Monday, April 11, 2016

It was a tough last 100 metres

I'm not that good at hiding my emotions, far less so since my psychological injury. This morning I was leaving to catch the bus and theboy called me back to try and close the front door—a floor carpet got stuck in the gap and the door couldn't shut.

He took one look at my irritated face and panicked; "don't worry, it's okay, I'll do it."

He's not even ten. He's not even ten and he had to mollify me then manage me out of the house without my flaring up.

As I stood at the bus stop I was overwhelmed by distress that my less-than-ten-year-old had to factor in and manage his father's psychological injury.

I tried all the tools in my CBT tool belt but could not stop crying as I sat on the first bus. On the second bus I cried again. As I reached my floor and had to walk the 100 metres to my desk I started gulping air as I'd gone into a panic state. I had to force myself forward, tears streaming, each and every foot to get closer to my desk. I got about 20 metres out and cry-rested against a cupboard to control my breathing when a colleague saw me, saw my acute distress, then gently eased me to my chair

I had a Vallium, but they take 30 minutes to kick in, so when the super boss came out to ask how everyone was I couldn't turn around because I was still crying; instead I feebly shouted "I made it in!"

I wrote an email to my pit crew then got to work. By mid-morning I was mostly okay, by lunchtime it was a bad memory. I still had moments of grief wash over, that my injury impacts on my family years on from infliction, but I fell back into the pattern of focusing on positive tasks to do. 

The bus ride home was a little rubbery, only because that morning I'd publicly wept on a public bus, but on the second of the buses I cracked out Hawaii and lost myself in its pages instead of falling prey to rumination. I rolled into home, found theboy, and apologised for hurting his feelings when all he did was ask for help. He forgave me.

I can take the impact of the injury on myself because without my injury I wouldn't have healed the older hurts. 

But I loathe its impact on my family; it's the elephant in the room. The lodestone our family revolves around—my injury and my susceptibility to re-injury.

A child shouldn't have to bear that burden; they shouldn't—and that he does grieves me to my core.

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