My Journey to Waking Up With Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

Originally published March 26, 2018

So I'm in the middle of reading another book in prep for a review (spoiler alert: It's amazing!), and as I explore the topics covered, I thought I'd take some time to dive in and get a little personal. (Okay, A LOT personal.)

I've made no secret about the fact I've been going through therapy for some time. And, as I mentioned in my disturbingly accurate toilet metaphor (it fit, but goodness knows no one wants to equate their psychological well-being to human bodily excretions), my own mental and emotional health was swinging madly out of my control with no hope of rest in sight. (Can't a woman just get five fucking minutes to herself? Damn.)

It was to the point that on my first appointment with my new medical doctor, I told her point-blank, "Can you put in a mental health consult for me? It's time."

Coming up on two years later, I'm slowly working my way through overcoming PTSD symptoms with good ol' resistance the whole wide way. (Oh, avoidance, my dear, trusty friend!) But maybe I shouldn't skip so far ahead.

In the aftermath of events as I was getting out of the Army, I remember telling people I had PTSD. I generally brought it up in an effort to try to make light of things and was joking. (For the record, such jokes were usually along the lines of "if it has an abbreviation, I've probably got it" in terms of mental health and completely making a play on the stereotypes of them at the time).

There were only a couple times that I ever seriously suspected it and brought it up to a very limited few, usually in the form of "It feels like... I don't know how to describe it. It feels like I have PTSD, but..."

My list of "buts" was a long one:

• I've never been in combat (training doesn't count).

• I've never deployed (prepping for it doesn't count).

• No one has forced me to do something against my will with a gun pointed to my head or at the threat of my family's lives.

• I've never lived through a major natural disaster, school shooting, terrorist attack (yes, 9/11 was traumatizing to most of us Millennials, but when your exposure was just the chaos and uncertainty of the events from the safety of in front of your TV miles away, that's not exactly "surviving a terrorist attack"). 

• [Insert any number of other significant traumas you can think of here.]

I have drama experiences, not trauma. Or so I said...

Hey, I'm not the first to lie to myself or sell myself short! A lifetime of invalidating experiences and words from others, it's nearly impossible to recognize what invalidation is let alone call yourself out for it.

The truth is, I've had plenty of traumatic experiences. More than enough for others to be bewildered by my resiliency.

People like to tell me how young I am. (32 years old at the time I'm writing this.) My response is, "I've had enough experiences to last a few lifetimes."

Multiple episodes of physical, mental, and emotional abuses from both parents as a child, along with being swept out of bed in the middle of the night on the quiet nights (usually because the "victim" parent was short on cash and needed a convincing sob story to get it from family and friends). Date rape by my first love, complete with gaslighting to ensure I long believed it was what I had wanted in that moment. Physical assault as a teenager by the "non-violent parent" on the suspicion of causing the internet to go out (yes, I did stop the webTV to make a phone call, but that's relevant to trying to choke out your teenager because why?).

Those are just the major traumas that still stand out from before the Army--the hardships and negative experiences as a whole is quite a bit longer.

But I most certainly did not have PTSD from any of these things. In fact, as soon as I moved in with my high school sweetheart and his family and got the hell away from the toxic household I grew up in, I blossomed.

Sure, I had some anxiety and I'm educated enough to know that the undiagnosed major depressive episode in middle school probably set a risky foundation. I also had next to no self-esteem let alone confidence. But the positive seeds were planted and nothing could hold me back. Those were peaceful times.

The Army was a mixed bag of good and bad. There were some shitty experiences and experiences that most certainly should never have happened. But, again, the aftereffects wore off quickly and the memories of them certainly don't keep me up at night.

As you can see, up to the point of another traumatic experience, I've got vulnerabilities out the ass for acquiring a "you're not going to 'just get over it'" mental health condition. But hey, I was a soldier. And we're stronger than that crap. ... Right?

And then cue the world shattering.

*in perfect stage performance narrator voice* Our protagonist has managed to pick herself up after the cold announcement that she would be medically discharged for what she adamantly maintained was just a symptom and hardly addressed at all. But, alas, up to this point, she is still chronically unable to express her needs and her complaints fall on deaf ears.

She has worked out a rough idea of what she'll do when it's time to leave and reveling in her role as an administrative assistant for the newly established WTU, finding peace in knowing she's making a positive contribution before she goes.

But, what's this? *unscripted peals of thunder and lightning shake the stage* .... No, seriously, folks. What the fuck is this? Fuck this shit. I quit. *end narration*

And that's kind of how it felt. A relationship break up that was like all sense and logic completely left me. It made so little sense, I couldn't even think. And yet, that's all I did. There was no sleeping. There was no eating. There was just endless thinking, constantly in circles, trying to piece together events of a relationship, that--as memory serves me--was never officially a relationship at all.

And I felt crazy. Absolutely crazy. And there was no getting out of that kind of crazy.

If you're wondering where the hell all my details went, well, there's some stuff that's better off left behind closed doors that not everyone gets to enter through. I may be transparent, but I value my privacy, too! (It's only a contradiction if you see the world in black-and-white or all-or-none terms.)

You may also be wondering what the hell is so bad that I can't share. It's not that I can't. It's that damn avoidance bug. Every bit of my being says "STOP!" once I start talking about this.

If you've ever wondered what PTSD is like, it's kind of like this: The brain becomes so hardwired to believe that even so much as the memory of something is a threat capable of destroying you.

Suffice it to say, there was a break up. A big explosion later followed by explanations--or, rather, zero explanations--of "I need time and space." And, without speculating beyond facts I know, that "time and space" involved partying and dating someone else.

"C'mon, this is stupid. You got PTSD from a break up? A non-physically violent, run-of-the-mill, 'I need space' break up?"

Thanks for your invalidating remark. That exact kind of commentary is what kept me from getting help for years. My avoidance thanks you.

Stories aren't as simple as "The Ugly Barnacle" by Patrick Star.

Even back while it was happening, I couldn't explain it to the people around me. They basically chalked it up to the same story most of us have been through. I've heard the long, drawn out details of more "I need space" break-ups than I ever could have wanted (I could fill a tome with them) all because people were trying to talk me through an experience they thought we were sharing.

But that's not at all what it was. And it wouldn't be until I made friends with the "ex before me" that I not only received validation, but also was able to regain my senses.

But again: Not. A. Simple. Story. Period.

In the midst of that break-up (or the aftermath? for me it was the midst, but on the other side of the story, I'm betting that time-period was counted as "after"), something else happened. And, yes. That's all I'm going to say about it. It took 8 years to even remember and admit it happened and 2 more years full of therapy to look it in the face.

And for me, that break-up and all the awful experiences of going through it is forever interwoven with a much shorter, much more traumatic experience. The two combined was, for me, an uber trauma. I could clearly remember the one but desperately didn't want to think of it, and yet was able to completely bury the other thanks to that one. Human experiences are so complex...

It wasn't long after these things that I first had suspicions of PTSD. But, you know, all those but's... And when symptoms subsided and life was going good, I--in my infamous self-misdiagnosing ways--concluded I certainly did not have PTSD. "That shit doesn't just go away." (Do you feel the foreshadowing?)

Inevitably, those feelings always came back. Complete with shiny, new-and-improved negative experiences on which to place blame, often resulting in my chalking it all up to (still undiagnosed at that time) major depression.

Over the years, I've had a couple people throw "bi-polar disorder" and "manic depressive disorder" at me because of my low-lows and high-highs. (Never mind that maybe I'm just bubbly in my natural state. Got a problem with that?) I always knew without question that was wrong, and getting my hands on a DSM criteria for the first time in college was a guaranteed "ERROR" stamp. If there's misconceptions about conditions like PTSD and schizophrenia and OCD, then bi-polar disorder is completely misunderstood by the general populace at large.

But at the risk of getting lost in that tangent, let's get back to me. :)

Off-and-on. Off-and-on. Avoidance. Isolation. Depression. Distraction. Risk. Anxiety. Over and over and over and over. Little things triggering depressive episodes with no explanation. No-big-deals feeling like massive betrayals. Lies and truth all sound the same. Having fun. Living life. Tough, strong, independent chick coming through! Love. Tears. Friends. Pain. Dreams. Nightmares. Over and over. Off-and-on.

How the hell did I hang on as long as I did?

Then there's the ex-husband ordeal. As if the near-death experiences related to childbirth hadn't been agonizingly traumatic enough. I was still recovering from the aftermath of those new, painful experiences before he started his non-sense (of sympathetic note, his own PTSD and past negative experiences played a major role), and then his mother took up the reins because apparently I hadn't been put through enough hell.

Seriously. Can't a woman just get five fucking minutes to herself? Damn!

And so there was the mental health consult. Followed by intake appointment after intake appointment.

For those unfamiliar, going to a mental health clinic starts with an intake appointment where you get to learn all about what programs they offer and then you spend at least a full grueling hour--sometimes multiple hours over multiple days--being quizzed on the "have you evers" of your life experiences.

For me, it started with one intake. It basically concluded that there was something much deeper going on, so I got referred to the traumatic stress clinic.

Then there was the second. Deeper this time and leaving me completely raw. (I'm at these appointments because I feel like my life is out of control, mind you.) It concludes I don't qualify for their services, so it's back to the other mental health clinic. I break down and cry.

So there was going to be a third. This was a two-parter. Intense. They were determined to slap me with a label this time (and I was grateful because I couldn't keep pouring out all the hurts of my life in an hour-and-a-half to new strangers every month).

One night, I closed my eyes to go to sleep. And there it was. Loud and in my face. A silent flash, a single frame, of a memory long buried. I knew it was real, because I had evidence. Evidence I never look at. Something I never want to think of.

Something you happily forget like that time your mom shows up to your school to drop off your lunch, still dressed in her pajamas and rollers and wanting to discuss private matters, oblivious that the whole class is watching. As long as no one around you remembers, you get to forget.

Avoidance. Isolation. Oh, yeah. No one around me even knows, let alone remembers.

But digging up all the hurts knocked the memory loose. And I didn't have the strength to outrun it again.

So, of course, I bring this up at that third intake appointment. I get slapped with labels. Some expected. (Performance anxiety? Ha! It's official.) And one completely unexpected. I will still maintain that it was a misdiagnosis (DSM IV or V, doesn't matter, you gotta stretch real hard--and add a made-up thing or two--to make it fit the diagnostic criteria), but I can totally see why it happened.

And I'm grateful. I wouldn't have gotten the therapy I needed to expose the PTSD lurking underneath my super, ridiculously strong and talented bestestestest non-human friend, Avoidance!

I like calling myself a Master Avoider these days. Because I never realized I was even doing it. Procrastinating is a different story altogether. I know when I'm putting something off (even indefinitely). But avoidance masks PTSD. It's all in how you ask the question.

Do I avoid large crowds? No. I just happen to not enjoy and therefore have no motivation to go anywhere where there may also happen to be a crowd.

I also just so happen to walk out of busy restaurants or stores because I didn't really want to go in there anyway and wasn't worth it with those long lines and noisy people taking up all the space.

And I don't not go to super cool, totally amazing, super fun-sounding new events that I would totally enjoy if I just went because I'm avoiding anything. I just don't have the money, it's too far to travel, my back hurts, blah, blah, blah.

Do I have trouble trusting people? Please. Do you know how many people have walked all over me because I've given them the benefit of the doubt? (Okay, that one was deflection...)

Do you have recurring nightmares or unwanted memories of the event? Psh. No. I'm too busy. Books, videogames, work, toddler, shopping, cleaning, movies, anime... And if I can't stop thinking about something I don't want to think about... Well, I can't sleep anyway, so I just stay up and watch/play/read more until I'm too exhausted to think anything at all and have too little sleep time to enter a dream that might threaten to turn nightmare.

So, nope. I don't have nightmares or unwanted memories of the event. (I keep that shit at bay.)

Therapy comes with a lot of hard truths. Like learning when you're lying to yourself and running from things that need to be looked in the eye. (*shock* Avoidance! You naughty trickster, you...)

But it also comes with mountains of validations. Like learning that PTSD isn't a "once the symptoms start, they never go away." Instead, they flow in cycles, ever repeating as triggers in our lives come and go.

Or that vulnerabilities + risk + trauma + genetics + other shit = PTSD. It's not just combat. And it's not just what you think would traumatize you.

It's way more complex than an ugly barnacle being ugly.