News Day Tuesday: New treatment for PTSD?

a cure for what ails you, News Day Tuesday, personal experiences, ptsd, rapid-cycle bipolar disorder, three hopeful thoughts

Good morning, readers!

This week, I rustled up an article about some exciting developments in PTSD research.

Basically, scientists are looking at glutamate (one type of those fun little things in your brain that sends signals) and how alterations in glutamate levels affect PTSD. What this means for us is that PTSD is now being studied on a molecular level, which means that new treatments could be on the horizon!

My PTSD is generally well-controlled, as far as “controlling” it goes. I’m still mad-jumpy and don’t have a good time in crowds (the dissociation spikes, and sounds that hit my left ear first seem to make it worse, though my previous psychiatrist had no idea why). I still feel depersonalized/derealized every single day, though the level of detachment varies widely. I haven’t been able to pinpoint exactly what it is that makes it better or worse, but admittedly, I’ve been super lazy about charting it.

However, I’m sleeping soundly for the first time I can remember. I think a lot of us can relate to the hypervigilance and, by extension, light sleeping. Loud noises still startle me awake and my fiance sometime scares the bejeezus out of me by touching me–gently–to wake me up. But! and this is good news–the sounds of the cats wheezing or vomiting or fighting don’t wake me in a panic. It’s more of a “God, this again?” reaction, which, while not fun, is better than waking up with a racing pulse and momentary confusion about where I am.

As far as journaling about symptoms goes, I’m still trying to figure out a system. How many times in a day should I note what’s going on upstairs? I don’t want to become obsessive about it, as I did with my mood journal when I was first beginning treatment for bipolar disorder. At the same time, I want to make sure I have an accurate log of my symptoms and the events that may have caused an increase/decrease in the weird floaty feelings of unreality.

That being said, it’s sometimes hard to notice the changes because they’re subtle. Because this has been chronic for six years now, it often takes an absolutely massive spike before I notice anything is off. On a related note, I often don’t notice the symptoms decreasing because hey, it’s my “normal” now.

Any ideas or tips, readers? Should I follow the standard day/time/preceding events/level (on a scale of 1-10) format I’ve used in the past for mood tracking? What system(s) do you use?

I look forward to hearing from you! I’ll see you next week and as always, stay safe and remember to say one nice thing to yourself every day. Today I have two: “My new DIY manicure is bangin'” and “I am surviving my fiance’s work trip with zero negative emotions!”

It’s important to focus on the positive, especially when our emotional weather is often stormy.

Snap.

ptsd, self-harm, therapy

I hook my middle finger, the nail decorated with a colorful paisley design, beneath the thick rubber band on my left wrist and take a moment to relish the way the thin oval distorts. Then, I let go. Snap. It hurts like hell but it feels like penance and for a moment, my head is quiet again.

*

Tuesday night, I get  pretty low and confess to D. that I’m feeling like self-harming. He pats my knee comfortingly, then runs upstairs and returns a few minutes later with a thick rubber band in his hand.

“Use this,” he says. “I don’t want you hurting yourself.” At this point, I’ve made it two and a half weeks since my last cutting incident. I sit obediently beside him on the couch, fuzzy red blanket draped over my knees, and stare blankly out into space. This thousand-yard stare is one of the signs my husband has learned to watch for–an indication that the disconnect between my mind and my body has become so severe that my own physical well-being has not only taken a backseat to the noise in my head, it has actually fallen out of the hatchback and was abandoned on the dusty road several miles back.

Snap. Snap. Snap. I pull at the rubber band, my mouth set in a grim line, gaze fixed at an indeterminate point somewhere in front of me. D. sighs and returned to his video game, wisely deciding to give me some time to be alone with my thoughts.

*

For as long as I can remember, strong negative emotions such as shame, guilt, or fear have caused some indescribable darkness to rise up inside of me. I become fidgety, unable to concentrate because my mind is overwhelmed with the urge to punish myself for my perceived wrongdoing. The emotions can be prompted by anything–even something as innocuous as awkwardly phrasing a remark to a coworker that results in a millisecond of confusion is enough to make me long for the blade some days. The fact that I carry around a fair amount of emotional baggage and anxiety from the PTSD doesn’t help; in fact, it’s likely the cause. My therapist is aware of my self-punitive nature and plans to work with me to correct it. In the treatment plan we created together during our first meeting, we decided on self-love as one of my goals. I mentioned “self-forgiveness” as another.

“Forgive yourself for what?” she asked, incredulous. I shrugged.

Even when I consciously try to pin down where this self-loathing came from, I feel as though I’m only scratching the surface. However, my mother is the proverbial black sheep of the family, and I remember thinking from a very young age that I had to be excellent, make something of myself to atone for any damage she might have done. This attitude was not forced upon me by the rest of my family, though they were, naturally, pleased whenever I accomplished something. I’ve always been a very driven person, though that drive comes with a high price: a heavy heart and lots of anxiety. I don’t consider myself a perfectionist, but for every achievement there is a myriad of tiny sins–stupid, insignificant things that most people would feel foolish over for a moment and then promptly dismiss–that never seem to go away.

Instead of beating myself up for hours over an email that could have been worded better or a text that was sent to the wrong person (it shouldn’t come as any surprise that most of the shame-inducing thoughts that lead to the urge to punish myself involve communication with others), I snap myself once or twice with the rubber band and it’s done–I’ve atoned, in my own small way, for these shortcomings and can move on. And if the thoughts come back…well, you know. Snap.

I don’t see a problem with it as a short-term solution for grounding myself and derailing the endless barrage of negative thoughts. Being snapped with a rubber band hurts, and much like a spanking will shock an errant child into listening to his or her parents, the snap of the band against the tender skin of my wrist forces me to come to, to be in the moment and face actual reality instead of the nonstop shit-show my brain concocts for me. I’m on the lookout, of course, for signs that it could become a compulsive self-harming behavior, but in the meantime, I’m willing to just go with it. The song “Whatever Gets You Through the Night” comes to mind, though my end goal is achieving a default mental state where I can look at an embarrassing moment and pass it off as an innocuous gaffe–nothing more, nothing less.