My road to coping with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) has been a difficult one. I didn’t even know that I needed any help or that I really had a problem until someone else gently helped me to realize it.
I was 23 before I ever stepped foot into a therapist’s office. Bob and I were engaged. I was taking a full load of classes that fall semester, and working part time. Being engaged was exciting but had its difficulties. I was stressed from planning a wedding in four months, the responsibilities given to me at work from being the most experienced stage manager in the fine arts center, and trying to raise my GPA. Aside from that, I thought life was really great. I had fantastic roommates, two of my brothers and their families lived nearby, plus autumn is my favorite season and the weather was turning crisp and cool while the trees began lighting up the mountain sides with bright shades of orange, yellow, and red.
But even though life was what I considered wonderful, I was not in a wonderful place. My mind had a natural way of coping with the trauma I’d been through, although it wasn’t actually a healthy way of coping. It was just a raw reaction to help me survive. My mind would block things out of my memory that would otherwise send me spiraling into a huge emotional breakdown. Along with that, sometimes my memory of other events would get blocked out too. Anything leading up to a flashback or trigger would just disappear from my remembrance. Minutes, hours, and portions of days would just be gone. There are moments that I literally can’t recall–even great moments with Bob, my family, or friends. I can’t count how many times I’ve had to carefully listen to what others say about a time I can’t remember so that I can learn the details and pretend to know what everyone is talking about, because I’m not sure how to explain to someone that I honestly can’t recall things I’ve said, done, or been a part of.
Every time I had a breakdown, I would end up blocking it out afterward. In the moment, it’s sort of like watching myself through a window, seeing what I was physically doing, but being completely unable to control or stop any of it. I often don’t recall what sets off one of these breakdowns and I never actually know how long they last. But they usually start off small, like rubbing my hands together rhythmically, and eventually I start picking at my fingernails and cuticles–sometimes to the point of bleeding. My mind would drift off to some other place. I completely zone out from reality, and I never know if that lasts seconds, minutes, or hours. I end up curled in a ball, pulling my hair and crying uncontrollably. And if anyone tries to touch or console me I usually get more hysterical.
My sweet fiance (now husband) was a witness to one of these breakdowns one night about two months before our wedding, and that is the first one that I can actually remember sort of clearly. Bob had no clue what to do when he saw this happen for the first time, and implying that it worried him would be an understatement.
I fell asleep at some point that night, and I don’t know if I got 30 minutes of sleep or seven hours of sleep. But I woke up to my alarm clock, and went about that morning as usual. Bob showed up for breakfast, but I’m not sure if he had even gone home. I think he ended up sleeping at my kitchen table for a while, afraid to leave me alone but equally afraid to be in the same room as me. Over our bowls of cereal, he brought it up as gently as he could. I think this is the reason I remember that breakdown at all. I knew it had happened, and even though I was trying to move on past it like I always would, Bob wasn’t going to let me do that anymore. He had gone to therapy for depression in the past, and it had really helped him. He carefully constructed his thoughts and, in the most loving way possible, asked if I’d at least give therapy a shot. I’d always been of the opinion that therapy was a bunch of baloney. I don’t know where I got that idea, but it stuck with me for some reason. At some point I figured it couldn’t hurt, and just to appease my dear fiance I’d try it once.
As my initial appointment with my therapist, Liz, wound down, I was excitedly penciling in twice weekly visits in my planner for the next month. There was something about her–her personality, the way she spoke to me, how she helped me work through these issues–that I found myself absolutely needing my appointments with her. I had never been able to recognize that I had such a serious problem. And, perhaps most importantly, I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. I could see a way for these triggers and my past trauma to not affect me so dramatically. After living the way I had for the majority of my life, I was thrilled at the prospect of being free from the agonizing grip of a disorder that I never knew that I had.
It’s been three and a half years since that night and following day when I walked in to the campus counseling center. The journey has been difficult, excruciating, terrifying, and depressing. But the results of going through this journey have brought peace, acceptance, comfort, and joy. I’ve been through many, many more breakdowns since that one Bob first experienced. He has learned to help me through them. I’ve learned to trust him through them. I’ve learned to love myself for the first time in my life–to be content with the person that I am, and even smile at myself in the mirror. I’ve learned to stand up for myself, give myself a voice to be heard, and recognize that I am truly an important and valuable person. I’ve helped two other specific young ladies, who have suffered similarly as I have, to get onto the road to coping with trauma as well, and they are both in happy, successful places in life now too.
The goodness that I have experienced because of PTSD far outweighs the badness that it has caused me. I am stronger because of it, I’ve been able to find others who have needed my experience and help, and I am who I want to be. I’m thriving now! I’m not surviving or just making it through the day–I’m blossoming exponentially. I’m succeeding at living life. I’m conquering my fears. I’m enjoying things that I never knew I was missing out on.
If you’re in a place where, deep down, you know you’re in denial about needing help, please let me be the loving support and gentle push you need. You might be missing out on a full, joyful life. You might be missing out on meeting the best friend you’ve ever had. You may be keeping somebody else from being inspired by you and your success. You could be missing out on the life that you were meant to live–a life filled with purpose, love, laughter, sweet moments, happiness, lasting relationships, and every other good thing you may not yet know you’re desperately hungry for. You can have all of that. You can face down those paralyzing problems that keep you from thriving.
You can find help–whether it’s conquering an addiction, dealing with a disorder, or overcoming some other seemingly impossible task. You have the support right here–from me, from the other Forward Walking authors, from fellow followers of this blog, and from people you haven’t even met yet. We’re all cheering for you. It’s time you cheered yourself on too.