There are times I wish that I was blessed with the ability that others seem to have and use with such ease, the ability for my brain to switch off and go into shut down mode.
Among many other things I have had the fucked up fairy of post-traumatic stress wave its magic wand and give me its wonderfully fucked up gift.
Any number of things even non related to any traumatic event that I have somehow survived this far through can trigger off this great present I have with PTSD with no warning just like a slap to the face with a wet fish hello flash backs and welcome back post-traumatic stress.
No matter how hard I try to fight it, no matter how I try to deal with it, the reality of it is, there is nothing I can do to make it go away, no magic pill that will make the emotions that are dragged up from fuck only knows where, disappear.
Like many people who have PTSD and flash backs, the only way I can describe how it is or what it feels like is as though I know I am in the now time, yet my life is rewound to then, to whenever it is that I relive, as I watch it like a movie playing in my mind.
But there is no stop button for any remote control to turn it off, there is no fucking remote control, sitting there in a daze as your mind takes total control and you feel like in reality there you are back in that moment in time that those demons hide.
Although this week I do know the trigger for this shit that’s reoccurring, the trigger has been that on two consecutive days my eldest son turned 14 with the following day my youngest daughter turned 8.
The relationship between myself and my eldest son is one that is a bond like no other, he is my strength, he is my baby boy who is now turning into this teenager with a deep voice, and a razor to shave his once soft face. He is growing up, and now that friend he had that was a girl is his girlfriend who he holds hands with makes out with, (although answer’s no to this one, dear god mum how fucking shameful to ask me that kind of thing.)
I miss him with all that I have inside of me, as I continue to live life, each day in the now, live alongside the reason we are apart, and continue to fight to get him home, (long story short, due to domestic violence, his father being a total psychopath alcoholic who tried to kill me, and was heading after my children next, I took the advice of the women’s domestic violence joint, as I had no choice but to leave him with my parents to keep him safe and then put distance between us, as his father continued to look for me assuming that when he found me he would find him. Hence my reason for the never assume rule, my ex’s assumption after 10 years would still be wrong).
Whenever I talk to my baby, hear his voice, I choke on the lump in my throat, he asks how I am I tell him good, he knows I am somehow full of shit, I ask how he is he says good, again I know he is full of shit, but he is doing what I am doing as we attempt to live some form of normality in the now.
He knows the whole story as he lived through it with his father, he knows what beer does to people and he knows that beer turned mum into dads punching or kick boxing bag, he knows why he is with Nana and he knows how to keep himself as safe as possible when doing things, especially on-line in case his father would find him or one of his dead beat dads found him.
Still to this day I change my mobile number regularly, due to the constant and sometimes not realising that I am looking over my shoulder, to see who may be behind me waiting, or watching.
So there was trigger number one, the following day was trigger two, different father to my son but one that was just as bad only not physically he used the mental torture to get to me and he used my youngest daughter when after 6 years he failed to return her from a regular weekend visit.
Horrified as my stomach leapt into my throat when I received a two-line email from him to inform me she wouldn’t be coming home, the nightmare began to try to get recovery orders the endless paper work for family court as he had broken an order, the desperate calls to school because he had taken her out of her education (which is against the law) yet nobody could do a thing.
Twice daily having the local police check on her safety, screaming at them he had been hospitalised twice for attempting to overdose, trying to get it through to them and child protection he was a drug user and a prescription drug abuser.
Pointing out that she was in an environment that was not in her best interest nor her safety yet his stupid name on her birth certificate meant he had the right to do what he was doing regardless of his doubts that she was his child (because her resemblance to my eldest son is ironic).
Leaving the coast and moving to the country, meant I knew I was also closing the door to her, I had no choice, she had told the police the lawyers and school she wanted to live where she was, she had told me and she had told her big brother who is still horrified.
I had made the hardest decision to let her do what she had so desperately and admittedly wanted, and live with her alleged father, and have no contact with her.
The no contact with her, makes it somehow more bearable than hearing this person who is supposed to be part of me act so selfishly and be so cold, to not care at all about her youngest brother, as she lives her life.
This is the child I know will come back to haunt me to blame me for all that went wrong in her life, this is the kid who will do drugs, self-harm and blame it all on her mother, yet as I flash forward knowing this, I still remember sitting every day and every night in the special care nursery watching her as she struggled to breath and was fed with a tube because she was born at 26 weeks.
I remember the first time they let me touch her tiny hand, and the first time I could hold her, as I looked at this tiny baby and wondered how she would ever live outside that humidity crib.
6 or more weeks were spent after I got discharged from hospital on trips back and forth to feed her, to bathe her twice a week, which was Tuesdays and Thursdays because bathing preemies is a whole different ball game than when you carry to term.
I had felt as though I had failed, her being born so early with no reason, just the onset of labour, an emergency C Section, with my helpless baby put into a container that was man-made to be as close to being in utero as possible.
Hence why I find myself here awake and writing this out there hoping to push enter as my words and the way I feel goes out there into the abyss of Google and the feeling of being so helpless somehow fades.