Intense dream moment

I died. I was in a hospital, and my heart stopped. I thought, 'Here it is,' and I prayed and waited. I could not move or speak. Nurses came and they brought me back to life.

Intense

Today, I had a massive PTSD attack, including a disassociated 10 minutes where I didn't know where I was. This was not down to the actual event that occurred, but related matters, less visceral but a major part of the trauma none the less. I will not go into them for fear of another attack. I have not had anything so powerful for a long time.

It was a severe attack; I found myself again in a field near a wood, and I grabbed my phone and spoke to larians who was very patient. Head spinning I went into the wood, and it was lovely. I found a golden mushroom and some bonny white flowers I thought might be anemones. I sang to cheer myself up, and finished just in time to see a drug addict powerwalk down the path through the trees towards me.

This is the problem with the wood. Lovely it is, but it's still a wood, once famous for highwaymen etc. Now I stared at the man, and my first thought was to wonder if I was hallucinating. I wasn't. He was quite tall, junkie thin, raddled, poor in poor clothes, and he was heading straight for me very purposefully, me with my stupid big bag complete with phone and purse and oyster card. I stood ready for a fight, when it occurred to me I didn't have to. I wasn't in a room, I was in the wood, and I could do what I wanted. I wanted to run, so I lolloped off down the path, getting faster and faster. I ran like a hare.



And it felt really good, to be able to run away, to be free. I didn't want to fight, I didn't need to, but it was good to know I could if necessary. He followed me up to the bus stop, then crossed to the other side of the road, where he examined the contents of a few dustbins.

I got on a bus and went away. Not far enough; it's beyond me to explain how much I want to escape, how I want Scotland or the coast of Cornwall, or just to do a Bilbo and walk out of my front door and see where the road takes me.

I wonder how many hoboes started from this point, never came back and faded into their own stories, sleeping on the streets or just disappearing.

This is why, despite the very kind assurances of certain chums, I do not think LARP is a good hobby for me right now. It's not that I am likely to scream at some poor dude covered in fake blood, or have hysterics at the sight of a latex sword - these are not issues. It's that I am hypervigilant, never quite at rest, always ready to fight or flee. I am too ready to react. In most situations my judgement would be fine. But if someone stepped out of the dark as an unexpected threat, I don't know how I would react, and it isn't fair on anybody involved. A shame, because I liked playacting, wandering across fields and joining friends getting drunk around campfires. Still, it's an intense hobby, and intensity is the last thing I need.

I am drinking one of those Kopparberg strawberry and lime ciders, they taste like fruit ribena and give me an automatic headache.

That's me done for the day.