I saw a new gynecologist today. I’ve been avoiding it for a long time. Last night I thought about canceling. I hoped that maybe I’d be up all night puking and then I would have a valid excuse to reschedule again. Unfortunately, there was no puke to be had. There was a brief glimmer of hope when I got there, and the receptionist said I didn’t have an appointment. But then I showed her the confirmation on my phone from yesterday. There was no turning back now. They were already walking me down the hallway, into the cold room, past all of my memories. I have to work hard to push through them in the hallways sometimes. And when I sit down on the exam table. And when I look the doctor in the eyes.
Dear Dr. C–
A therapist once told me, “Bekah, you’re like a tank. When you get focused on things, you plow up the mountain and get them done no matter what, but you don’t see the bodies you’ve left behind.”
The quiet moments are the hardest. The ones after the chaos, after the terror; the ones that happen after the noise. Everyone listens when there’s noise. Everyone cares when they can see it, when you can give an update. And when there’s nothing to report…there’s silence.
The thing about PTSD is it hits you when you don’t expect it. It hits you when you’re already down. It pummels you into the ground. Down. Down. Deep down. And there are some days when it is a hard choice to wake up. To get your body out of bed. To do the “normal” things. This isn’t the post that I ever wanted to write, but I’m strangely empowered by the journey of Wanda Maximoff in the WandaVision series, because I see it. And I know those feelings so freaking well.