PTSD // In Which I Rant a Little

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Though I’ve been planning this piece for several months now, I almost decided not to post it just yet, in the light of the events in Orlando, since I don’t want to draw attention away from what the victims’ families are going through. But then I got to thinking that the survivors of the shooting will also experience PTSD, most likely, so maybe this is more relevant than I had realized. 

So today we’re going to talk about what it’s like to live with civilian PTSD. 

I find it surprising how often people assume PTSD is only something you get if you’ve been in the military on active duty. You go out; you fight people; you shoot and get shot. Maybe you get a few limbs blown off. And then you come home a different, more difficult person. You lose buddies, and they haunt your sleep. You hold inside the things you can never explain, the things you’ve seen that can’t be unseen. You spend a lot of time feeling like a cornered animal. 

Military PTSD is legitimate and you should never sweep it under the rug, don’t get me wrong, but the same goes for civilian PTSD. Just because we can’t pull up the more commonly heard type of war story by way of explanation doesn’t mean we aren’t still stuck in a mental battlefield. 

There were several factors that contributed to my PTSD, but I’ve already talked about the main event in a previous post, so if you want the long story, I would advise you to go there. The CliffsNotes version is that I was evacuated from Ivory Coast (twice) when my town became a war zone (twice). 

Because of the night I spent cowering on the floor listening to bombs falling a mile away, I cannot stand fireworks. My brain hears the fireworks exploding, thinks they are bombs, and starts preparing to lose everyone and everything all over again. It doesn’t matter that I know fireworks are recreational and beautiful and harmless if you practice appropriate precaution. It doesn’t matter if I can see them, although it sometimes helps a little. It doesn’t even matter that it’s unlikely I will lose everything for a third time. All that matters is that fireworks sound like bombs to me. The same goes for slamming doors and any other sort of loud, abrupt noise. 

All of this can be incredibly embarrassing, like the multiple times I’ve freaked out during firework shows at the camp where I worked during the summer, or the time I had a full on panic attack when our camp flooded during a thunderstorm and I was told to save my most valuable possessions and leave the rest behind. Last week a piece of wood fell onto the tile floor in our apartment, and I instinctively took cover because my brain misinterpreted the bang as a gunshot. When I attended my grandfather’s funeral and the honor guard fired their guns in salute at the cemetery, it took great effort not to dive behind the nearest vehicle. 

One of the biggest problems is that it is easy for people who have never experienced something traumatic to assume I am merely overreacting, that what I went through could not have had such a profound effect on my psyche. I have been laughed at. I have been told to grow up and get over it. I have been accused of doing this for attention. Because yes, I just love that feeling when my knees get so weak I can’t even support myself so the girl’s staff boss has to carry me on her back to my cabin while everyone stares at my tear-splotchy face. I just love forgetting where I am and how old I am. I love the overly-concerned and confused looks I get when my body is shutting down but my mind is on high alert. I love getting looked at like I’m broken glass or a time bomb. I just love it when everyone knows why I have the week off counseling after the fourth of July. I love it when the rumors get back to me. I even have PTSD attacks on my own time when no one is watching and no one is available to help me through them because I love having them so much. Clearly I am doing this for attention. *

*So that we’re absolutely clear on this point, if you can’t see the sarcasm dripping off that last paragraph, then it’s possible you are part of the problem.

Those outside my mind who think they have permission to judge it are right when they say there is nothing wrong with my body. In fact, they are right when they say it is all in my head. 

That is the problem. 

It is in my head, and it won’t ever go away. There will always be a part of me that is still seven years old and cowering in the hallway praying we won’t get hit by a stray bomb, praying the mob outside won’t try to break down the gate, praying the gunshots are going into the air and not into people. I had no way of knowing whether or not I was going to survive that night, so there will always be that small part of me that came away convinced the end was still coming, that small part that’s still braced for that final, fatal bomb to fall—that small part that still avoids windows on bad days because STRAY BULLET, STRAY BULLET, WHAT IF THERE’S A STRAY BULLET. 

I avoid large crowds when I can, and when I can’t I have to grit my teeth and bear it. All those voices, loud and talkative and undisciplined, garble together until they sound like the angry roar outside my home. When I go on trips or move house I have to pack slowly or I start to panic because it feels like seven-year-old me all over again, choosing what to take with me and what to leave behind forever. 

It has been almost twelve years since that November, and I still have nightmares and flashbacks. I still have trouble convincing my mind it's safe enough to fall asleep at night. Telling me to get over it will not suddenly make me better. I can promise you, I wish I had a sound brain. I wish my mind and body didn’t betray me at the worst moments. I wish I hadn’t been through something so painful and hard to understand. 

I don’t usually get what I wish for. 

So a word to the wise. If you see someone freaking out about loud noises or having a flashback, do not laugh. Don’t you dare belittle them. So help me, do not make it worse. If you can’t help them, at least stay clear of their personal bubble, keep your mouth shut, and don’t stare. Or better yet, find someone who can help. If you want to help, respect their space, use a soft voice, remind the person of where they are, remind them that they are safe, talk about unrelated positive things to distract them (but don’t talk too much). Help them get grounded in reality again. Listen to them. Keep a crowd from forming. Be aware of their response to physical contact because sometimes a hug is helpful and sometimes a hug is an attack. Use your common sense. Realize that you are there to be a friend, not a psychiatrist. We don’t always have people on hand to help us through our PTSD attacks, so we generally know how to manage on our own, but you could help so much just by being understanding and gentle. 

Despite the patronizing and unhelpful people I have encountered along the way, I have also had wonderfully supportive people who have stepped up to help at some of my most vulnerable moments. I have had peers lend me their music and earbuds on multiple occasions in hopes of helping me block out the sound of fireworks. I have had people lend my sister and me their cars so we can drive away from the noise. I have had people sit with me and talk to me and help me during these times. I am extremely grateful that these sorts of people exist. 

Please don’t be the sort of person who makes it worse. Please be the kind soul who understands. 

Thank you for listening. It's not something I like talking about at all, so I appreciate your willingness to read this whole thing. 

What about you, my little coffee beans? How many of you have had flashbacks? How many of you know at least one person with PTSD?