I Blew Myself Up: PTSD

Interestingly enough, just prior to having blown myself up on March 23rd, 2008, I had been working with adolescent girls who have severe emotional dysregulation and, among other things, post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). In fact, I was supposed to be finnishing my last week at the school in Boston when, instead, I accidentally blew myself up and now here I was, lying in a hospital after four days and a skin graft to my abdomen, chest, arms and shoulders.

While I have much empathy for people, it is based primarily in trust, not necessarily in experience and having never experienced PTSD in my adult life, I always had difficulty understanding the concept. In my capacity as a special educator, I would hear the psychologists and sometimes my students, talk about nightmares, inability to sleep, depression, etc., but I have to admit, I was pretty much just trusting that their struggle was real to them. I could not truly understand it.

My reality has sunk in a bit more now. They say I will be here at least ten days, maybe back to work in three weeks and healed in one year. It doesn't sound so unmanageable. But I have no idea what I will look like when all the bandages are gone. Will a woman ever be able to look at my bare chest without being grossed out? What about my arms and wrist? Will I be able to play guitar? Because right now, my wrist is in a lot of pain and doesn't feel like it can stretch straight.

It's approaching midnight and I'm heavily sedated. I can't really remember the last time I was fully asleep...sometime earlier in the day I think. I turn off the TV and start to nod off. A few minutes go by.

I awake with a jolt...I was almost asleep...I nod off again...I start to dream of smoke...blue smoke....after a few minutes

I awake with a jolt...I was slightly asleep...I nod off...it's a little harder this time...I'm almost asleep. After a few minutes

I feel my hand moving and I slap myself on the chest.

I awake with a jolt and a bit of pain. What the hell is going on? I turn on the TV and watch a little...I start to nod off. After a few minutes-

I awake with a jolt...

This routine continues through several doses of medication made to make me sleep, and through the next day. I tell the doctor and he has a clinical psychologist come to see me. She comes down from the psych ward and asks me what is wrong. She is a tall, blond, attractive med student with a Eastern European accent. I explain that I can't sleep, etc., etc., etc.. She states that this is normal and that once I get out of the hospital I should seek counseling. She orders me more pain medication and maybe an anti-psychotic? I am not sure.

The night comes. Every time I start to fall asleep I start to dream about fire, explosions, and smoke. I hit myself in my sleep and this wakes me up. I awake with a jolt numerous times and I start to believe I am losing my mind. I realize that I can't sleep, I'm exhausted, I'm sedated and it's just one big cycle that never ends.

I call the orderly. This big dude comes to my room.

Now I know I said earlier that the most humiliating thing was crying while naked in front of a nurse. But women are used to that. However, crying in front of a big, hulking dude definitely ranks up there in the high humility range. I'm trying to explain the madness cycle of not going to sleep to this guy. He seems to understand and he doesn't laugh and he doesn't walk out. No, he just says that I WILL fall asleep and he says he'll leave the door open and that he's right across the hall if I need anything. He says I can call him as many times as I want.

Phew............now that I know that even the big, hulking, nurse-dude even cares, I can finally fall asleep.