PTSD

Surely in all the writing about myself I've mentioned PTSD, but it  became officially a diagnosis this past week. The Boston bombings that took place 2 weeks ago set me off...weeping and afraid to venture outdoors. But oddly the grief is not as much for those injured or who died, but for the boys who committed the acts, in particular the younger Dzhokar (sp?) who seems to me to have been groomed by his older brother.

My grief seems to revolve around the hopelessness of such young boys who think sacrificing their lives for a greater good, whether it involves terror or murder will leave a lasting mark that changes anything---that such acts today in any way forwards their cause whatever it was.

In this situation it seems too convenient to blame religious fundamentalism or fanaticism. I could be wrong, not being a expert on brainwashing, but unless there was more at work than the 6 month return to Dagestan and Russia, Tamerlan had too much going on with  expectant wife, governmental income, 2 parents, his own good looks and personal success--again I say these boys were not losers, like many others who self combust, their inner joy experienced as meaningfulness in a world that doesn't value moral or ethics to the same extent as capital success, were suffering a type of emptiness at their core selves.

Imagine, as so many American soldiers who have served in Afghanistan and Iraq, living in an environment where the most basic acts of faith inform everything done throughout one's day and then having to slaughter people who have done nothing except be in the way or try to defend themselves from rockets, bombs and machine guns. Yes, I know its not all so black and white....America has become expert in nuancing our wars of late to allow us to continue in combat mode where we define it as necessary. The highest rates of America soldiers taking their on lives has been after returning home from Afghanistan and Iraq. I wonder whether anyone is tracking military conversions to Islam as well?

I was prescribed an antidepressant to break the otherwise unstoppable cycle of grief, but found more effective was listening to hours of Chopin, the complete Nocturnes, some Waltzes, Etudes, Polonaises...these speak to my Self as if prescribed for my soul. I needed both to be honest, as I am in writing to you who take time to come by and read here. And I see from the audience those reading understand my passion for Chopin.

The level of grief I experience is so powerful it makes me physically ill, stomach cramps and other unmentionables, but I can't leave the apartment. Not only because of physical discomfort but mental terror of being caught in a maelstrom as on 9.11 when after seeing both buildings come down, the streams of people walking silently over the Brooklyn Bridge to get home. I couldn't do that and was put up with several other women by the College in the dorms for 4 days. Each women left at different stages, we were waiting for the electricity to be turned back on and once it was and the trains were back to runnings, I too left. But the echo of silence against the bluest of skies, the fluttering of sheaves of papers, billowing smoke and falling bodies somehow remains impressed no matter how I try to shake it all off. I would not survive a war...I've been through too many since childhood and have run out of adrenaline to flee or fight, I remain a casualty in waiting, one to be counted.