Wednesday, September 7, 2016


For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.
The value of my education about how to live with C-PTSD is inversely proportionate to the suffering of my cluster of seizures that I endured this past Sunday. Monday is a blur; it was a day of shock and recovery but yesterday morning, due to my inability to go outside unescorted, a company called Nurse Next Door came to pick me up and take me to Dr. Shoja, stayed with me at the hospital and brought me home.
My visit with Dr. Shoja was nothing short of miraculous. I felt some benefit within thirty minutes of my arrival and now, after the balance of the day at rest and a great night’s sleep, I feel dramatically improved.
When I related to her the drama of the ambulance rescue and readmission to St. Paul’s she asked me, “Do you have any idea of what caused it?”
“You’re the doctor. You tell me.”
“How did you feel about the last visit?”
“I know you want to talk about that but I don’t.” I was crying and able to only speak one word at a time and only very softly. And I could hardly breathe.
“I want you to help me. I can’t live like this. I can’t go outside, or I’ll have endless seizures and someone will call 911 and I won’t be able to get the paramedics to leave me alone.”
“I think the cure lies in understanding the cause and I suspect it was our last session that predisposed you to the seizure cluster. That’s why I asked you how you felt about our last session.”
Our last session had ended with me telling her that I wanted to bake her some Persian cookies and she rejected my offer. She suggested that the rejection of a person in whom I was confiding my all, in a person on whom I depended, was too much for my psyche. It made sense.
We next discussed the nature of a “for pay” relationship and, specifically, the psychiatrist/patient relationship. As I said: I have learned a lot about managing life with C-PTSD. I feel like a child — a child who is eager to learn how to live and full of questions and Dr. Shoja is in a mother-figurey position.
Today feels like a new beginning. That would make this morning the eighth or ninth morning I’ve felt this way. It’s how I feel after every setback on my route to recovery. But the seizure cluster was the nadir of my C-PTSD life and so, conversely, this past session with Dr. Shoja was the most insightful and fulfilling session yet.
I know a few friends read this blog; some strangers may even read it. At least one friend finds my writing here uncomfortably revealing. But  — and please excuse me for saying this — I don’t write here for you. I write for me.
I write here to fulfill a need. That’s how it’s always been. It’s more convenient to work here than in a paper diary as I used to do. And now, since the onset of my condition, writing about what happens to me is a vital part of my recovery.
I have ongoing professional medical, psychiatric and physical therapy. This is my self-help zone.

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