Thursday’s coffee run was a textbook lesson in why I set strict boundaries—and why my internal warning system doesn’t care about being polite when I get freaked out. In many ways, it was one of those Small Victories that remind me why boundaries matter.
The senior carer and I hit Starbucks, but the trip got chopped short. The place was buzzing, and I couldn’t land a table with my back to a wall. If you’re running on PTSD, sitting out in the open like that feels like standing in the middle of a firing range with a neon target painted on your spine. My brain immediately locked into hyper-vigilant perimeter-scanning mode, and then the familiar pre-seizure static started buzzing in the background. Calling a tactical retreat before a full system crash hit wasn’t optional; it was pure self-preservation. Nevertheless, the fact that I made it out the door at all is another one of those Small Victories.
I got back to the flat, bolted the door, and dropped anchor with a book until the physical noise settled down. Reflecting on moments like this, I realize that cherishing Small Victories keeps me motivated to try again.
Fast forward to today: Ben is currently out in the front room demolishing a mountain of air-fryer bacon and pan-fried eggs. Teenagers are basically black holes for pork products. While he’s refueling, I’ve staged a quiet retreat back to the bedroom. I’m double-fisting a brew and a coffee alongside a couple of biscuits, taking a proper bit of calm while the flat is warm and safe.
But you know what? I did it. I left the house, I lasted 45 minutes in the real world and next week I’ll do the same. Small Victories like these matter more than most people think.
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