The One About Triggers…

It took me years to admit that I had a problem.

I cut ties to people that cared. Drank too much. Distanced myself from as many people as I could, just so I couldn’t see the care in their eyes. It took someone seeing past the bullshit to get to me, the real me. Not the one that was a good time at the bar. Not the me that could crack a joke and bring sarcastic word play into a sharped skin-flaying edge. They could see the me that ghosted when people got too close. The me that hurt. The me that counted the exits in a room. The me that sat so I could  see people approach. The me that had panic flowing through my veins into the closed fists shoved into my pockets.

That one person helped me help myself. I went to the VA, but that was not my answer.  I got into private therapy instead.

And now I have more good days than bad. Those bad days don’t hold a candle to the ones I had back then. I can still function and I don’t need to pull away from the people that love me.

I identified my triggers, the smells, the sounds, the places that set me off. I avoid them or I prepare myself.

Adapt and overcome.

You can be that person.  The one that helps or the one that gets help. Seek if you need it.  Help if you can.

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