Feet on the mend

Finally took myself to the doctor today to have my feet looked at. I wasn't sure how I'd react or what they'd do, and was pretty anxious leading up to the appointment. The doc was pretty amazed at the damage I'd done to myself by sliding accidentally on a carpet (shallow second degree, ugh), and pulled out a basin to do some debriedment. I may have freaked out a little, but it didn't hurt nearly as much as I thought it would. The doctor was completely unsympathetic, haha! It didn't take long though, and she said I'd done a good job of keeping them clean. Then she gave me a bucket of gauze and xeroform and saline, bandaged me up, and sent me on my way! Easy! (Kind of.) I changed the bandages tonight, and was amazed at how clearly I remember all of the smells. Everything has a scent. The xeroform, the bandage, the wound - I guess remembering these smells like it was yesterday is part of a traumatic experience. I found it more interesting than upsetting though, whew! 

The doc has me leaving them open at night, and bandaged during the day. Fingers crossed for a speedy recovery, and that my boots fit okay tomorrow!

Moving on

I think about moving on often. When will I be completely recovered? Will my scars fade? Will they flatten with time? I've been told that there is no recovery from PTSD and I suppose that makes sense. Something primal gets rewired in our brains to keep us from further harm, and that's not something that can be easily adjusted, or perhaps even completely.

Today, in an act of pure silliness, I attempted to charge down a carpeted hallway at a friend. I tripped and slid a little on the carpet, earning myself two rug burns on the tops of my feet - one small, and one quite large. First, I was shocked. What have I done?! Then I had an immediate flashback to being in the shower right after my accident, looking at my skin. That hasn't happened to me for a long time (having a flashback that is). I had a full on panic attack as a result. I had somewhere to be though, so forced myself to calm down, clean my rug burns, and get downstairs. I managed to get through the next few minutes, but all I wanted to do was curl up somewhere and cry. When I got back upstairs with my fellow field camp instructors, I pretty much couldn't keep it together anymore, and showed them my feet. They immediately rallied, my dear friend cleaning and bandaging my feet while making me laugh, while another brought me wine and still another brought me chocolate. 

This was possibly the shortest lived panic attack I've ever had, and it wasn't necessarily because I'm getting 'better' (although I guess I would argue that I am) but rather because I was surrounded by people who cared about me, and to whom I didn't need to explain that I was having a panic attack as a result of PTSD from an even that took place almost 3 years ago. They saw an injury and a sad face and they immediately set about making me smile. 

Friendship is a truly powerful thing. It makes the idea of moving on seem attainable - and reminds me that I don't have to do everything myself.