Beshert | Boulders and Olive Trees
It is a few months before I meet my beshert.
I dream. My child’s father has gotten into my apartment. He is in my bedroom. I see him seated, in profile, diagonally across from me in the shadows. I am terrified. Leave, I say, I am terrified. I am terrified, please leave. No. He is not going anywhere.
For some reason, my PTSD has risen lately to fever pitch.
I see a psychologist who specializes in PTSD. She does grounding exercises with me in her office and sends me home with an index card on which I have written them down. I practice techniques to use my bodily senses to calm my brain.
Well before this, I had sought books about mindfulness and a therapist who uses it in her practice. This, to help me cope with the reality...