Pissing on the Side

I'm typing and deleting. Rosemary is trying to fall asleep in the bedroom.

The fan squeaks above me and when I stir my mug of kratom the spoon clinks against the ceramic and I feel guilty for these things that I assume are keeping her awake. They'd keep me awake. I try to stir without hitting the sides. 

I find myself doing things like that a lot. Walking as softly as I can. Holding back my opinions or thoughts. Pissing against the side of the bowl instead of directly into the water. Trying to be unseen in close quarters with people. Unnerving when compared to my social persona, a loud and chaotic fool using volume as distraction.

Earlier I had an intake appointment for a new therapist. The first in four years. A little under an hour of being cordial, smiling, and laughing with a very pleasant woman who was attempting to jot down the broad strokes of me for whoever became stuck with me as their patient. She mentioned the possibility of Borderline Personality Disorder (though she insisted that she disliked the term). Another depressive disorder diagnosis was certain. Another anxiety diagnosis. She ruled out panic disorders as my roots seem to be in anxiety, though she acknowledged that while I do have anxiety attacks, I also clearly have panic attacks (the two of which are often confused for each other, colloquially). She also mentioned without hesitation PTSD. Said it was obvious. I agreed.

I'm typing and deleting. Rosemary is trying to fall asleep in the bedroom and the fan squeaks above me, over and over. 

I walk as softly as I can. I tend to hold my tongue. I piss to the side. I feel the energy of the room and the people around me and my anxiety flairs. I've been on alert all day. I've been on alert my whole goddamned life.

Yeah, PTSD makes sense.

I turned 39 recently. I was supposed to die at 38 and never did. I turned 39 and that morning my mother sent a message to tell me that my father reached out to her to wish me a happy birthday.

My earliest memories are centered around his rage. His brutality. Until the day he left, 12 years later. 

Well, that's not true. After he left he attempted to break into our house and then, screaming in our driveway, pulled out a gun and swore he was going to kill himself. He followed us around town from time to time. He popped up here and there. His rage eventually subsided, but when I see him, when I picture him, I see the look in his eyes. A dead black rage. I see his swing. I see hair flying. I hear his bellow. I feel in my chest a deep ache for my family. A deep fear. A deep fucking rot. 

I messaged back "k".

PTSD makes sense.

I'm typing and deleting and I think about how loud the keys are. If I get up, the chair will rub against the floor. The floor might squeak when I step on it. 

I tried to explain throughout the intake that am constantly coming up with systems. Plans and back up plans. Escape routes. What if I do everything right and I still have to run?

When I get up I will lift the chair under me and set it down softly on the floor. I will walk near the walls where the floorboards creak less (a habit that's earned me many bruises from walking into doorways). I will turn the knob on the door first, then open it. No clicking.

I know that Rosemary is most likely asleep. I think that if I woke her up with these natural noises, everything should be okay. I know that she can be kind and understanding. Nothing bad would probably happen. I think.

But my body disagrees.

When I was 24 I went to the dentist for the first time in four or five years. It was a bleak situation. They peered into my mouth and said "Wow. Saved it all for me." I was horrified at the time, but it's funny now.

I assume the new therapist will feel the same.