Out of sorts

For me, that usually relates to me being triggered. It has been that kind of week. So I thought I would sit here and type this before I try to quieten my mind for sleep.

It is strange as I was going to type a very different post this morning. I was feeling bright and breezy and full of life. As the day progressed, the heaviness within ebbed and flowed. I have had a few times today where it has all been too much for me. I am much more open with that now and my husband has got used to being on call as Huggy Bear during those times. He always asks 'what is the matter'. Sometimes I can explain myself and other times I cannot speak or have no words. The latter meaning two different things. My throat seizes up and all I can do is breathe so I cannot speak but when I have no words, the emotions are so overwhelming I cannot think clearly or logically.

There is a lot happening in our lives at present. Thank goodness, the calm efficiency of dad's morning carer is bringing a serenity to the jaded, fractured relationship between him and me. We actually managed to have a calm, productive conversation about immensely difficult but pressing topics this morning. He was content after her help with his washing, dressing, breakfast and meds and I was feeling calm as I had not had to deal with him at all. Bliss.

So, what is triggering me? Well, one thing is boxes of stuff. As I have previously mentioned, friends are coming to live with us soon and all my play therapy resources are here since I gave up my private practice. So we have had to move that stuff into storage and change rooms around to make space for them. The boxes get me down because they are triggering for me. In the first eighteen years of my life, my family moved seven times. Each move was a godawful experience. The house was filled with tea chests in those days plus boxes. The stresses and strains it caused to an already fragile and splintered family group was horrendous.

Breathe.

I can feel my heart racing as I write this. I hated moving. I still do to this day. My dad would completely morph into an even worse incessantly aggressive, vicious monster whilst my Mum would become even more of a quivering wreck. Me? Well, it was like that saying - 'the lights are on but no-one was home'. Today, I found myself doing the same thing. I came away from the 'hecticness' of filling boxes and sat on my bed in a stupor. I had totally switched off. After about ten minutes or so, I returned to reality and realised what I was doing. I remember doing the same thing as a child during the preparation of our moves. When it all got too much for me, I would find a quiet space and just switch off. Of course, that was never helpful for my poor Mum, who became an agitated dervish trying to get everything sorted. I would be torn between feeling guilty for not helping her but also just completely being unable to cope. Those bloomin' boxes bring so much sadness and distress to the forefront of my mind. Aaargh.

Nevermind the emotional upheaval of moving from one place to another and leaving beloved friends behind. My friends have always been my family as I am an only child and the only family we saw was my Mum's Dad, my wonderful kind, loving Grandad. So there was always a lot of despair relating to goodbyes and then absolute fear regarding meeting new people and hopefully making new friends as I was always the outsider.

Interesting then that the close friend who is coming to live with us was one of those welcoming, friendly faces I first met after a huge move across country when I was nine. Boy, did I need a friend like her. Along with her sisters and others, I was made to feel welcome and that meant so much to me, they would never know how much, until now.

By the by, we also have a lot of work going on around the house - some of our own choosing and some not but that involves having to deal with a lot of strangers, particularly men at present. That causes me real unease. But it is all necessary and will result in positive outcomes so I just have to get on with it.

Lastly, the storage facility is my worst nightmare. It is like a huge rabbit warren of padlocked, steel doors with long, dark passages that have movement sensors that turn on the lights as you walk past them. It is not a place I could ever visit on my own. It really does freak me out. But I have been trying to compensate for my terror by mustering up all my courage and taking the bull by the horns so to speak and leading the way with the heavyloaded, wayward trolley to our unit. [I think it may be slightly easier guiding a bull instead of one of those trolleys!]

My husband has to use all his professional driving instructor skills to keep his shins out of my way whilst assisting me with 'wide turns' around narrow right-angled corners. I take my hat off to him, not only has he got an adrenaline filled, hypervigilant wife on full-alert but he also has to keep bursting boxes in check on a moving trolley that has a mind of it's own.

Thank goodness, he is a laidback, relaxed man of serenity. And for that I am eternally grateful.