Childhood Memories & Random Mutterings (AKA It's Hot here)

Our AC is broke - again. DH has done his best trying to handle it. However, his smooth, southern gentlemanly charm with the warranty company and repair folks just isn't getting things done. I've taken advantage of his "I'm busy at work comments" to offer to make the calls myself. I'll pull the "fierce, tough attorney" voice out. I had to last time it broke. I tried to stay out of it and let DH handle it. But the stress of the heat-related triggers were too much, and my need to have the AC fixed trumped the good intentions to let DH be "manly" and handle it.

We stayed gone all day yesterday. Slept in front of a fan. Church this morn. Now I'm in the basement (cool) in front of a fan. Hair up off neck - tank top and shorts on. DH (bless him) is upstairs in the hot house playing "mommy and daddy" with our daughter.

All sounds okay - and manageable. Looks that way on the outside. But not on the inside - not for me. I've been thrown back into the Land of Flashbacks and Triggers.

DH rants and raves in times like this. He uses language that is entirely unlike him. Not me. I cope. I deal. I stay calm. It's my role - things broke all the time when I was young. I took care of it. This is like then. He yells and cusses. I retreat behind the mask. I fix it. I can't complain or whine - because I'm the one that has to stay focused. I mop up the gallons and gallons of water that the window AC (left by old owner) dripped on floor. I clean up the mess it made as it ran down the floorboard and stained the basement ceiling.

I am in the basement. Our, as yet, unfinished basement. It's cool here. DH told me I should sleep down here last night but that was too much. I was scared to wake up down here. Besides not wanting to tromp up and down the steps for my frequent bathroom breaks. It's hard enough sitting down here, in my "it's hot out" clothes, with a fan on, reading. Things smell musty and the fan hides the sounds, so that I'm easily startled by the wind, the thunder, Daughter coming downstairs. I can't look around because the panel walls are too triggering, as are the stains on the ceiling. I'm reminded of too many dissociative times staring at similar stains in my childhood home. There are too many things that remind me of summers growing up in "THAT" basement. I can't wait until we can get this one painted and make it look entirely different.