Quite a bit of time has passed since my last post. I could blame computer failure for part of that--not having the means to write is a decent excuse. But I’ve had this new laptop for weeks now. Mostly I’ve used it to distract myself with early episodes of Grey’s Anatomy and watch Time Team dig up England on YouTube. Interesting stuff, and it holds my attention.
I could defend my choice of entertainment as being at least marginally worthwhile. Grey’s Anatomy is the only medical show I’ve ever watched that doesn’t try to shock asystole. And Time Team has finally sorted for me the succession of Stone Age, Bronze Age, Iron Age, Roman rule, Anglo Saxon, Norman, and other medieval history. It has all been constructive input. Yet when I try to make information flow the opposite direction, I poise my fingers to type and no words appear on the screen.
It’s not writer’s block. I’ve had that before and this is different. This is complete brain block, when even normal, everyday conversation becomes too difficult. It’s trauma response, fairly standard psychological shock. And with my history of PTSD, it results in a whole lot of triggering.
Some Things Still Haunt Me
Almost twenty years ago an intoxicated pedestrian walked into the side of my car and imploded his sternum against my passenger-side windshield pillar while I locked eyes with him through the spiderwebbed glass.. I was only going about thirty-five miles per hour, but the force of impact was still enough to send him cartwheeling through the air and tumbling down the road behind me like a ragdoll, arms and legs flailing and bones snapping so loudly I could hear them break even with my windows rolled up. It’s true that things like this seem to happen in slow motion. His wails of pain did not sound human. I’d had no emergency responder training back then so all I knew to do was call 911. They showed up and helicoptered him to a Level One trauma center in Atlanta. He died the next day.
I faced no charges from the accident. Evidence at the scene and eyewitness testimony made it clear that he walked headlong into the side of my car and that I had performed every possible evasive maneuver to avoid him. I was not speeding. My drug screen was clear. I was free to return to work the following day and go about my life as usual. So I did.
At that time I was a professional driver criss-crossing the United States several times a month. My first trip after being cleared of criminal negligence or manslaughter put me in Boston approximately 72 hours after the accident. Although I had experienced no difficulties until that time, the first night I tried to fall asleep alone, I learned what the term “flashback” really means. The instant I closed my eyes I saw the man’s broken body flipping and flopping down the road behind me, with that horrid, inhuman bellow he emitted ringing in my ears and echoing off the inside of my skull.
I didn’t sleep at all that night. The next day, I managed in monosyllables to tell my supervisor that I needed help. The company I worked for sent someone to fetch me home and thus began my personal journey with post traumatic stress disorder.
I don’t mean to compare my experience with that of combat survivors or victims of violence. My shortened rebound time was accurately proportioned to the more lengthy recovery of those who’ve suffered much greater trauma. But I do have a little insight about the brain-numbing mental echo chamber of PTSD and how it can make the simplest tasks seem like insurmountable challenges. I can also relate to how one never completely recovers. How future events that are completely unrelated to the original incident can trigger symptoms, and how sometimes we don’t realize we’re being triggered until the damage is done.
Some Things Break Me In Half
I left Central Appalachia in 2019 after a decade of profound frustration and heartache over the way that community treats its animals. I saw cruelties and coldness of the human heart that by all rights should have sent me spinning right back down into the vortex. Yet it didn't. Instead of depression, I had the opportunity to travel and see other parts of the world, and I dove into the adventure with gusto. Little did I know that a year later I would watch the world stagger under the weight of a global pandemic on a scale no living person has ever witnessed, while friends and family and fellow countrymen back in the United States would fall headfirst down a rabbithole of lies, corruption, and utter selfishness even as people they love died in front of them.
If you hear talk that America is divided, believe it. My entire world has been sawed right down the middle. I’m not a political person and I never directly endorsed either candidate for U.S. president, but I definitely spoke out about manipulation of the American public and common sense medical advice that was given to try and save lives. I lost a lot of friends by having an opinion. And now, more than a year outside of U.S. borders, I’m contemplating the reality that I may never be able to go back. There may be nowhere for me to go back to. I have a Plan B and I am not alone. Things could definitely be worse. But those PTSD symptoms? They’re back.
I feel fortunate that I have recognized those “tells” before they destroyed my entire life… again. It’s hard, losing everything. Harder still to lose faith in people you thought you could count on to rise above the hypocrisy. I’ve been called a traitor. A narcissist. A sheep. All the while, people I have known for years have battled the effects of covid on their bodies and on the lives of their loved ones, some winning and some losing, but all suffering.
I’ve been trapped here in Morocco since the March lockdown. It was terrifying at first to see military patrolling the streets prepared to enforce the state of emergency at gunpoint, but all these months down the road and covid cases are very low in the region where I live. I am safe here because Morocco implemented such strict measures that were--at the time--enforced on me against my will.
However, today I struggle with “survivor’s guilt” that is made worse when people back home brand me as a sell-out and a traitor who bailed on patriotism when the going got tough. Never mind that I was not free to leave Morocco until quite recently. I guess because I comply with the mask mandates and didn’t cry and complain about the violation of my civil rights in lockdown that I am no longer worthy to be American. And never mind that my best friend and soulmate and partner returned to France to check on his family at his first available opportunity and contracted covid at the airport. His entire immediate family, including his 97 year old grandmother, became infected and were quarantined hours apart from each other.
So yeah...I lost my patience with covid deniers at least a dozen funerals ago. It didn’t help when a person I’ve known for over a decade heard about Michel and his family and promptly told me the numbers are completely exaggerated because covid was all just a scam to keep Trump from getting re-elected.
What the hell is wrong with people? Where is the compassion? The kindness? The concern for others? The common sense?
I intend to start writing again. I have not abandoned Hive. But lately I open my mouth to scream and no sound comes out. It will take a while to find my voice again.
Michel and his entire family, including his grandmother, are recovering from covid and are well past the twenty day point with no hospitalizations and no ventilators. That helps. He and I have plans to pick up the pieces of our world even though its landscape has changed forever. He is now negative for covid and will make plans to return to Morocco as soon as possible. At this point we don’t know if we will stay here or leave for other shores. It won’t be America. Not for a long time, I fear. I hope to write about our saga as it unfolds. But some days will be a struggle. I’ll do the best I can.