Traumatized Much?

So yesterday really, in hindsight, was a great day. Yesterday and the day before I made it completely through without needing Xanex, and I actually was productive and had some fun with my friends. However, last night was a whole different story. I have had panic attacks before, when mom was first diagnosed, but they have been pretty basic, you're typical hyperventilating and freaking out episode. But I'm not so sure if this was a panic attack or not, it was so different, and so real, and so frightening.

Nowadays, I sleep with my lamp and my TV on, which to me, is more comforting than dark and silence in my room. But last night, I turned my lamp off and turned my TV volume down to 9 so I could barely even hear it. All of the sudden, I was in my mom's ICU room, and she was screaming my name and yelling "Help me!" and I had to stand behind the glass and let the nurses and doctors work on her, and she looked directly at me and yelled my name. And she was so scared. And then it switched to me standing by her bed, holding her hands down so she wouldn't try to take off her breathing mask, telling her it was going to be OK and she needed to let the mask help her. She would look directly at me and say "No. It won't. Help me. Please help me" This is not any type of dream but unfortunately actual events from the last 48 hours of her life. All while I was laying in bed.

I would never do anything to harm myself, but I now understand why people harm themselves. I wanted the pictures to stop and they were so real, like I was back in that room with her, that I actually wanted to find a hammer to make the pictures go away. Again, I would never do that to myself, but I felt seriously and strongly enough about wanting things to stop that I almost woke my dad up to take me to the hospital. I grabbed both sides of my head with my hands and closed my eyes as hard as I could, but they wouldn't stop. I reached for my Xanex, took two, and waited, frantically, for the pictures to stop so I could go to sleep. I literally was in agony and so panicked from this, I had no idea what to do for myself. I don't remember falling asleep. I woke up this morning to my cell phone ringing, my friend calling me to go running. We ran a 12:30 minute mile. And it was like it had never even happened last night.

Today, when I was separating my mountain (no exaggeration) of laundry, I came across the outfit I was wearing the day she died. Nothing. No panic, no flashbacks, no depression. Just a simple fact. As I picked up my sweatshirt and pulled out my t-shirt from inside it, all I thought was, "I was wearing this when she died." That's it. I tossed it into the "brown" pile and moved on. And then it struck me--why didn't that trigger anything? Absolutely nothing happened last night to make me flashback to her room.

I am now afraid I will be like one of those Vietnam vets that hides under his dining room table because he thinks he is being shot at, when really, a car backfired driving down his street. Fantastic. I am sure that every psychologist and every psychiatric nurse that reads this now believes I am in desperate need of an intervention. I actually don't think so, though. I am sure that after such a devastating and excruciating thing to live through, memories and flashbacks are a given, and this was only my first one. That is why I was given Xanex, ladies and gentlemen. However, if that happens even one more time, I will most definitely be making a phone call to my doctor. I will never let myself get out of control.

I wonder if maybe flashbacks and memories like that actually need to happen, so I can put them to rest, bury them, and move on to bigger and better things like the way she used to sit on the edge of her bed to bend over and tie her shoes, or the way she used to open her mouth really wide when she put on eyeliner. Or even better, the way she used to dance in her seat when we would listen to offensive rap music in her car, but then she would gasp and say "JULIA!" when she could actually understand some of the words. I'd rather remember things like that, so maybe before I can have it easy, I have to have it a little rough. I'll take it, all to remember her the way I want to remember her. She was hilarious. And beautiful. And I miss her.