To Write or Not to Write – That is the Question

I consider myself a prolific writer.  I haven’t actually published a book yet, but I often write for local newsletters, and have been published a few times as a poet, journalist, and creative writer.

However, today, I write to escape from reality.

I am a military veteran.  I don’t look like a leatherneck.  Au contraire, I am kind of small, a little flabby, wear my wavy hair down, wear handmade jewelry, and proudly wear the stains my little baby leaves on my clothes.

I suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  I am receiving treatment for it, but it’s a very scary process.  There is a myriad of different events that led to my condition, and I won’t talk about them here.  Let’s just say that the 4th of July is particularly scary for me.

The fireworks displays are something that I used to love.  It was beautiful.  Having lived in Anaheim, California, a few blocks away from Disneyland, I had the distinct opportunity to meet the pyrotechnics guy.  The head honcho of Disneyland fireworks.  Talking to him, I thought that fireworks were just about one of the most interesting things in life.

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Today, as I write, I am afraid of the sounds.  If only fireworks were silent!  They go boom, like many things did when I was on deployment or training.  And even though I keep telling myself that they are just fireworks, and that I am not under attack, my mind goes its own way and my body goes the opposite.  I can’t trust myself.  I do weird things that freak my husband out and then have no memory of them.

Today, however, as my neighbors illegally fire fireworks, I listen to loud music and write.  I don’t want to find myself low-crawling or suddenly come back to consciousness, crying, altered, and freaked out.

The medication can only do so much.  Even though today I have been practicing my relaxation exercises, and trying not to think about the horrors some of us go through to ensure that the US continues being independent, sovereign, and free, I write, and write and write, and cry, as I feel the tension build up on my shoulders, and try to concentrate on my baby boy, who sleeps peacefully in spite of the racket.