Post Traumatic Stress Disorder – what a motherbitch.

Paranoia.  It’s a symptom of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  And we all have it something chronic.  Brandon is overly anxious about everyone’s safety.  Everytime I leave him to go to the shops / choose dvd’s / fetch laundry from downstairs he hits a flat spin and I have to sms him to say I’m safe.  And it’s not just with me, it’s everyone.  We all have to constantly reassure him everything is okay.  He refuses to have counselling, so I’ve resorted to forcing him now.  That bitch is strong, but I’m stronger baby! Some of the lighter side of PTSD?  I am constantly positive there’s something wrong, or about to go wrong, or just has gone wrong.  This morning I accidentally inhaled a seed when I was feeding the birds outside.  Not only did I nearly choke to flipping death, have tears running down my cheeks and snivveled a runny nose, but one hour later I read about some dude who had a FIR TREE GROWING IN HIS LUNGS!  Obtained, naturally – as it happens – by inhaling a seed one year previously.  I shit you not.  This did not help with my paranoia obviously, as am now one hundred and millionty percent that I will have to have an internal lung mini tree trimmed and pruned by Winter next year. The bearded gheko we have on our deck looked a bit bleak this afternoon, so Wokkie calls my mom over in absolute panic – “Mom! FAT BOY IS DEPRESSED! JUST LIKE BRANDON! LOOK AT HIS SAD EYES! Must I give him one of Baboo’s happy pills?” it turned out that the cold blooded reptile was just kipping under his rock like he does every single day. Darryn was working last night (he manages a restuarant just down the drag) and ended up going jolling with a few mates.  He crawled in at 6am to a beside-ourselves bunch of lunatics who all jumped down his throat before he was in the front door.  Needless to say he is hanging lower than a pair of donkeys testicles, and my mom is going into his room every ten minutes to take his temperature and wakes him up to make sure he’s not dead. Gawd.  We’ve always been known as The Treehouse* of Nutters but now we’re really ringing true to the name.  Send strength! *My parents are lucky enough to own a gigantic log cabin tree house.

This entry was posted in Baboo.


  1. Hardspear says:

    I’ve told you before that I used to be a Social Worker in the SA Police Service and that I’ve had a lot of training and experience in dealing with trauma victims.

    Good news. Post Traumatic Stress (PTS) does not necessarily turn into Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). PTS is the normal (though not nice) reaction to a traumatic event. It is how you deal with it now which will go a long way towards preventing that the PTS turns into PTSD. Flashbacks, anxiety, paranoia, depression, disturbance in eating (eating significantly more or significantly less), anger, irritability, disturbance in sleeping patterns etc are some of the things to expect. (I’m sure you read up on this a lot any way). Normal is 2 – 6 weeks after such an event. If these persist or not gradually diminish, please get professional help. I am very aware of how wary policemen are of the police psychologists and social workers, they believe that it will go on their personal file somewhere and count against them comes promotion time.

    But this is important. You and your family have to watch each other, and not only, but especially your brother, and if you are worried that the PTS continues for too long – see someone. If your brother is uncomfortable with internal Police assistance – see to it that he sees someone else – Polmed does pay. Trauma is cumulative in nature and whereas ordinary citizens (Haasmanne or rabbit men in police language) may experience one severe trauma in their lives, policemen are exposed to it daily.

    Support systems are crucial, and I’ll venture to say that your family’s closeness will count for a lot getting you all safely across this river.

  2. angel says:

    I never needed PTSD to be paranoid about the knucklehead… or maybe I’ve just had PTSD since he was born!?!?!?!??!????

  3. Dolce says:


    You know what Sheebs. At least the sense of humour is still intact. Fek, I’d be covered in a duvet, wibbling.

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