PTSD: Rebuilding my life (slowly)
Hello!
It's been a couple of months since I last wrote on here, and it's only been in the past week or so that I've felt the urge to return. It's been a complicated few months to say the least. Many of you may know that I came out as bisexual and, whilst that has been one of the best decisions of my life so far, I can't deny that the reception at the time was distressing. In fact, the response was part of the reason why I haven't been writing; I was worried I'd be subject to more nastiness at the words I chose to use. However, now I am choosing to see the whole experience as a lesson: the friends I have lost were clearly not true friends to me to begin with and I respectfully wish them well; those who chose to use unrelenting violent language clearly have their own healing to do and I would advise them to work on that rather than troubling themselves with my musings. To those who stuck by me, who dried my tears, held me whilst I was hurting, and loved me the same, thank you.
However, my sexuality is not the point of this blog, though I imagine it will come up in future so if that offends you, kindly read something else.
Today I want to continue to share my journey with PTSD, and the process of rebuilding my life after an assault and a severe injury to my left shoulder in February 2020. And I suppose there is no better time than my first swim session back to start sharing this next part of the journey. I have not swum since March 2020 so to get to this stage at all is a big step and I suppose I should acknowledge that. However, I think the return to the sport will be an infinitely more challenging part of the process both emotionally and physically. To put things in perspective, I was swimming 3Km (120 25m lengths) in under an hour and a half (medium/fast lane) regularly before I was attacked. Today, as I begun my journey towards recovery, I was only permitted to do 6 lengths. With a break in between each one. In the slow lane.
I won't go into details of how slowly I went today, or how the water felt, but to put it into perspective, I cried both in the showers and in the changing cubicle after getting out. So safe to say it was not a beautifully romantic and empowering reunion with the water.
It hurts like a bitch and the true reality of what happened to me is sinking in properly for the first time since the attack. I have to accept that it will take years for me to heal and who knows how long to get even close to the athlete I was before. I feel like I'm sat at the bottom of Mount Everest with no shoes on. I just can't stop thinking that it's all so unfair, that a man who was in my life for no longer than 3 weeks has managed to ruin it so effectively. He's still a doctor, still has a squeaky clean reputation, still winning in the eyes of the law and I am another mentally ill young woman. I stand no chance. And even if I did win, and he did get convicted, my shoulder is still mangled. My nightmares aren't magically going to stop. Swimming is not going to become easy again.
And I'm angry now because I wanted to be a space to empower people recovering from injuries to be brave when returning to their sport, but I can't. I know I can't give up because then he's won, but I can't deny that this whole process is vile. I didn't feel weightless in the water as I once did, didn't feel empty-headed and free, didn't feel strong. No, I just felt like a broken rag doll dragging her broken limbs through the water at the pace of a snail. And I don't want pity but it's going to be bloody difficult to avoid when passing swimmers have to hear the sickening crunch of the joint as I do my physio exercises at the end of the lane, or when they have to see the wince in my face and set of my jaw. Pity becomes a necessary evil when you have to recover so publicly. There is no dignity in it. There has been no dignity in any of it. There's a cruel irony to the fact that at a time when we're saluting doctors, my attacker is praised among them without a care in the world, and then there's me, grimacing through 6 stupid lengths. It's repulsive.
And yet, I still went. I will still continue to go and I will continue to speak. And I hope there will be days when I feel strong, and that there might be a day where I can get through 3km again. But right now, on this particular day, I feel bleak. Still, maybe we'll aim for 7 lengths next time? Can't possibly get any worse, can it?
Anyway, that's my complaining done for now. Solidarity if you're going through something similar. To the next length!
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