take it out because we don't know how far it goes in or if it's hit anything and is plugging it up. I'll get the Doctor over now".

Jules squeezes my hand.

"It's going to be allright"

I'm not so sure

Comments

Traffic calming humps through Banwell

2007-01-19T17:23:05+01:00

They're agony. Can't breath, can't draw breath to complain.

Press myself as far back into the seat as I can, haul on the seat belt to lock myself in place, 'cause the pressure's all on the undamaged side, and try to breathe as shallowly as possible. I'm trying to immobilise broken ribs here...

Centrifuged 'round the roundabout at the edge of the old Weston airfield.

Take me back to the Banwell humps, please.

Comments

Complete darkness, and a sensation of falling that lasts for an instant...

2007-01-19T17:15:33+01:00

...before the impact and the noise wake me.

It's the noise. I'm not aware of anything except the rending blast that seems to hit me between the shoulders.

I know where I am.

Stand up, half turn left, reach out and switch the light on. Look back up the stairs that I've just fallen down to see a very pale Jules standing at the top. Abrupt realisation : I've just fallen down my own stairs and I have no recollection of how I got here.

"Are you all right ?"

Check for damage.

Nothing that seems out of place. No blood anywhere. Hang on. Finger on the right hand that won't bend properly but doesn't hurt. Doesn't look broken so it's probably OK. Heave a sigh of relief.

Mistake.

Pain forces me to hang onto the stair post. Lower left of the rib cage and it's worse than anything I've ever felt before.

Internal comparison : You've had appendicitis - that had you passing out. Better or worse ?

Worse. Can't even draw a breath.

Seconds have passed. Call down from Jules :

"You OK ?"

"Think I've broken a couple of ribs". Carefully check where the source of the pain is. Don't press too hard in case I feel something mushy. Seems solid and nothing's obviously sticking out in the wrong place. Put one foot on the stairs, start to pull up.

Pain has me kneeling on the lower step.

"Broken ribs"

Jules is ahead of proceedings : calls NHS Direct and is told to take me to the nearest A&E.

Comments

Think I know how I'm going to do this - but above here, it's going to get graphic...

2007-01-19T16:31:11+01:00

Forgive me if the grey matter's outside its SLA for thinking services but I've been trying to work out a practical way to tell the story of what happened to me via the flashbacks. Inside a blog.

Simple answer : It's not going to be anything intricate or complex, I'll start from the beginning and put them all in the correct sequence time-wise. When I'm finished, I'll throw a post on top to act as a lid.

So you can either start from the post above this and work up to get the chronology correct or if you want the full "PTSD 4 me" experience, just dive into anything between here and the lid post at random. Welcome to one of my no-so-good days and every night...

Here's fair warning : It's not pleasant in places.

I'm doing this to help myself get better. Either you're genuinely trying to understand what trauma is and how it affects someone or you're just doing the virtual equivalent of putting your tongue in the hole where the filling used to be. Either way, how what's posted above here affects you is your interpretation. I'm finally getting a hold on how I felt about it before it got too much to cope with...

Comments

Symptoms

2007-01-18T17:39:03+01:00

Flashbacks. They started in mid-spetember 2006 and it was the first time that I knew something was very, very wrong. For me, it's full sensory replay of the key events of my accident and I get the lot : smell, sounds, visual - all packaged up and delivered at dream-speed, meaning I get minutes and hours of experience in seconds.

Because I mainly get flashbacks just before I go to sleep (unless I'm particularly stressed when they can occur at any time) coming out of one is totally disorientating. You never know if the underlying relaity is the one that you've just entered into or the one you've just left and believe me - for the first few seconds, you can't be sure. To help me adjust after a flashback, I devised a "reset routine" based on a visual check of a pattern of lights (never saw that one coming - 44 and I'm back to sleeping with a light on again...) and after that, some simple physical activity : sit up, put my feeet on the floor and have a drink of water. Said routine being followed with OCD-like attention after every flasback.

I understand flashbacks, that they're a way of processing the trauma and that the emotion that comes through is what I should have been feeling at the time. After four months of fairly intensive counselling, they've lost their power to terrify me and make me feel like my entire "self" is being swept away but they can still shock and upset. Later on, I'm going to tell the story of what happend to me through November/December 2006 through the flashbacks. Why ? Because that's my continuing experience of what happened to me. Every night.

But all in all, this far down the line I'm OK with the flashbacks. The nightmares are worse.

Recurrent nightmares. Some nights they seem to occupy the entire time I'm asleep and they really throw me. What you need to understand is that prior to my accident, I only ever needed around four to five hours of solid sleep a night. And by "solid", I mean that although I must have had dreams (everyone gets REM sleep, right ?), I slept so deeply that I could almost never remember them and only rarely woke up with a vague recollection that I'd been dreaming at all.

That's changed.

The basic cause of my accident : I was sleepwalking. Never done it before, never want to do it again. And now, there's some small part of my psyche that keeps a metaphorical eye open, ready to wake me up at the slightest sign of anything odd happening.

You may be an old lag at this, but for me the whole nightmare thing's a novelty, OK ? Nothing in a nightmare gives me any clues that it isn't real and when I get sufficiently agitated or upset, something clocks in and wakes me up with a huge adrenaline surge. It's the same disorientation as the flashbacks with a dose of panic and a "what the f^&k ?" factor thrown in for good measure. Cue the reset routine.

So you can add sleeplessness into the equation. It's a real problem and means that my resilience is always near zero - there's simply next to nothing in the tank to deal with even everyday domestic problems, let alone anything else.

The combined action of the flashbacks, nightmares and lack of sleep meant that I started to develop a sense of anticipation that some "thing" was always imminent. Anxiety is always in the background. When it comes right down to it, the flashbacks and nightmares are incredibly intrusive events that replay and reinforce an extremely bad time in my life so it's no surprise (to me anyway) that anything else that comes under the category of new/unepxected, intrusive and stress-inducing now has the capacity to trigger flashbacks. Positive feedback in action...

For a playmate, the anxiety brings along a sort of lightweight paranioa - you just know that something's going to happen but you don't know enough to figure out what it's going to be. So any situation that comes under the heading of "witheld information" becomes massively stressful.

I've delt with this by maintaining a quite predictable daily routine involving a high degree of physical exercise. I've also spent a long time guaging my reactions to various events to try to predict a reaction so that it wouldn't catch me unawares - sort of turning the anticipation backwards on itself. This takes a heap of energy and often means exhaustion and periods of sleep during the day.

Sleeplessness, anxiety and exhaustion sometimes combine to produce instances of lack of concentration and forgetfulness. At it's worst a simple task like going out to do some shopping results in multiple trips back to the house to pick up lists, wallets, coats, 'phone...it's frustrating.

But for me, by a long way, the worst thing is the numbness. I live in what must be one of the most stunning areas of the country and most of everything that isn't work I do outside. I may provide the full bio if it's ever relevant but my life consists of complete interaction with my environment through the year. Over the years, I've developed an highly intuitive sense of the seasons and my various interests have honed my power of observation to an unusual degree. Add to that the sort of grounding that comes from being the result of more than five generations of my family in the same village, an upbringing with some of the most remarkable people I've ever known and a life with a partner and friends with combined talents, experiences and resources that you'd be pushed to find anywhere else. It's immensely rich, it's humbling to be a part of it and it provides me with a sense of complete balance.

I just can't feel it at the moment.

It's like there's an emotion-proof screen around me. All the component parts of my life are there but I'm just a spectator. so it's not really mine.

That's what this is all about - I want my life back.

Maybe I should have mentioned this earlier, but I'm trying to overcome this without the use of medication, which was an option at the beginning. It's taken me four months to get this far, which is only a start and I wouldn't have made it without some incredible support from friends, family and my medical team. I can completely understand why, given the financial pressures of having to work while dealing with PTSD, some people go down the medication route. And even in the depths of it, although I've never felt that way myself, I can also understand why a high proportion of people with PTSD become suicidal.

Two things I am certain of :

As I continue to recover, some things will knock me back. But what I'm doing is working.
I will get better

Enough for one session.

Comments

It has to start somewhere...

2007-01-17T13:08:37+01:00

Everyday objects can kill you - it's common knowledge, isn't it ?

In my case, back in November 2005 it was a picture frame that nearly did it for me.

But before you conjure up a mental image of a heroically-poised ancestor housed in some guilded Baroque construction with dimensions and material content similar to that of a patio door, this one was roughly two feet on each side and made of MDF.

So what's this all about ?

Nine months after the original incident, I was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and this is my account. It's in part therapy as I continue to recover and try to get my life back, I'd like to think that it may help someone else to find a way out from the waking nightmare that is PTSD and it's also a way that I can shed some light on the human costs of the behaviour of a large process-obsessed company.

Comments