A Diagnosis Accepted

It was a trifle buried in the open letter post last week, but at a visit to Dr. Morgan last Thursday, I was told that I was suffering from Post-traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

I was none too happy about this diagnosis, and honestly, I didn't agree. But I trust my doctor, and if she thought that treating PTSD would go further in alleviating my high blood pressure than even blood pressure medication, then I was willing to follow her instructions.

So, I filled my prescription, and so far, so good. I'm not appearing to have any of the more common side effects; and although I can't say I feel any better, I'm not putting too much weight on that since I didn't feel all that bad, emotionally speaking, to begin with.

But I read some more information today about the spectrum of PTSD, and I reluctantly have to admit, it fits.

Just today, I walked into Seth's bathroom, and had to catch my breath and steady my hand against the wall. I'd let him play with his bath toys -- 50 of these foam road and traffic pieces -- and they were strewn all over the bathroom floor. For a split second, my mind didn't register "toys," only "chaos."

Ugh.

It's the little things like that that creep into my everyday life that bring the awfulness of what happened three weeks ago back to the forefront of my mind. I know it will eventually fade; after all, it's only been three weeks. But, ugh. Let's just get on with this "getting over it" thing already.