Flashbacks

Note: I wrote this post during a flashback a couple weeks ago and later edited it for clarity. 

I should be going to bed right now. Today was long, and I need rest. But instead, I think I need to face something head on, to stare into its ugly eyes and describe what I see. 

Though I’m sittting here with my bags packed, I’m not going on a trip. That’s not why I shoved some of my favorites clothes, shoes, and journals into a purse. That’s not why I will stick my laptop into its case, along with my charger, after I’m done typing this. 

No. My landlord is burning a pile of wood. It’s a large pile of wood, but he is a smart man, and I should trust him. I know that there’s no wind tonight and that the fire is a relatively safe distance from the house and from my car. I know that when I wake up tomorrow, this roof will still be above me. I know this in my head. But the seven-year-old inside, the girl who had already lost everything and had to lose everything all over again, who had to twice pick and choose what little she could keep after her town became a warzone, that seven-year-old only knows that she doesn’t want to live without her Doctor Who t-shirt, her stuffed Heffalump named Woozle, her writing, her shoes, her car keys, her letters from her dead friend. 

I keep telling myself to unpack, to put everything away because I need to trust God. Maybe that would be the best course of action, an exercise in control over these flashbacks that have me forgetting where and when I am. On the other hand, what if this is a reasonable, albeit dramatic, precaution? I realize I have no compass for these situations. All I can be sure of is that it will bring me some measure of calm to know that I will at least be able to save something, should the worst happen. 

Normally, I wouldn’t be able to let you join me in my flashbacks, because I am never this aware or verbal. I don’t know why I am tonight. Maybe I’m supposed to be writing this down, so you can see whatever it is I can’t. Maybe there’s some greater reason why I’m fighting the urge to sleep in my car tonight, with all my books crammed in around me. 

I tell you that God is good, and I believe that—evvery day I work to believe that, even when it's my greatest struggle. I have trust issues, with God, with others, with myself. It’s a very lonely, scary place to call home. Too often I catch myself saying, “God, I will trust you, but only if you promise not to let bad things happen.” What sort of trust is that? That is the assumption that he is against me, not for me, that he is just waiting for me to let my guard down so he can hurt me. That is me living every day, bracing for a blow. 

I drank a Kool-Aid Burst last Friday, because I loved them when I was a kid. But they are disgusting to me now. Time takes and takes; it leaves rope burns as it slides through your fingers. You cannot change what has happened; you are not supposed to. God gives and God takes away, and we are supposed to hold everything with open hands. 

In Isaiah, the prophets tells of Hezekiah, who was meant to die but was allowed to live another fifteen years when he begged the Lord to spare him. Had he died when he was supposed to, his son, Manasseh, would never have been born and much evil would have been avoided. That is not to say, in concrete, that Hezekiah ought not to have lived those extra years. That is only to say that sometimes the horrible things God allows are meant to grow us, but sometimes they are meant to spare us. 

I have lived with this spider inside my head for so long, I can barely remember what it was like to walk unafraid, to wander out into a crowded Ivorian marketplace because I was curious, because I wanted to say hi to people. Sometimes I catch myself wondering who I was supposed to be, in those words. But God is sovereign, and who I am today is who I am supposed to be. Nothing sneaks around his will. He is not up in heaven, looking down on me in anger, saying “How dare you not trust me?” He is right here, right beside me, holding my heart and letting me know that it’s going to be okay—that even if I lose my home tonight, it will be well with my soul.

A Court of Mist and Fury // My Conundrum

Three Stars—Good

WARNING: This review contains spoilers for A COURT OF THORNS AND ROSES

Unlike with ACOTAR, I drafted this review the same day I finished reading A COURT OF MIST AND FURY. I think this calls for a celebratory coffee. 

The Rating and a Content Warning.

I wanted to cover this bit first because I think giving it three stars is a tad misleading. I was tempted to give it two stars; I was also tempted to give it four. Or five. Or one. (Okay, not one.) *headdesk* Let it be known, I enoyed ACOMAF, and part of the reason I took so long reading it (several months) was because I wanted to suffer from a book hangover for as short a time as possible (since A COURT OF WINGS AND RUIN comes out in May). However, the biggest, BIGGEST reason why I docked two stars was the sexual content. I was warned that there would be some, but there was a good deal more than some. And I do not like sexy times in books. They make me uncomfortable, they gross me out, and they make me sad because I don’t feel super okay recommending books with this level of sexual content, even if I liked all the other parts. (I know I probably include this disclaimer a lot, but rest assured, if you loved, loved, loved this book, I’m not judging you. I’m just saying that stuff is not for me.) 

So, a word to the wise. 

Moving on. 

PTSD, Depression, Food, and Art. 

At the end of ACOTAR, after an extremely traumatizing ordeal Under the Mountain, Feyre is killed and then brought back to life as a High Fae (that was a lot of capitalization). Naturally, this has a lasting impact on her mental health. She finds herself unable to keep food down, unable to paint, unable to feel much of anything. I kind of felt her pain here, given some of the struggles I’ve been going through recently. It helped to have some perspective. 

Because I’m prejudiced against Romance (as a genre) in general, I hadn’t expected such an honest, nuanced representation of mental trauma. In this case, I wasn’t just surprised, I was moved. Even if this book had no other redeeming qualities, I would love it simply for how it shows Feyre’s emotional journey. 

Relationships.

I can’t go into much detail here without risking spoilers, so let me just say: I was intrigued by Feyre’s relationship with both Tamlin and Rhysand. Coming into the series, I had expected something a little different with regards to these three characters, but Maas ended up surprising me. Though I think I already know what’s going to happen now, I’m ohmygosh so excited to see how this trilogy ends. (And she’s writing three more books in the ACOTAR universe!?! WANT.) 

Small issues.

There are thick books, like THE HOST, where I genuinely believe that removing any detail (or word, or scene, etc.) would take away from the story, but there are more commonly cases with thick books, like ACOMAF, where I have to wonder if the book could have benefited with more tightening. That being said, I admire Sarah and her work ethic to the moon and back (and then to the moon again). Of all the writers I have stalked researched, I find her to be one of the most inspiring. It takes crazy amounts of time and effort to publish two thick books a year and not end up stabbing yourself in the eye with a pair of tweezers. So yeah, props to her. I just think she needed a bit more time. 

In Conclusion.

While there were some stylistic aspects I wasn't as much of a fan of, and while I don’t feel comfortable recommending this book, given how broad my blog audience is, I did enjoy the overall experience of the story and am excited to read A COURT OF WINGS AND RUIN. 

What about you, my little coffee beans? Have you read ACOMAF? What are some elements in stories that make you uncomfortable? What are some reasons why you might not recommend a book you enjoyed?

PTSD // In Which I Rant a Little

Source

Though I’ve been planning this piece for several months now, I almost decided not to post it just yet, in the light of the events in Orlando, since I don’t want to draw attention away from what the victims’ families are going through. But then I got to thinking that the survivors of the shooting will also experience PTSD, most likely, so maybe this is more relevant than I had realized. 

So today we’re going to talk about what it’s like to live with civilian PTSD. 

I find it surprising how often people assume PTSD is only something you get if you’ve been in the military on active duty. You go out; you fight people; you shoot and get shot. Maybe you get a few limbs blown off. And then you come home a different, more difficult person. You lose buddies, and they haunt your sleep. You hold inside the things you can never explain, the things you’ve seen that can’t be unseen. You spend a lot of time feeling like a cornered animal. 

Military PTSD is legitimate and you should never sweep it under the rug, don’t get me wrong, but the same goes for civilian PTSD. Just because we can’t pull up the more commonly heard type of war story by way of explanation doesn’t mean we aren’t still stuck in a mental battlefield. 

There were several factors that contributed to my PTSD, but I’ve already talked about the main event in a previous post, so if you want the long story, I would advise you to go there. The CliffsNotes version is that I was evacuated from Ivory Coast (twice) when my town became a war zone (twice). 

Because of the night I spent cowering on the floor listening to bombs falling a mile away, I cannot stand fireworks. My brain hears the fireworks exploding, thinks they are bombs, and starts preparing to lose everyone and everything all over again. It doesn’t matter that I know fireworks are recreational and beautiful and harmless if you practice appropriate precaution. It doesn’t matter if I can see them, although it sometimes helps a little. It doesn’t even matter that it’s unlikely I will lose everything for a third time. All that matters is that fireworks sound like bombs to me. The same goes for slamming doors and any other sort of loud, abrupt noise. 

All of this can be incredibly embarrassing, like the multiple times I’ve freaked out during firework shows at the camp where I worked during the summer, or the time I had a full on panic attack when our camp flooded during a thunderstorm and I was told to save my most valuable possessions and leave the rest behind. Last week a piece of wood fell onto the tile floor in our apartment, and I instinctively took cover because my brain misinterpreted the bang as a gunshot. When I attended my grandfather’s funeral and the honor guard fired their guns in salute at the cemetery, it took great effort not to dive behind the nearest vehicle. 

One of the biggest problems is that it is easy for people who have never experienced something traumatic to assume I am merely overreacting, that what I went through could not have had such a profound effect on my psyche. I have been laughed at. I have been told to grow up and get over it. I have been accused of doing this for attention. Because yes, I just love that feeling when my knees get so weak I can’t even support myself so the girl’s staff boss has to carry me on her back to my cabin while everyone stares at my tear-splotchy face. I just love forgetting where I am and how old I am. I love the overly-concerned and confused looks I get when my body is shutting down but my mind is on high alert. I love getting looked at like I’m broken glass or a time bomb. I just love it when everyone knows why I have the week off counseling after the fourth of July. I love it when the rumors get back to me. I even have PTSD attacks on my own time when no one is watching and no one is available to help me through them because I love having them so much. Clearly I am doing this for attention. *

*So that we’re absolutely clear on this point, if you can’t see the sarcasm dripping off that last paragraph, then it’s possible you are part of the problem.

Those outside my mind who think they have permission to judge it are right when they say there is nothing wrong with my body. In fact, they are right when they say it is all in my head. 

That is the problem. 

It is in my head, and it won’t ever go away. There will always be a part of me that is still seven years old and cowering in the hallway praying we won’t get hit by a stray bomb, praying the mob outside won’t try to break down the gate, praying the gunshots are going into the air and not into people. I had no way of knowing whether or not I was going to survive that night, so there will always be that small part of me that came away convinced the end was still coming, that small part that’s still braced for that final, fatal bomb to fall—that small part that still avoids windows on bad days because STRAY BULLET, STRAY BULLET, WHAT IF THERE’S A STRAY BULLET. 

I avoid large crowds when I can, and when I can’t I have to grit my teeth and bear it. All those voices, loud and talkative and undisciplined, garble together until they sound like the angry roar outside my home. When I go on trips or move house I have to pack slowly or I start to panic because it feels like seven-year-old me all over again, choosing what to take with me and what to leave behind forever. 

It has been almost twelve years since that November, and I still have nightmares and flashbacks. I still have trouble convincing my mind it's safe enough to fall asleep at night. Telling me to get over it will not suddenly make me better. I can promise you, I wish I had a sound brain. I wish my mind and body didn’t betray me at the worst moments. I wish I hadn’t been through something so painful and hard to understand. 

I don’t usually get what I wish for. 

So a word to the wise. If you see someone freaking out about loud noises or having a flashback, do not laugh. Don’t you dare belittle them. So help me, do not make it worse. If you can’t help them, at least stay clear of their personal bubble, keep your mouth shut, and don’t stare. Or better yet, find someone who can help. If you want to help, respect their space, use a soft voice, remind the person of where they are, remind them that they are safe, talk about unrelated positive things to distract them (but don’t talk too much). Help them get grounded in reality again. Listen to them. Keep a crowd from forming. Be aware of their response to physical contact because sometimes a hug is helpful and sometimes a hug is an attack. Use your common sense. Realize that you are there to be a friend, not a psychiatrist. We don’t always have people on hand to help us through our PTSD attacks, so we generally know how to manage on our own, but you could help so much just by being understanding and gentle. 

Despite the patronizing and unhelpful people I have encountered along the way, I have also had wonderfully supportive people who have stepped up to help at some of my most vulnerable moments. I have had peers lend me their music and earbuds on multiple occasions in hopes of helping me block out the sound of fireworks. I have had people lend my sister and me their cars so we can drive away from the noise. I have had people sit with me and talk to me and help me during these times. I am extremely grateful that these sorts of people exist. 

Please don’t be the sort of person who makes it worse. Please be the kind soul who understands. 

Thank you for listening. It's not something I like talking about at all, so I appreciate your willingness to read this whole thing. 

What about you, my little coffee beans? How many of you have had flashbacks? How many of you know at least one person with PTSD?