For my graduate level, ENGL 600 class, we had to write a daily blog post of 500 words exactly on Medium Not 499, not 501 but 500 exactly. I decided to bring my medium blogs over here too after writing them. These were all written earlier this August-September.
After I got hit by a car at my undergraduate university, I was a mess. Physically, I was a walking miracle. I did not break any bones or get a concussion and walked away with just cuts all over my hands. I’d repeat “I’m very lucky to be alive,” but it felt like to me I still died in that accident.
The reason for this feeling was because of my intense dissociation around the accident. The only proof to me that it was real and not just another one of my nightmares was the cuts on my hands. When they eventually faded away, the proof of that was gone. I felt like I wasn’t real too or at least no longer alive. I’d have to count the mailboxes along the side of the road to calm down. I couldn’t drive. I didn’t feel comfortable crossing the road anymore to get to class, let alone take risks. I only felt real when I was drunk at a club somewhere off cranberry vodka.
What did help was when I was accepted to do a study abroad program. I signed up to take a Travel Writing course. On our first half of the trip we stayed in Munich, and had our days jampacked with adventures like seeing castles and shopping in cute towns like Rothenburg. I still had hiccups where my PTSD would get me though, like when the other professor on the trip set up bike riding for us. I was fine riding a bike before, but the idea of cycling in the busy streets of Munich in the road gave me an anxiety attack.
Our second half of the trip was spent in Fulpmes, Austria. This was a more quiet portion of the trip where we slowed down to write our travel writing pieces. With the exception of one thing: paragliding in the Alps. I wasn’t sure about signing up. Anything that takes away my control where I can seriously end up hurt could end up triggering me like the bike ride. I signed up anyway. The words “skibidi sigma” on a white rock in the parking lot in black spray paint wasn’t very comforting.
I volunteered to go first since I figured waiting would make me back out. Going up to the hill with my guide Peter I was shaking, but took deep breaths. I desperately didn’t want my PTSD to ruin something else like the bike ride. He told me I had to run down the hill because if I stopped running, we’d both get hurt and my avoidance of pain was desperate. We were in the air. Soon Peter was making our para-glider go in bigger spins and circles in the sky mimicking the rush of a roller coaster only with no tracks. I didn’t scream but cheered in excitement as we went around in these crazier circles before landing.
For the first time, I felt alive again without a vodka in sight. I was finally real.
