One of my all-time favourite movies ever is The Princess Bride. And one of the best scenes is when the albino is talking about his Pit of Despair ... just the way he says it at first with his hoarse voice rasping over the words makes it sound truly horrible but also quite fitting since it is a pit of despair and should sound horrible. All part of the movie and in that context funny and entertaining.
I was diagnosed with PTSD and severe depression about 15 years ago. Anyone who has either or both of those will know what I mean when I say that despair kind of becomes your buddy, as in he's right there by your side all the time. He hangs around with the PTSD ghost, working in tandem with him to drag you down any chance he can.
On a good day my "happiness scale" sits right around a 6. I'm not way down, but never really way up either, just kind of gliding along in the middle. I stay hyper-vigilant so I can avoid most triggers, I'm careful what I read or watch on TV, who I talk to, what I listen to on the radio .... hyper-vigilance is a full-time job, but it's an unfortunate requirement to keep me from dropping below that 6 and heading down the rabbit hole. It's not fun but it's absolutely necessary and unavoidable. I think of it like a bubble shield that I wear around me. In my own home I don't need to wear it all the time, though I often do, but I never ever leave home without it. It may keep people from sometimes getting too close, both physically and emotionally, but I feel like I need that little buffer to stay safe.
So
what happens when someone who is already dealing with PTSD and
depression is hit with sudden loss and grief? Well, I'll tell you this
much, it's not pretty. A Sudden Loss is like someone shoots an arrow at my bubble shield and just shatters it, my defences fly off in every direction and I'm left there wide open with no protection at all. Grief comes along and just envelops me; making it impossible to move or get my shields back up or do much of anything at all.
My grandfather passed away last week. He'd been ok ... he was 97, so yes, he was old, but he was doing really well. He'd decided a couple of years ago to move from his condo into a senior's home, which was kind of funny because even as the oldest resident there it was like he was surrounded by old people with their scooters, walkers, and canes. It irritated him some, having to tolerate being nearly run down by the scooters, but he knew it was time. Then this past winter we learned he had bladder cancer. I began to try to mentally prepare myself for the inevitable, but when I'd call him every few weeks he sounded like himself, not sick, certainly not like someone on their way out. He had radiation and handled it fine. He had been told he could have 3 more years. Wow.
Then last week he had a heart attack, followed by another one, but again we were told that he came through that ok, he was strong and doing well and ready to go back to the home on Friday. But on the morning of his release day he had one final heart attack and my Papa was gone.
I had been planning to call him on Saturday. I figured I'd let him get back home and settled on Friday, then call and see how he's doing. He didn't want a big funeral and people flying in from all directions, he considered it a waste of money and had already left instructions for something small and dignified. So I didn't talk to him, then I didn't get to go to the funeral. Instead I just cried, and I haven't been able to stop.
When I found out he was gone I was walking home from somewhere, only about 15 minutes away.... I tried to keep it in but that wasn't happening so I just let the tears come as I walked. I'm surrounded by strangers anyhow so what do I care if they see me crying. I got home and my emotionally detached partner met me as I walked in the door and asked if I was ok. I had texted him what had happened, so he wasn't surprised that I came home crying, though a hug would have been nice. He just stood there and let me lean against him, that was it. Papa never liked him anyhow, so he wouldn't have been surprised or impressed by the lack of support, physically or emotionally.
So what does happen to someone with PTSD and depression when they're suddenly facing the impact of grief? For me it's a one word answer: meltdown. My bubble is gone. When I go outside I'm still hyper-vigilant but I'm also terrified. Normally I go through my day doing a variety of things; I quilt, do housework, walk, do some ancestry on the computer, window shop, chat with friends or strangers, read a good book in the bath, watch some late-night tv, I'm always doing something. It's rare that I'm ever just sitting still; even watching tv I have to have something to do while I sit.
For the first two days I don't think I spoke more than a few words. I had nothing to say. I still have nothing to say, and anyone that knows me well will realize what that means. I can't eat or sleep, I have no interest in anything at all. It's been a week and nothing has changed. I feel like I'm wearing really heavy clothes that are weighing me down, keeping me from wanting to even move. I feel such an immense sadness all the time and it feels like it's never going to leave.
Papa was a veteran of WWII, he outlived 2 wives, a daughter (my mom) and a son. He outlived his brother by 16 years. He loved golf, woodworking, model trains, covered bridges, lighthouses, and good scotch. He had a good, long life, but somehow I guess I just never imagined he'd someday be gone, and now I can't imagine anything without him. I don't do the "shoulda woulda coulda" game ... I know that I should have called him before he went home, but nothing can be done to change the past so I just don't do that. I do wish I had called, but it wouldn't have changed anything. He'd still be gone and I'd still be missing him.
I know that it's normal to feel sad and miss someone when they're gone, but I'm also recognizing that this deep, intense sadness that I feel is something more. I need to police my thoughts, I need to try and climb out of this pit of despair before it buries me, and I have no idea how to do that. And most of the time I'm not even sure I want to.
