Thursday, April 21, 2016

A second ping, a cry and a bounce back

I sent out a second ping—a proper, solid one as opposed to the first getting-the-feet-wet exploratory effort—the ping one of my six month goals I set upon return to work. It felt good to have achieved a goal near three months early and I glowed with accomplishment.

The next day my calendar reminded me it was the last possible day to do a set of mandatory training—training laced with triggers and put off until then.

I fortified myself with a Valium, waited a half hour for it to kick in, then warned my foxpod comrades I was fording ahead but that I might have to leave once I'd done it.

I got angry about a minute in. By two and a half minutes I was crying—silent cheek rolls as I battled through. By about 25 minutes I was done, shaking, crying, angry and I had another Valium. 

I emailed the pit crew know what had happened but said I'd use CBT to fight off the worst of the rumination and stay the day, then went for the first of many power de-clench and vent walks. In the lift down I yelled heartily for a good twenty seconds before the lift car stopped suddenly, half way to the ground floor. As the doors opened I realised the solitary would-be occupant probably heard muffled shouting as the car approached only to have revealed but a single person within. 

It was an uncomfortable ride down.

The CBT worked; by lunchtime I knew I could make the day and even though leaden with post-anxiety fatigue and the jitters with gritted teeth I stayed and stayed productive. It helped having my foxpod comrades looking out for me and checking how I was travelling.

The day finished and I bused home. As my bus rolled down a road that showed parl house in the distance I checked home email on my phone and found the second ping got a bounce back—a faint one, but a bounce back nonetheless. 

I had a big stupid grin on my face all the way home. The goal was to send the ping; getting a bounce back was just fucking gravy. 

That's the fun of being a low echelon super competent with a psychological injury. The latter is always with you, and can bring unto you moments of woe—such as fits of anger and acute despair—but it helps fuel the former which was already a blaze of fucking wonder. 

Let's face it; I'm the life-equivalent of a tyre yard fire.


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