The Bird Poo That Broke Me

Yesterday was a day and a half. I woke up with my PTSD rearing it’s ugly head again. I’d managed to get it under control over the last couple of years, learning what the triggers were and either avoiding them or minimising my exposure to them. The emotional side of it was taken care of by adventure mountain biking, but having sold it last year to help make ends meet, I’ve been making do. I thought I was pretty much fixed, but it seems not. The stresses of last few months have come together like a S.W.A.T team to gun me down when I was most vulnerable.

There I was, trying to make myself busy by popping into town to pay some reddies into the bank and grab a few bits. I was at the ticket machine putting the same pound coin in over and over and over, doing my best not to give it the lucky lick when plop! What the hell was that? Bird shit is what it was. Loads of it. On my head, on my arm and even on my jeans. I just stood there stunned. Then just as suddenly as that a tear rolled down my face followed by another and another. People in queue behind me stifling laughs. I felt the worlds walls rapidly closing in. I started to feel crushed. Tears now streaming down my face I bolted like stabbed rabbit back to my van. I dived in the back and onto my bed there I laid for an hour or so sobbing and crying and snotting everywhere. In a desperate attempt to snap myself out of it I posted some photos of the incident on our group but it didn’t work.

I was broken. Defeated by a pigeons arse. It wasn’t even a pretty bird that shit on me. I eventually mustered my self together, cleaned the shit off with some Andrex arse wipes and went to the bank. I grabbed a flat white from my favourite coffee stall and headed back to the van. I sat there in the car park for a couple more hours wondering what the hell was going on! Was I going through the male equivalent of the change? Was I about to become a Jaeger Bomb smashing cougar? Growing breasts and wearing tie die t shirts?

I drove back to my spot to contemplate, having little mini breakdowns along the way, forcing me to pull over holding up the traffic whilst I cleared the snot from my face. And weirdly my ear It hadn’t dawned on me that my PTSD was affecting me unusually so. How can bird shit break a man like that? Was it a government conspiracy? Was this a personal attack by the pigeon army for all the pigeons mercilessly slaughtered whilst eating tarmac on our roads?

I received a message from someone close who seemed to know how to get it out of me that I was in pain. After a lengthy chat on messenger and a long phone call her hand had pulled me up from the murky depths and blew the dark clouds away, letting the sun shine down on me. I was back! Wobbling around like a drunk man on a tightrope holding a chocolate fudge cake with popping candy, but I was back.

I found there was something still trying to pull me back into the abyss in the evening but I facetubevideoed one of my daughters for a chat and eventually we sussed it out, both of us crying and air hugging and boy was I glad I did call her! A long chat with my other two daughters soon had me feeling back to me normal self once again. My girls are wise beyond their years, and are all blessed with my spirit!

Today’s blog comes in stark contrast to yesterday’s, but this is the reality of PTSD. It’s not all about the flashbacks and losing control, it’s about how it messes with your mind, tormenting your emotions, forcing you into submission to take a knee for it. Speaking to the right people yesterday brought me back. I won’t take meds as they just numb me and they control me. It took a lot to get me to talk, so fair play on you guys!

This is only a part of yesterday’s hurricane of emotional disorder. The rest I fear, would be enough to finish you all off, so I shall leave it at this. But I’d like to thank that special lass that worked her magic on me, despite me feeling like a most needy blubbering 5 year old

It’s important to talk. It’s hard to talk. But we must talk. Please, please talk if you’re at your limit with life. It feels dirty, I know. It feels like you’re cheating on a partner. But that’s how depression and low mental health gets you.

There is someone out there willing to hold out their hand for you too

Stay fresh, cheese bags

A note for Norrh Herts District Council: Whoever thought it was a good idea to put the ticket machine under a lampost, a telegraph pole and phone lines, may your eyelids be infested with the fleas of one thousand camels.

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