I’m Not Prepared to Handle the Stigma

My post-rehab world sucks.

It’s one thing to admit that you go to a therapist for help to handle all of your emotional shit. It’s quite another to own up to the fact that you spent 45 days in an inpatient treatment facility. It’s admitting that you are a whole other level of crazy.

Even though my stint in rehab was not for addiction, but to recover from trauma, I still feel judged for needing this level of help.

Was my emotional turmoil my fault? It depends on who you ask.

Yes, my family and I survived a callous act by our neighbor’s grandson when he shot a bullet into my bedroom. 

What did my brain make up about this scenario? That when I dared to go out onto my porch in protest of his hours-long shooting escapade, he decided to retaliate. Although the shooting stopped initially after my verbal explosion, they started again about 30 minutes later. 

I imagine the conversation between him and his friend went something like this:

“Man, fuck that bitch. I can fire my gun wherever I want. I’ll show her!”

And that’s when the bullet came flying through my window. It felt extremely personal like I was under attack.

After enduring their very loud target practice all afternoon, with the gunshots so close that they rattled my windows and doors, my dog and cat huddled next to me shivering in terror,  it ended with damage to my property. 

We still found shards of glass in our room in random places weeks later, even after repeated vacuuming. 

Obviously, there was physical damage. But the emotional damage was worse. 

I felt as though I was punished for daring to express my anger and fear to my neighbor when he came over immediately after his grandson’s arrest to apologize. 

No, my dear neighbor. This was not “no harm, no foul” as you stated. It’s not as simple as fixing a window and the corresponding hole in the opposite wall. And I make no apologies for my verbal tirade or my subsequent panic attack. 

My soul was irreparably broken. It will never go back to the way it was. 

I live in a constant state of fight or flight. And as much as I can consciously tell myself that I am safe, my nervous system begs to differ. 

I’m so tired. 

I’m tired of poor sleep. I’m tired of taking medications to help me sleep and to bring me out of the depths of darkness. I’m tired of being so tired that I can’t enjoy my life.  I’m tired of the nightmares. I’m tired of the cycle of headaches that now plague me. I’m tired of the random spikes in my blood pressure for no reason other than anxiety. 

No, I’m not a lazy, fat slob who doesn’t take care of herself. (I put that out there just because I knew what you were thinking). I run marathons for fun, and I eat vegan. My resting heart rate is 51. This makes treating the intermittent bouts of hypertension that much more challenging. But what’s worse? Bottoming out and passing out, or having my blood pressure so high that I could have a stroke? Both sound super fun, right? 

As I attempt to re-integrate into my world, it’s been challenging to explain my absence. I am back to work, but not in the same capacity. When my colleagues welcome me back and ask me where I’ve been, I tell them it’s a long story. That’s all I’ve got right now.

I’m also grieving all the things I missed while I was gone.

Rehab happened during my favorite time of year. I missed my wedding anniversary (24 years), the Richmond Marathon (I should have been on the course coaching), Thanksgiving vacation with my family on the Outer Banks, my yearly meet-up with my college English professor, and my own race, the Freight Train 50k. 

Sometimes I wish the bullet had struck me. It was on my side of the bedroom. Had I been putting away clothes in my dresser or sitting in my favorite chair, I wouldn’t be writing this story. I would be dead or seriously injured.

My job is to help people recover from these types of injuries. I know the physical challenges of traumatic brain injuries, critical illness myopathy, and the struggle to get your life back after this. This is what my brain spins constantly. The what-ifs. 

It would have been much simpler to explain the physical injuries. That people can see and understand. But the emotional and mental injuries? Our society still deems these as moral failures on the victim’s part. And that’s me. 

Someone selfishly interrupted my peace and safety, and I’m paying the price for their errors. 

Those boys got bailed out of jail and went back to college like nothing happened, and I spent 45 days on the other side of the country, away from my friends and family and completely cut off from the outside world. Well, except for landline calls, outgoing only, during designated hours. I was not in control of my life while in treatment. 

While it’s true that I also have old wounds from my younger days, the new one strikes deep as well. But to heal from this one, I also had to go into my past, rip off those carefully laid band-aids applied over the years, and expose those injuries as if fresh and raw. It was not fun or easy.

Somehow, after rehab, I’m supposed to be “fixed” and pretend like my life is back to normal, but it’s far from that. 

I don’t know where to go from here.

I do have a new therapist, and she seems amazing. But I just want to be normal. I just want my life back. I want to live, but not like this. 

___________

Lead photo is from the beach; a stormy scene at one of my happy places. Photo by author.

Actions have consequences. We’ll see what these young men will face next week, as this case goes to trial. Since they are “nice white boys” with a lawyer, I’m sure the charges will be reduced from a felony. This means they will be free to own guns again. Their lives will likely only have a tiny blip from this. 

I hope I can turn this heartache and anger into something useful. I will continue to tell my story so that perhaps at least one person will think twice before having target practice in their backyard. And I will continue to advocate for laws that promote gun safety.

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy.