Who I Really Am was Not Destroyed by PTSD

Just typed this up.  It’s from my journal for February 12.  I’m writing about Grief Group.  One woman, who had been horribly abused in her childhood, told us about a recent dream.  She had dreamed about all the abusive incidents, felt surrounded by them, then they began to vibrate.  Apparently icons vibrate in the process of being deleted on an iPhone.  (I don’t have one)  She woke up, knowing that she could delete the abuse if she wanted to.  She asked “who would I be without it?”  But just knowing that she could delete it, gave her a new kind of hope.  At the time I thought “Who would I be without PTSD?” and felt that I didn’t want to delete it.  Just now, writing about it, what came is that who I really am is still here, was never destroyed by the PTSD, but there have been confusing, dissociative barriers to my knowing that’s who I am.

This is why I keep a journal.  Retyping this made it more real for me than when I first wrote it and reminded me of an earlier post:  Seeing my Life Whole

Just now I went back to typing journal, and this is what I wrote the next day (February 13):

I enjoyed puzzles and reading and typing.  The weird thing about typing is, tho I’m typing what I wrote a month ago, it’s almost unfamiliar.  It’s like one person wrote it and another one is reading it.  The only other time I remember something like that was the Colonial Dames incident, where I read my own writing and seriously wondered whether it had happened.  I had to ask Jo.  I wonder how much of me got stitched together in the days when I could reread my entire journal and would write in comments to my younger self.

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