I cannot sleep without my head and eyes completely covered by a black satin sheet. I pull the blanket up to my chin. My mouth barely shows (says my husband and aid). I have claustrophobia, but I have always felt safe under my covers. I believe that if no one can see me, then they cannot hurt me – a side effect of my PTSD warzone.
Insomnia plagues me, even after I take my sleeping pill. I suffer from hope, despair, hope, despair. These thoughts battle with my wish simply to rest.
I have sleep apnea which exhausts me as soon as I wake up.
My daily medical routines wear me out. I tire of my total dependence upon others. It burdens them, and it burdens me. Freedom is a foreign word to me.
Worse, I am a terrified perfectionist; drilled into me by my mother. Her ghost haunts me. If I put a pot in the wrong place, her voice chastises me from the grave.
I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing to my caregivers. I fear to lose them, so I walk on glass much of the time. Without them, I cannot eat, brush my teeth, wash my face, or bathe. If I have a craving for a particular food at an odd hour, I go without as disturbing my caregiver sometimes annoys him.
How I wish I could get out of bed whenever I want. But, I can neither get in or out without help. Frustration sets in as I struggle to stay positive while confined to bed.
Spilling my tears onto my laptop’s screen, as I “vomit” all my traumas here. It relieves me.
Categories: Personal secrets