Fresh Torture

This is a deeply embarassing admission. My therapists have all said I shouldn't be embarassed, and I should talk, or write about, these experiences in order to heal. Now, I don't always do what my health and wellness providers recommend I do (surprise, surprise!), but I'm suffering right now, and all hopped up on insomnia and anxiety. So here goes:

Back in the early '90's, I worked for a newspaper in Denver, in the editorial department. I became friendly with most of the writers, in particular Mr. Steve Jackson, whom I deem a spectacular writer. After I left the paper to persue my own publishing dreams, I kept up with Steve's stories in Westword.

After JonBenet Ramsey and before Columbine, there was another tragedy visited upon Denver, Colorado: the horrible murder of Brandy DuVal. Steve Jackson covered this story, which you can read here. I found the link but haven't read it. I'm too afraid.

When I read this story in 1998, my life changed. I stopped sleeping, I couldn't eat, became shaky and terrified of the dark, being alone, being around strangers, etc. Since this was before I was diagnosed with my illness, I just thought I was being ridiculous. I had three kids and no time for anxiety attacks. I lived with it.

Every time I read an update from Steve Jackson in Westword, or saw something in the news about the story, it started up all over again. So I stopped reading newspapers, and stopped watching news shows on TV. After awhile, I forgot all about it.

In the process of receiving my diagnoses and treatment in 2002, I was informed by four different physicians and therapists that I had classic symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. What the..? Am I a war veteran? No. Did I survive or was otherwise a victim of 9/11? No. Then where do I get off making someone else's tragedy All About Me? That's the embarassing part. Something about a particular tragedy triggers a deeply-hidden memory of some dreadful experience from my childhood, which my brain wisely tucked away where no one would see it. Those helpful doctors would like me to undergo hypnosis to get rid of it, but I am scared shitless of doing that, so no dice.

Anyway, this is a long-winded explanation of why I'm not coming back to NYC until this serial killer is caught. I haven't slept since I happened to see the story on TV Tuesday, I lost my appetite, I'm shaky, jumpy, and breaking out in hives almost hourly. Fuck me. This sucks! Absolutely nothing has happened to me, but my brain is on some kind of empathy trip that simply must end.

Yeah, I'm going to the doctor right now. Oh boy, more meds!

I hope they find that fucktard serial killer soon.