PTSD – Sherri Jean McCulloch

I read this book in the eighties. It was hyped as a work of genius for the three voices Kurt Vonnegut gave himself in the telling of it. It was hyped for it’s sixties vibe, sex and aliens. At the time I thought is was kind of stupid. I didn’t get the allure of aliens or porn star sex. I figured it was just another book for guys who respond to that sort of thing… basically all the guys I knew then.

I reread the book a couple of weeks ago and saw it in a completely new and incredulous light. Vonnegut was a genius! After a good long while of reflection and contemplation, he’d found an effective way to express his experience with PTSD during it’s most intense moments of his life. I was memorized as I read and unraveled the symbolism. I understood the layers of voice and how necessary it was to relay that untethered, unembodied state that happens on the journey. I understood that he needed to understand and share his ironic, terrible, destructive story to make sense of it, and that curiosity, the need to understand, was probably the thing that saved his life.

I’m pretty sure almost nobody understood ‘shell shock’ in the sixties, though they may have

recognized it’s wrecking ball power. Many sufferers saw the bottle or the needle as the only means of escaping it’s incapacitating power. Has that changed any in 40 years? Not much, but we’re beginning to have conversations about PTSD and other mental illnesses. That’s the beginning of change. Naming something leads to understanding. Understanding leads to destigmatizing. Destigmatizing leads acceptance and support. Acceptance and support are necessary for healing. Healing, not escape, needs to be the clearly communicated goal for anyone with PTSD.

Well done Kurt Vonnegut. Well done.

It’s been an odd day. I was supposed to be resting but….

⇐ This is how it felt.

Men. Misogyny. Mistrust. PTSD.

It was a struggle to get back up after I “broke down”. I’m not quite there yet and today was a reminder.

I had a rough sleep. Nightmare. Bad stuff happens to me in the night and wakes me in a state of panic. It takes a while, still, to calm myself and get back to sleep. And then, acid reflux. Almost as bad as a nightmare because it hurts for real so much. It’s stress related.

Yesterday I was told that my disability coverage may end soon. That’s obviously a big issue for me. I have a mortgage, debt exacerbated by having to pay for my care, and the regular day to day expenses of life.Scary stuff. I am working two days a week and barely managing it. I’d have to go back at least four days to make ends meet and well, that’s not something I can think about right now.

But back to today. First, a lovely young woman courageously shared her story of depression and her mother’s bipolar disorder.Second, in a phone call I was told the Woman’s March was stupid. Obviously by someone who had never been sexually assaulted or had experience in being the recipient of mysogyny. After a third, personally troubling bit of information, I lost it. Breath couldn’t hold me together anymore. I felt the inner shaking, spinning, and fear take me over. I didn’t fight it. I cried. I allowed it to happen and to pass. Thankfully, I was at home and not at work.

After a cup of tea and some quiet time, I ran to my studio and got into the paint. I always tell my students to climb right into their books when they read, to lose themselves in story. I do that when I paint. I just paint. No plan. No agenda. Just paint and see what happens. Today it was a little bit of a thing. Red. Orange. Black. Fiery colours that come out of me when I’ve experienced panic. It was a little bit of a thing that reminded me of an email I’d received that morning. I’m on Chris Cade’s list. Today, he’d forwarded something. A little lesson in saying…fuckit…When I’d read it, I was somewhat taken aback, but how serendipitous to receive it today; on a day when I needed permission to let things go.

I’ve kept my heart open by listening with the taps open.

Thank-you, serendipity.