Letting Go, but not really.

It started when friends found they needed to move to Pennsylvania. It's about 656 miles away, and we couldn't believe we'd have to find a way to manage the distance.

Next, another friend died of suicide, leaving us heartbroken and tear filled.

Then, our father/father in law/grandfather breathed his last. Peacefully, he smiled good-bye and in his eyes promised time on the other side. We were heartbroken in a new way.

Then we found ourselves moved to share our home with another family. A family in transition to the mission field of Africa. We knew the deal - they would stay with us for a while, then move on. We didn't realize the love that would grow between us. And when we said goodbye there weren't words to carry it all.

And next came another move. Our friends were able to take up a new part of their lives. 4058 or so miles away in the middle of the ocean - also known as Hawai'i. We helped them pack their boxes, gave sweaty hugs, and left them to catch a flight.

So many tears in the course of less than two years. The world is too big, I thought. The world is so hard.

Grief is a funny thing. Some days you're overwhelmed. More often, it's like a constant thread of energy draining out of you. I miss the ones we lost. I yearn for the ones far away. All the time they're in my heart, waiting.

When the Sleeping Place isn't a Place Of Sleeping

I can't sleep.

PTSD is like that, sometimes. Often I'm not even sure why my brain is in hyperdrive. Today, though, I know why I can't sleep (and haven't been sleeping well). It's frustrating, because knowing isn't helping.

Five days ago our second floor a/c unit malfunctioned. We were about two weeks away from a scheduled HVAC upgrade, so we weren't totally caught off guard. But two weeks feels like a lot longer in the HVAC universe, especially when the days are suddenly hitting high 90s and in a matter of hours the second floor is a stifling 89 degrees.

Let's change the description, shall we? Henceforth the "second floor" shall be known as "Bedroom Section."

Because all the bedrooms are on the second floor. And we do all like to sleep in those bedrooms. Other suitable phrase substitutes for Bedroom Section include "Sleeping Place," "Rooms for Resting," or possible "The Place I Send the Children When They Misbehave."

It's not as  miserable as you might think, though. When the Bedroom Section reached a toasty 82 degrees, I moved a twin and two futon mattresses to the floor of the Master Room of the Bedroom Section. The room I normally share with only one other human. Then I wrestled a room a/c unit down our precarious attic stairs into said room. Close the bedroom door, turn on the room a/c, and like magic cool air begins to circulate. Cool enough to comfortably sleep. Cool enough that the kids asked me to make it a little warmer tonight.

So, if the Bedroom Section has a cool sleeping place, which also happens to be my own bed, why can't I sleep?

PTSD.

For me, one of the most common and ready to act symptoms of my PTSD is an "elevated alert state/heightened situational awareness." No matter what I've tried over the years, I can't seem to bring those levels down in a practical every day way. My brain is hardwired to hear the world around me, process the information, and assume everything is a problem.

You can imagine the stress of moving into a different house full of different noises.

Also, I'm a terrible travel companion. I'm irritable and anxious. I also don't sleep in motels. We may stop there, and pay for a room - and then I stretch out onto the bed for a night of listening and watching and convincing my brain that EVERYTHING IS FINE ALREADY. [This is also why I can't be a primary driver of a road trip requiring an overnight stop. Exhaustion is killer.]

I've lived in my house for 17 years now. I know its creaks and moans. I love the way the wind shrieks around the back corner in end of Summer storms. I shake my fist at the 3am birds outside the window. I can hear the click of the furnace as it comes on in Winter. Like all houses, this grand dame has a sound palette all her own and I've grown accustomed to her tastes.

But her tastes changed the other day, and I'm on edge.

The room a/c unit that is effectively allowing my family a cool and comfortable sleeping place is loud. The fan is loud enough to mute the noise from the rest of the house. I cannot sleep this way - my brain is wondering what's going on past the interference, trying to stay more alert than usual. [I actually don't think that's possible, but my brain has a mind of it's own.] When I turn down the fan, the room a/c unit has a sound palette of its own, clicking and sighing, and my brain turns each foreign note into an alarm call to action.

So far, the experience has been much like sleeping in a hotel, only I get my own bed and pillow and I can pet my cat while not sleeping. So, an improved motel experience.

I'm worried. I'm not a well rested individual, as a general rule, and am prone to debilitating insomnia. I'm not currently well rested, thanks to weeks of ongoing knee pain and then a sick kid who needed 4am comfort. I'm already on the back foot, so to speak, of a rested body.

And once the new HVAC is installed, the sound palette will be new again. Sure, I'll grow to appreciate the new effectiveness and energy efficiency of a new HVAC system. I'll start sleeping through the cycles of each machine. We'll become friends. But friendship takes time. And until then, every night of DANGER WILL ROBINSON, DANGER! is a blow to me.

I'm more than my physical self, and my body suffers when I can't sleep. I'm more than my mental well being, and it suffers, too.

We dance again, my Crazies and I, trying to get through normal things. Because sometimes, PTSD is like this.