I didn't really understand or believe that I had Ptsd, but now I understand how the diagnosis emerged.  Fortunately, I don't have too many meltdowns. The last really bad one that I had was two years ago and it was terrible.

The thing about meltdowns (which are probably flashbacks now that I think about it) is that they are totally unexpected and all-consuming. The day started out like any other.  I had the day off, and will have the week off due to Thanksgiving.  I was already a little stressed and apprehensive because I am having significant surgery tomorrow for a problem with my thyroid.  It's serious enough to the point that if they don't do the surgery, my life could potentially be shortened by years.  Part of the issue with the Ptsd is that I will have to keep the surgery secret for the time being from my family, and have friends help me out instead. I will stay with friends because of the severe physical abuse I went through with my father and brother. Years ago, when I had knee surgery, my dad punched holes in the walls around me while I was stuck with my leg up in a cast.

Fast forward to today, I was having a pretty relaxed day and really looking forward to going to the salon to get my hair trimmed, and take care of a bunch of stuff before the surgery tomorrow.  I'm sitting there in the salon chair, he says "On which side do you part your hair?"-and then promptly vanishes.  I thought he went to the restroom or went to get another scissors, etc., but I guess that is not what happened. I was bewildered.  He simply never came back. 

Several minutes go by and this woman arrives, another stylist, and in a very odd manner she leans in and tells me that he will not being coming back, that he had an anxiety attack.  (later I found out that he just bolted and went home right then).  She says I can reschedule or she can take care of it.  I said 'let's take care of it, because I don't know when I'll be back due to the surgery."  I said, "I understand about anxiety, no worries,"  (obviously, becuase I have issues) and she starts cutting my hair, but is not paying attention.  She instead starts rambling, and rambling...and rambling...and asks me what type of surgery I am having.  I didn't expect it, but I started to feel really nervous and insecure becuase I am very frightened about the whole thing. My symptoms are already pretty severe. I reluctantly tell her it's thyroid surgery. 

She has a really intense and overly emotional manner and starts to gush, saying that her sister had thyroid disorder and how horrible it was....how her hair came out in clumps, how she got so fat....blah blah... Now, I'm starting to feel really horrible because the memory of of all of this.  Plus, I also have hyperparathyroid glands on top of it not working, and the calcium is being pulled right out of my bones, and I'm in so much pain, so I didn't want to discuss it more. She's going on and on, when she lowers her voice like she's talking about something terrible and icky, and she whispers to me:  "My sister...she used to work with...BATTERED WOMEN...." and then she gives me this look like, "ooooohh...THOSE people....THOSE women," she starts carrying on..."You know...the ones in those SHELTERS." 

I almost fell out of the chair because I used to live in one of those places.  My heart was pounding and I felt like I was going to throw up. The room seemed to start spinning.  Then I'm watching her butcher my hair and I'm getting really upset. So I pause her and say, "My hair is very uneven.  It is all different lengths."  She replies. "I'll go back and look at it again after I blow dry it."  I'm sitting there trying to be understanding of the situation because I felt bad that my stylist had a panic attack and had to leave, but I'm boiling. The overwhelming emotional pressure is too much. In the middle of the blow dry, I rip off the cape and go to the front.  I'm sobbing now at this point, and say that I don't want to have a personal conversation and I don't want to talk about battered women. I'm crying my brains out all the way to the car, and hyperventilating. By the time I got to the grocery store I'm in such bad shape I call my therapist.

She talked me through it, and said to listen to my calming app, so I did with my bluetooth. It worked.  I called the salon back later and found out my stylist just went directly home from combing my hair, that instant.  The manager was not happy with him at all.  I said I wasn't mad at him but it was what happened next, and I sent him pics up my fu&*ed up hair.  

I don't know what to do. I'm furious that my hair looks like *hit most of all, beyond the rest of the "conversation." I'm mostly disappointed in myself because her comments got to me. Mostly really mad that this situation kept her from doing the job.  And, I don't know if I will go back to the salon, I am too embarrassed now since I was sobbing at the counter to the receptionist.  It's gonna be awkward now.  They will probably not want me to come back.  I went to this salon because I got terrible service elsewhere and I was so thrilled to find them that I put a rave review on Google. I think I'm gonna take it down.