The PTSD Person

"You didn't enter the Vocal contest?" my daughter, Marina, asked, with an air of contention.

"Maybe I will," I flatly respond.

"It's due today," she adds.

"Not 'til the end of the day," I attempt to defend my procrastination.

"Well you better hurry if you want to submit it before the deadline." She's trying to encourage me, but it is stressing me out.

"I know. I just wanted to stay true to my writing style," I try to find words to explain.

"Yeah, but for $20,000, can't you just improvise something?" she sounds hopeful.

"Not really," I answer, wanting to explain but stopping myself, because I'm so tired of disappointing her.

"Why?" her question is long and drawn out, with an intonation of hope, mixed with the inevitable, crushing emptiness of unmet expectations.

"Remember that book I told you I'm working on, the PTSD Person?" I insist, in my defense, trying my best not to sound lazy.

"Yeah," she sighs, with an opinionated tone.

"Well. It has to do with that. Because my C-PTSD really slows me down. I can only do what I feel like doing, in the moment." My own self righteousness weighs heavy on us both.

"Yeah, but if that requires, or demands, that you live life at a snail's pace, while the whole world evolves, you'll still be holed up in that little dungeon cave of yours, struggling to make ends meet, while others, even those you used to call friends, or your boyfriend, are living it up, with others who are actually evolving." She always calls it like she sees it, always transparent, to a fault, but... ouch.

She knows she hit below the belt. Habitually resilient, I defend my cause. "Well, that's all relative. Maybe I live it up, on the astral plane, practicing healing arts, more than they do. Anyway, life is not a competition."

"I know, mom, but this is a competition. All you have to do is mention a little black book and someone who wins a big sum of money. How hard can that be? It's not going to distract you from your healing. Maybe you can integrate something about healing, or yoga, or meditation, in your story, to make it inspiring to people."

"I'll try. I just don't want to write about a little black book and a large sum of money." My whining attitude is a somber reflection of her optimism.

"What do you want to write about?" she coaches me, always one step ahead.

"Sweetheart, I've been struggling to write this story for 19 years. You know when your dad abducted you, I re-live that moment every day. I'm so scared I will never get to really tell the story as it happened."

"Yeah, mom, but that has nothing to do with what I was talking about, this contest. You write all the time. I just thought it might be a way you could earn a little extra money." Her voice quivers as she ends her sentence, as if she is on the verge of tears. Every moment has carried the weight of that day he, her dad, took her from me, in Paris, when she was just four and a half years old.

She walks outside, starts up the car, and drives away. My whole body is filled with pain, made worse because I know hers is, too.

That boyfriend of mine, Travis, she was referring to ghosted me last week, right after I cleaned his whole apartment. We started dating in May, a couple months into the Covid lockdown. He lives only a mile away, in Marina del Rey. Then I saw him with his other girlfriend, a few days ago. I have hardly been able to do anything, haven't been able to focus. I keep having hot flashes, wondering if I might be pregnant, or going through menopause. Every part of my body is aching.

I blocked him from all my messaging apps. The trouble with PTSD is it makes the nervous system feel very raw, vulnerable, and exposed. So everything you feel is exacerbated and exaggerated. I have to do yoga every day to shake off the feeling of the weight of the world dragging me down on every part of my body.

"I'll try," I affirm silently to Marina, as she drives gently away. It's reassuring that she is so centered and sweet, so responsible and level headed. The telepathic bond we share was fused that morning he kidnapped her, providing us with an added dimension to life, of which most people live either in ignorance or denial. Thank God for this. She really wants and needs her own car, so I'll write this story. It will be good for me, and I can't bear to let her down. If I win, I'll get her a car. That motivates me to do this. "I can do this!" I affirm!

This isn't going well, though. All I can think about is if I should unblock Travis from Facebook messenger. What if he wants to see me, again, soon? The song lyrics repeat in my head, "Making love to you was never second best... I'll stop the world and melt with you," No, keep him blocked. Damn him. Why did he have to set my whole world spinning, right before the day this story was due?

All I can remember is the last day we spent together, one week ago, when he had just returned home from singing karaoke all night. Still inspired and super high, he sang a love song to me, in Turkish, his native language, while looking in my eyes. It was the most romantic moment of my life. Now, he is ignoring my texts and wining and dining his beautiful Mexican girlfriend, who is 20 years younger than me. That's enough to block anyone's creativity or productivity.

Instead of focusing on him, I open the drawer where all my little black journals are, books I've written and illustrated by hand, full of lyrics and chords to my favorite songs. I have a dozen little black books, full of memories of all these years I've been trying to piece together the events of my life in a way that makes sense of a very challenging and turbulent time. I never healed from the morning Marina's dad, Olivier, abducted her. It's so scary, not knowing if I ever will heal. I open the book that has most of my favorite songs in it, to the section of songs in French, about to sing a song by Francis Cabrel, "Je t'aimais, je t'aime, et je t'aimerai," and I find a check, signed by Marina, for $20,000.

Next to the check was a note that said, "Hi mama, I knew you would open this book for inspiration about writing this story! I'm sure your story can win, but I just wanted to let you know not to worry! Tata felt bad she never gave you the inheritance when Poppop passed away, and we wanted to surprise you with the money in a way that would inspire you but wouldn't be too shocking. So please finish your story, and if it helps, you can write about this! xoxo <3 Marina"

I felt so much relief and joy, it was as if the room started to spin and sparkle. My body felt light, in celebration and happiness that was like a whole new life. Tension I had been carrying like dead weight sloughed off my bones, making me feel 10 years younger. I still finished this story, but had to go to the bank, pay my rent, and work out, so it was a bit rushed.