When Your Trauma Doesn't Fit the Image of PTSD
I’ve run a blog for the last five years about the intersection of my chronic physical and mental illnesses and my hopes of living a life of joy despite and sometimes even because of them. It started as a Tumblr, and one day, in my ask box, I got a furious message from anonymous saying that it was disrespectful of me to say that I had PTSD at any point in my lifetime because I wasn’t a military veteran. In their mind, my trauma and diagnosis cheapened the lived traumatic experiences of people who have real post-traumatic stress disorder.My traumas were not of war, the product of an abusive family, or at the hands of a violent romantic partner. They came from friends who continually gaslit me, telling me I wasn’t worth it because I was both too much and not enough. This continued for seven and a half years. There was one key event that put me over the edge. I was left alone in a moment when I thought I was going to die. I spent three years thinking that people didn’t care whether I was dead or alive, but I didn’t know that this was why I was so scared. My thoughts were a cloudy mess; nothing coherent that I could understand. When it hit me one day, I grieved for the person who had lived this way for so long.I understood, though the message made me sad. I had no idea at age 17, the age that I underwent the crux of the trauma that still haunts me, that PTSD came in such varied forms, and with diverse causes. It affects people who have been in combat and worked other front-line positions, like emergency medical technicians, people who have had significant health scares and faced serious long-term diagnoses, people who have survived sexual assault at any age, and so on. I fit in one of these categories, but my most serious experiences of trauma don’t check any of the boxes. It took me three years to label the terrible things that had happened to me as traumatic.I spent those years in survival mode. My body and mind hid a lot from me so I’d be able to put one foot in front of the other. But they always lurked beneath the surface, coloring every moment. I never understood why I was so scared. I thought I had been too sensitive, too weak to handle life in all its complexity, but what I needed was help instead of self-loathing. I needed relief for my weary soul.
Up to 7-8% of the United States population will have an active diagnosis of PTSD at some point in their lives, and 8 million adults have PTSD any given year. It manifests as intrusive memories brought on by triggers, avoidance of triggers, changes in physical and emotional reactions to daily life happenings, and negative changes in thinking and mood. I lived this way for three years.
These days, I’m subclinical, but I did a lot of work to get there. I went to (still go to!) therapy, and I still process and dig through old triggers through cognitive behavioral therapy or CBT, which aims to shift thoughts in order to affect emotions and the resulting behaviors. This is my favorite website for searching for individual and/or group therapy – you can sort by your insurance and financial resources and view self-descriptions of the clinicians.I do the hard labor of forgiveness for those who hurt me and self-forgiveness for the ways that I regret treating myself and others while I was in the darkest depths. I have a bad moment bag that has self-soothing items in it that help me get back to my day. When I can’t self-soothe, I ask for help, knowing that I’m imperfect and I am enough.I remember that I have no responsibility to be the exact person I was yesterday, and that I’m allowed to grow, shed past behaviors and even what can feel like selves. I learn how to move through pain in new ways. I constantly reframe the way I look at things. It’s an ongoing battle to find beauty in myself and my life where I once only saw suffering and terror.
I would never wish the suffering I’ve experienced on my worst enemy. And yet, at the same time, I am very much who I am because of the ways that people treated me and how I’ve learned to treat others and myself. The joy that pervades my life is deep because I’ve fought for it and continue to fight for it. Nothing about this process has been easy. I will always be jumpier than the average person, quicker to look for cracks, readier to lose trust and feel like I need to be my own island rather than accept that I am so loved, so not alone.So, this is for you if you need it: you are so loved, so not alone. If you’re suffering because of trauma, go get help. Ask those you love to join you in the journey. I’m living proof that this journey can be taken.
“balms”
there are precious momentswhen the balm of solidaritysmoothes over thesounds, sights,and sensations ofthe bombsthat litter my past –the bombsof words and deedsthat cannot beunsaid or undonethe tacticsthe weaponsthe terror –long-silentand nearly imperceptibleterror that nevershould have been theresometimes feelingso far out ofmy handsas if it cannotbe my owneven now –and yetthere are balmsthat even just in partor in a barelyperceptible glimmershine a lighton the hope foundwithin piles of rubblerearranged intonew lifeandthese scarsare healingbit by bitmile by mileand i am farfrom the only oneexperiencing this rebirthfor it is in our very DNAto rise againbeloved,every seven yearseach cell in your bodyis replaced and renewedas if to showthat our bodiescould attempt –correction,were created for –this marvelous actof defiance and triumphin the face of allthat would pin us downrather than prepare our heartsto beat with the kindof courage that beginsnew eras and turnsover to make spaceon blank pages- e.f.a