You don’t know how easily I scare.
I hate to admit this, but I become afraid when I get into harm’s way. I try to avoid it. Try to go with the flow. But when harm settles in my general area, I become as timid as a rabbit jumping back in a hole after seeing his own shadow.
Is it PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder)? Or have I always been this way? I don’t think I felt this in my youth. But I do know this is the condition I face each and everyday now. When I perceive a theat or violence aimed at me, fear starts to rise. It’s like a friend I have tried all of my life to dissociate from, but no matter how much I try to be “macho” and to “walk like a man,” he’s there. Beside me. Or rather “inside me.” Can’t shake Mr. Fear for the life of me.
I can “bob and weave” at the first site of danger, but if harm grows, or refuses to dissipate or go away, I get defensive. I “flashback” to when my life was truly “on the line.” I shake. My heart rate increases. My palms get sweaty. And I am back in that war zone that never leaves my head.
Violence can take the shape of a slammed door, a pop from a Champaign cork, the yelling of a loved one. If someone should curse me, I can usually take it. But, If they call me an “asshole” I want to cause seriously bodily injury with any object I find to shove into and down their throat. Yes, certain “red flag” words and actions “set me off.”
I am responsible for all of my actions, but at those brief moments I attack — the best defense being a good offense — the restraining bars I tried to install simply fail. I lose the little control I have and I retaliate, like someone bad, evil, un-God-like.
Completely depleted and exhausted, I am quickly spent. I crumble, folding in on my self as a flimsy house of cards, a punctured balloon, a small insignificant specimen of a human being. I detest my actions. And I feel as worthless as George Bailey in “A Wonderful Life.” Before the angel appears.
Loved ones take the brunt of my explosion. Often the wrong word or action can cause the most harm, to my “overly” or “hyper” sensitive nature. If I had no close or intimate friends, I often wonder if my PTSD would diminish. Or would I throw rocks against the wall, break the beams holding up the cave I enclosed myself to protect others from me, and me from others.
When will it all end? Not in this lifetime. Perhaps, I suffer from karma developed in another life; perhaps even in my life against an unseen enemy I killed years earlier and never knew his name. Take a good look at this warrior and the toll he pays. His best was left at the Draft Board and he’s doomed to fight the battle over and over.