Let's Talk About PTSD
Hello!
It would seem I'm finding more to write about recently. Life has become a kaleidoscope-wheel of the unexpected, unpredictable, and the challenging. If I'm honest, I felt I had enough on my proverbial mental plate with grief and general male-induced disappointment, but life does not listen, and the universe is seldom kind. So, into the wheel, spinning with hair-raising velocity, came my dear friend, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
If you've been reading for a while, or have perhaps taken a nose-dive into the depths of my many-varied thoughts over the years, you'll know that I have spoken at great length about my anxiety disorder, and a fair amount about my anorexia. I've also covered a myriad of other topics, but I think I've only mentioned PTSD once. This is partly because I was only officially diagnosed with it a year ago, and partly because it's difficult to talk about. It carries a certain weight of taboo with it, and a subsequent shroud of shame.
Yeah, I know my writing is a bit wanky today, but hey, I was feeling poetic! Indulge me.
Anyway, if you admit to somebody that you have an anxiety disorder, they generally have a loose grasp on what that means. They may understand the element of panic attacks, shaky hands, and the avoidance of triggers masquerading as everyday banalities. In the same way, if you admit to an eating disorder, images of the painfully thin teenage girl shyly refusing cake spring to the minds of your Average Joes. The internet has spoken about these illnesses almost as much as it has broadcast endearing clips of the world's many feline friends! But you admit to suffering from PTSD, and the reaction shifts...
You're met with wide-eyed concern, and all too often, the question of "What happened to you?" in whispered tones.
First of all, that's an incredibly rude, and invasive question. Please don't ask what happened if someone admits to PTSD. We will tell you if we feel comfortable but if not, please just accept the diagnosis in the same way that you would if we admitted to Anxiety or Depression etc.
That aside, I shall indulge your curiosity. My PTSD is a multi-layered consequence of a series of traumatic events throughout my life. It is unfortunately not as simple as X event causing Y reaction. Therefore, I have many triggers that I work with. So, to give you a whistle-stop tour of the past 23 years: I went through 10 years of child abuse at the hands of my biological Father and his ex-wife; I had a couple of very emotionally manipulative romantic relationships; I had one partner with a very loose (non-existent) grasp on the concept of consent (forgive me, I can't quite write the R word down); I have had 3 separate experiences (after that relationship) of sexual assault; I also have psuedosyncope, which causes me to collapse and appear unconscious, but maintain complete consciousness. The loss of control, and experience of shocking first aid attempts upon my limp body have been intensely traumatic on many occasions. So yeah, there's been a lot.
I'm sure, with that less than savoury list, that you now appreciate why I don't often answer the question of what happened. It's not pretty. I have no interest in pity, I survived every single one of those events, so I think that says that I do not need to be treated as fragile, thank you. But anyway, this post is not designed to be a defiant battle cry into the void in defence of my capacity to rise above. I'd mostly like to shed some light on what it's like to live with.
I think the issue we have is that the general perception of PTSD is often the screaming war veteran trapped in memories of some horrendous war-torn hell-scape. That is certainly a valid experience, but crucially, not the only experience. I suffered an attack of PTSD last week so I think the best way of giving you some understanding of it would be to just describe it.
So, back in February I experienced an assault which left me with a fairly severe injury in my left shoulder. Lockdown happened and it was getting less sore - or I may have been doing less with it - so I was starting to move on. Cut to a fortnight ago, drunk me fell and tried to break the fall with my left hand, wrenching my shoulder back to the previous level of damage. Now, the pain of it hadn't really hit me until I went to do the weekly shop and carried my shopping home in two canvas shoulder-bags. Tesco is super close to my flat so I thought I'd be alright, especially as I'd put the heavier bag on my right shoulder. However, by the time I got home I was trying not to cry because the pain was so bad and then... in came the attack.
The only way I can accurately describe how it feels is a sudden, urgent need to climb out of your own body. I wanted to disappear into a cloud of vapour and never speak to another human soul ever again, to just leave my bodily experiences behind. And yet, flashbacks of the original shoulder injury raced through my mind, I gasped for air as if I had been plunged into a rushing tide, and yet, and yet, everyone else's life continued in a normal rhythm around me. Everything remained the same, despite the fact I was surely drowning in choppy waters, being hurled against the rocks.
It is a vile feeling but, being the independent adult that I am, I had to try and slow it down myself. The feeling I described above is the body's need to disassociate as a response to trauma triggers. Living with fairly intense PTSD, I have had to work out healthy ways to disconnect. If I just let myself be consumed by the oblivion, I probably would have died of alcohol poisoning or an overdose by now. Therefore, my therapist and I work on healthy disassociation. On this occasion, I switched off my phone for around 30 hours, and really allowed myself to be by myself in a calm space. I lit candles, put on the sound of thunderstorms, and read crappy YA novels that would take my mind off things without throwing me back into the depths. And slowly, slowly, slowly, I floated back up to the surface, felt the proverbial sun on my face, and took a big breath.
I very much appreciated the people who worried about me when they noticed my absence, and I also appreciated your understanding. But I won't apologise for causing you worry on this occasion. I was pretty proud of keeping myself safe. I haven't always managed to.
Bottom line: PTSD is a complex and unrelenting beast, and generally not fun to live with, but I hope this post taught you something, or perhaps provided some level of comfort if you are a fellow traumatised soul.
Whatever your story, thank you for reading.
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