I told my psychologist this felt like PTSD.
“Not real PTSD, not like soldiers suffer, obviously they have real trauma”, I told him. “But it feels like what they say they suffer”
“I can be coping OK, then the smallest thing, a word from someone, or a photo, or a location, or a sound, or a smell, and I break down in tears and start shaking.”
The drugs don’t help. Talking doesn’t help.
He wrote on his official report, “It is my opinion that Mr X has been the victim of domestic violence from Miss Y”. But those just felt like words.
I know he meant them, I know he is qualified to judge and honestly believes them.
But I don’t see how he can even begin to understand what I have suffered for so many months and even years. Vivid technicolor fear.
When I first saw him he asked about feeling betrayed or a sense of injustice. Yes I was betrayed. Yes it is unjust. Yes it is unfair. But this isn’t that at all.
I’m just scared. Terrified.
I don’t know when the next word or photo or location or memory or sound or smell will trigger me again.
Alcoholism was her disease, not her choice. I don’t feel anger at her at all. I don’t hate her. I don’t wish her any kind of ill.
But she had a choice of how to deal with it. She chose to take it out on me. And even for that I can’t blame her. The disease overtook her, overran her.
Just like my psychologist, she doesn’t understand what it did to me.