August 2017. Hurricane Harvey. Houston Texas. Suppossed to be a birthday celebration.
Instead, it was a life-changing event. It was the beginning of the end of the old me. It was the end of life as I knew it.
Yes, There was some fear, but I was safe. So many around us lost everything. I was chosen to be safe. For some reason, I was spared.
That in itself comes with guilt. Coming back to Florida after and not being able to volunteer was awful. Overwhelming sadness for those left behind.
But the PTSD unlocked memories that I had long since put away.
The flood was now in my mind. It was a flood of memories and flashbacks.
Why? What does being stranded in a flood have to do with child abuse memories.
How does my whole nightmare of a childhood come flooding back without even being invited?
More than a year later and I’m still puzzled. More than a year later and I’m still in therapy. More than a year later and I’m still screaming or yelling, or crying in my sleep. More than a year later and I still feel like I’m drowning.
I never ever thought I would be an emotional disaster at 54 years old.
Some days I can feel the old me coming back. But the old me can’t process memories. The old me can’t trust anyone. The old me can’t be vulnerable.
It’s a war of the mind. I want to process the memories and move past it. And at the same time, I want to go back to pre-Harvey days.
I’m tired. Tired of the flood. Tired of wading. Tired of trying to keep my head above the water.
But in order to get out of the flood I have to keep trying to get on dry land.
Hey God, could you throw me a life raft? Or even just a life jacket so I can stop having to get water in my lungs? I can’t breathe.
Until next time – I am being MJ every day.