On Doom, PTSD, and a Forge Announcement

PTSD Brain: "No. The answer is No."

C-PTSD makes seemingly simple things very difficult. It makes it hard for me to feel like I’m allowed to feel to safe. Safety feels like a dangerous state of affairs. Because if I let myself feel safe, Doom™ will occur. Somehow, by always being hyper-vigilant, my brain believes I can avert disaster. And from time to time, though it’s getting less frequent, my brain is very sure disaster is lurking just around the corner. Sometimes, it feels like there’s a specific doom. Like say, I’m going to lose my job. A fact that is very unlikely.

My brain doesn’t take this assertion of reality as a fact and call it a day. It takes it as a challenge. It might be unlikely, but what if...

Doom™. 

It goes like this. My brain is convinced I will fail to meet a deadline, or some authority figure’s expectations, which will lead to a chain reaction (And this Doom-Saying Conspiracy Theorist part of my brain can, and will, explain every step—of which there are many—in minute detail.), which will ultimately lead to me getting fired, unable to pay my bills, a failure at everything, and everyone hating me. And my brain will draw from adverse results that have happened to me before to beef up its evidence that this doom will, in fact, occur. 

“But what about that one time when…?” 

Past events that did happen give my brain the receipts to prove that this Doom™ is coming—unless. Unless we control everything, I guess? That’s the specific doom scenario. This specific chain-of-events will lead to inevitable, inescapable doom? That’s catastrophic thinking. Which is, not always but can be, a symptom of PTSD.

Sometimes, there’s just looming, undefined Doom™.  There’s no discernible cause or reason. There’s nothing to be done. It just feels like I have to be ready for anything. For what specifically? Who know! What should I do to stop it? Who knows! Certainly not me. 

It feels like this: 

1. I let my guard down.

2. ???

3. Doom™.

This can make it hard to focus. This If-I-Feel-Safe-Then-Doom™ sensation can make it challenging to get work done. Before I started therapy, I used to ignore the feeling and power through. (Trying to brute force my way through situations and life? The “if I throw an unhealthy amount of hard work at it I will survive” mentality? Common for people with PTSD.) Funny thing about therapy, though, is that it makes you very aware of your emotions and of the truth that you can’t opt out of emotions. 

Feelings are optional; that’s the big lie of a lot of well-meaning advice out there. I read it phrased that way the other day, and I can’t get over how true it is.

They aren’t. Feelings aren’t optional.

Ever think about how we call emotions “feelings”? I’ve been thinking about it a lot. It’s a startlingly accurate word for the experience. Because emotions are a physical, somatic response of the body. It’s not just a psychological state; it’s a physical sensation. We don’t really have a choice about whether they’re happening. We feel our emotions not exactly like we feel a cold day or we feel a hug, but because our emotions are also a bodily, tactile, sensory response to our experiences. (Thank you, Vagus Nerve. Look it up, if you’re unfamiliar. It’s a trip.)

And those feelings are predictive. They’re based on our past experiences, and what we think will happen next. This grieves me about my PTSD. My brain is trying to protect me, not from imaginary experiences, but from experiences that did occur, from events that did happen. Experiences I was unable to process at the time. Experiences which became trauma. My brain, by itself, did the best it could. It was, and is, trying to keep me from having those experiences again. It’s trying to keep me alive.

In many ways, PTSD makes me a time traveler in my own life. Sometimes, my brain doesn’t know when I am. Despite being nearly 37 years old, my brain will think that it’s 1984. That what happened to me then is happening now. Or that it will definitely happen to me again in the future. These are emotional flashbacks and flash forwards. Both set up the Doom™ dominos. Things from my past pushing my brain to feel like it must know and control the future. That this is the only way to get to the mythical state of Safety™. My Doom-Saying Conspiracy Theorist is right in a sense. Anything could happen. There isn’t a state of Safety™. Safety is a feeling.

Feelings are optional. This lie leads to repression and trauma.

Feelings are information. Feelings are physical. Feelings happen. That doesn’t mean I’m helpless to my feelings. That doesn’t mean I’m helpless to my PTSD. I have tools now to interface with my feelings and my PTSD.

When those Doom™ dominos get set up, however, it can be hard to remember to pick up those tools. The old tracks of behavior in my brain that protected me are well worn and deep. It’s hard to remember to change tracks. It’s harder to do it. Not feeling safe, as odd as this sounds, feels very comfortable. It protected me.

And it no longer serves me.

Said Post-Its

So, I have post-it notes all over my office. Things to help me identify if I’m triggered, if I’m in an emotional flashback. Things to help me remember what’s true. Things to help me get back to the present. To keep me grounded in the present. To keep me from being a time traveler. Things to help me remember that I’m allowed to feel safe. That this will pass. To thank my brain for trying to protect me, and that this behavior no longer serves me.

So, why have I taken us, dear reader, down this rabbit hole about feelings and my PTSD? Because for nearly the last three weeks, when I sat down to write, I felt unsafe. (I felt unsafe when I wasn’t writing, too. But that’s beyond the scope of this post and what I’m comfortable sharing with the entirety of the Interwebs.) I still got revising done as I navigated the ebb and flow of these feelings and my PTSD. It’s exhausting, but I kept making progress. The last two days, however, have been particularly hard.

There are a lot of reasons why, but one of them is that we’re less than two months to my deadline to publish Forge, and some developments have occurred as I’ve been finishing the continuity revisions and rewrites. As I’ve previously said, the first draft of this novel clocked in at around 260k. That is a monstrously long book. At the beginning of November, I realized something. This is not one book. This is two. Which was the original plan. 

I know, I buried the lede.

From the beginning, I had intended this series to be a quartet, not a trilogy. I had thought, I had hoped, I could wrap up Faela and Kade and Jair’s story in three books. This draft is two books. And you know what? I’m happy with that.

I’ve been afraid to announce this because Doom™. And because I’ve been afraid about this decision, revising felt dangerous. (Making a “wrong” decision has very high stakes in the world of PTSD. See earlier comments on needing to control the future.) My Doom-Saying Conspiracy Theorist has many dominos set up regarding this decision and this announcement. All ending in, as you’ve probably guessed by now, Doom™.

So. Forge is now split into Forge and Resolve. Back to the original plan. They even have their own scrivener files. And let me tell you, putting Resolve into its own scrivener file was a big step and a very big deal.

I’m still shooting for a 2018 publication for Forge. (It might be January allowing for the unpredictability of life and recovery.) These two book are already drafted, and I’m nearing the end of the Forge continuity revisions. This means Resolve should be released sometime in the spring of 2019. There won’t be a seven year gap between the two this time. That I can promise. 

It is hard for me to post this. I can’t control what will come of these decisions, and I believe they’re the right ones for me and for these stories. Alongside the fear, I’m excited about this draft being two books again. I’m excited for how much better the conclusion of this series will be. I’m excited, and I’m still scared.

Making these decisions doesn’t mean Doom™. It just feels that way right now. And my feelings will change. Whatever comes of these decisions, I can handle it. Because I am not alone. Amidst this, I’m allowed to feel safe. And that’s really hard.