My Beach Ball

Sometimes acting tough and wearing that forced smile is a hard job to do.  I had a moment today where my tough, nothing is wrong with me exterior cracked and my heart ached.  Sure, I have emotional breaks where I unload my frustrations on here, but that's a little different than what happened today.

Recently, our cat went through a short period of urinating before he got to his box.  I think maybe he had an infection that he has since worked out of his system.  The urine stained carpet on the stairway had been shampooed and treated, but still stunk.

As I sat in my chair this morning, I could not get that awful urine stench out of my nose or head.  For me, it is more than just a bad smell.  Smelling urine for an extended time will and does hurl me into full blown flashbacks of abuse. 

One of the more standard things my dad did to me was urinate on me.  He must have found great pleasure in it, because I can recall dozens of times when he did it.  Smelling urine will mentally remove me from present time and transport me back to one of those many times. 

If you don't understand what a flashback is like, let me explain.  For me, they come in a few different ways.  One is where I feel, see, smell, hear everything as if it were happening right then.  Another is like mentally watching the event happen as if it were a real movie scrolling in my head.  Another is to physically feel the pain of whatever was happening, often accompanied by smells or sounds.  Flashbacks are very common with post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), which I do have.

I believe an hour passed this morning before I realized I had been consumed by one flashback after another.  The same had happened last night. 

It was my ability to remain calm and let the adrenaline leave my system that had escaped me.  I went to the garage, grabbed a pry bar, screwdriver, hammer and pliers.  And away I went to the stairs. 

I ripped the carpet up first.  Then began to work on the tack strips and padding and staples. 

Maybe it was the outbursts of cussing at people who were no where near me or the intermittent bouts of bawling that kept me from realizing how many times I had smashed a hammer into my finger or the blisters that were already forming on my thumbs. 

Needless-to-say, I was far outside my skill set and didn't have the least bit of care.

At some point, I know I knew I could go no further.  I had nothing left in me,  physically or emotionally, to finish the job. 

With sweat pouring off of me and in a urine soaked haze, I laid down on the floor and put my cheek down on the cold wood.  The wind was blowing outside and for a few seconds, it seemed to be carrying music.  That's where I cracked.

What started as  momentary rest had turned into a face planted on the floor petition to God.  For someone who struggles to believe that prayer is necessary or real or works, this was outside of normal for me.

It started with a simple plea, that soon became a long-winded session of begging and pleading.  As I sobbed, I begged for repair.  I had reached a point where I understood that things were too broken for me to fix.  I begged for help.  I realized that nothing was getting done to improve our living conditions and that there is no end to that in sight.  I begged for change.  I finally accepted that without intervention in my life and heart, my life is going to be short and constantly full of pain.  I begged for rest.  Without it, I know I can never move forward.

Of course a few hours later, my skepticism has set in and I question why God would listen or answer any of my prayers.

Having been in counseling for a few years now, I have heard this several times.  Maintaining a life that looks to be normal for me is like trying to keep a beach ball under water.  A beach ball full of air is hard to hold underwater.  Try it sometime.  It's a fight to keep in submerged, always having to readjust or use your legs when your hands get tired.  When you have exhausted every resource, you finally lose control and the beach ball goes flying out of the water.

To most of the world, I've managed to keep my beach ball firmly underwater for several months now.  I must admit, it's been difficult at times.  In fact, unless you are a regular reader on this blog, you would never know I've had much emotion at all the past six months.  I might even look a bit "normal" to you. 

But I'm tired.  All of my internal resources are exhausted.  I have nothing left to hold it down any longer.  I'm afraid my beach ball is about to shoot out of the water like a rocket.