Sometimes, PTSD rains down on us. Just like a storm hits, unforeseen. We have no choice. We weather it. But the rain passes, eventually, and the ground begins to dry. Or does it?
The next day, we desperately wait for the sun to come out so we don’t have to think about the storm that crossed us. We process what happened, as best we can. We talk to each other, and occasionally it helps.
But still, the ground is wet and the clouds linger. We really need that sun. Though to wait is to prolong the pain. So we get on with normal, and pretend that we’re not both walking on eggshells.
We have a normal cup of tea. We plan a normal day. I do some normal loads of laundry. We have a normal conversation about what to have for dinner. He goes for a normal surf when a friend calls. We take the kids to the normal playground. We watch some normal TV. And at the normal bedtime, I read the kids as many normal stories as they like.
Everything will be okay, right?
We are trying so hard.
Surely normal means that he’s not losing it, that he can get a grip on things before they spiral too far? Surely normal means that I’m still strong enough, that I can keep everything together? Surely normal means that the kids won’t actually be affected by the distress of his PTSD?
And, just maybe, normal will convince you too.
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