No One Understands

I hadn’t felt the rage coming. It was in front of me before I could stop it. I watched as a crazy woman inside my body stood up, screamed at my therapist and friend of over a decade — and walked out of his office. He didn’t understand. This time my guy was the real thing, not like the con men I’d known before.

My beau was charming, fun, gorgeous, smart, successful and the best playmate I could ever ask for. Better yet, everyone said he was the best guy they’d ever known — Mr. Honor and Integrity.

I knew he was the one. I didn’t need my therapist telling me any differently. Certainly not with the same old stories about what was wrong with me. He’d been harping on that for long enough. The story was always the same. Why couldn’t he see I’d moved so far beyond that person?

My story of a small town, ‘smartest kid around’ upbringing — and all the hurt that resulted — was not the reason for these outbursts. My need to be needed was not in charge here. This was something different — even if it did manifest in similar ways on the surface. I just didn’t know the right answer. Not yet. But I was tired of hearing the same old song.

I sobbed all the way to the barn — my new place of hiding whenever life got bad — which was often these days. I’d go pet one of my ponies and forget the anguish that was my life. A friend saw me sobbing as I sat on a bale of hay outside my horses’ paddock. She asked what was wrong and the next thing I knew — everything started pouring out. The rage, the tears, the insanity.

She sat down and wrapped her arms around me until I calmed. Then she asked a few questions about my rage and sadness. She sighed an pulled out her cell phone and gave me a number and name — a therapist who had helped her when she’d experienced similar behavioral patterns decades ago. We chatted for a bit.

She noted that everything I was suffering smelled of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. I’d been thinking the same thing after hours of internet research. The eight solid years of caretaking and no sleep — added to a stress-filled career — mirrored the same kind of no sleep, always-on stress that veterans’ experience after months on the front-line. Heck, those eight years had been just like being on the front line. I’d been right next to death the whole time.

As we sat there and talked, deep down inside I knew I was finally on the right path to finding out the truth behind my madwoman. Something deep inside me triggered these events. Whether it was simple exhaustion following the years of stress, or some other quirky alter ego in my subconscious — I didn’t care.

I only wanted an answer. I had to know what was going on with me, deep down inside. Before I truly did go insane.

Photo Credit

“Shadow Woman”  jmarkdeb @ flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.

“dark thoughts” alicepopkorn @ flickr.com. Creative Commons. Some Rights Reserved.

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