Adrenaline Sickness

I don't have any better name for it right now, but I think that I have adrenaline sickness. The condition comes from too many shots of adrenaline into my system for too many years over nothing. Today it was the cat, again. The beast is very protective of his windows, the ones that are on my house. I suppose it's my house, maybe the house belongs to the cat too. The cat frightens the wits almost right out of me a couple of times each year. 'Wits' is the polite term for what is nearly scared out of me. The situation is approximately the same each time: enough time passes for me to let my guard down for just a moment. The cat is watching out one of his windows. I have something to do outside such as adjusting the sprinklers at the hose bib, and I raise my head to get the hissing of my life right in the ear. I manage a small act of levitation with both vertical and horizontal attributes as adrenaline shoots through my PTSD-overwhelmed system. Inside the house I am one of the good guys; outside I am the enemy. Why do I then make my amateur diagnosis of adrenaline sickness? The feeling of illness that comes from this little circus act does not go away as quickly as I think it would for a normal person.

As I take a few deep breaths and try to slow my heart rate back to something a little less insane, I feel slightly ill, a bit nauseous, and a bit more, uh, if 'wits' is what nearly escapes my body then I guess it would be, witty. My grass would benefit from fulfilling the feeling, but the town authorities tend to frown upon this sort of thing. The cat gives me a look from inside that says he knows an enemy when he sees one and that I had better stay clear of his windows. I apologize for involuntarily cursing out my own pet and stagger off to the back door to present my credentials to the guard. The same face that just shortened my life span by a year or so wants me to feed him. I'm on the inside now and back to servant or good guy status, take your pick. Later, the ill reaction to the adrenaline reaction takes hold. I want to cry, to shout, to poop, to pass out, or to just know what exactly is wrong with me. My theory is that I've just startled at next to nothing too many times. Admittedly, a cat's hiss is not the best of sounds and I'm already operating under this anxiety disorder. Perhaps the best solution is to give myself a break on the self-pity and self-criticism. I wonder how normal people do that.

Normal for the purposes of this little blog will be someone without post traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. I named the blog Post Traumatic Distress because that is what I feel most of the time. I always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress, but I became the distressed one and the damsels all ran away from me. Along with 'Why me?' is the sneaking suspicion that I am all alone in this. That last bit is one of the symptoms of anxiety disorders. I am not alone, God is with me always and I have a lot of company in suffering PTSD. The VA supports me in spirit, if not in funds, and they will let me know, I hope, when the pill arrives.

We don't have the 'get over it' pill yet, and fortunately we have learned enough over the years to get away from most of the 'get over it' from the ignorant and stupid. I believe that in order to understand the distress of PTSD a person must know the suffering of it first hand, and I love my neighbors too much to wish that on them. A pill to just get over it would be nice, as it would with a whole bunch of illnesses both mental and physical. Until that time comes, or until Jesus calls us home, we suffer and learn and hopefully share to help each other. I started this blog some weeks ago, but couldn't write anything until today. Seem kind of stupid? Sure, that's why I agree that this thing is a disorder. I also agree that I should speak up more, or at least write up more. I hope to use some humor in this; there are more than enough blogs and discussion forums where all is serious about PTSD. Perhaps the next blog can be about the time I told the lovely lady in church that God brought her to me to be my distraction...without first explaining that distraction is a viable technique used in dealing with the maelstrom of anxious thinking. Oops!

God bless you,
Bucky