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?

Letter to My Seven-Year-Old Self

Note: After a great deal of procrastination, I bring to you another sample of my experiences in Africa. It might be two or three months before I write the next piece on Côte d’Ivoire, so enjoy. If you haven’t already read the initial installment, I Am Seven, I recommend you check that one out as well.

Voila, seven-year-old me at school (in Africa)

 

Dear Seven-Year-Old Me,

I know that it’s difficult for you, going back to Africa now that you’re older, now that you’ve had almost two years to build friendships with your fellow students here in America. Naturally, you don’t want to leave them behind for ages and ages, only to find them grown and strange when you return. But I also know that you’re excited as well because, at this point, Africa is still one of your biggest memories, and you’ve been a little lonely since none of your friends have been able to relate to your previous experiences.

Despite how eager you are to get home, you were three when you went over the first time, hardly old enough to understand or worry about the huge cultural leap you were making. And now that you have finally begun to adjust to America, you have to leave again. You have to go back to the place that rejected you like a body rejects a virus. In so many ways, you feel like a ping-pong ball, bouncing back and forth across the little net in the middle of the table. You just want to land somewhere and rest.

Soon enough, you will, but not yet. And I’m sorry that you have to go through so much in the meantime. I promise you’ll be okay.

First of all, the trip over is going to get…interesting. In Liberia, two men will board your plane, claiming to seek asylum. For whatever reason, they will rip up their papers (visas and such, I imagine), but they will get caught. It’s going to be super scary, hearing them yelling as the authorities drag them past you up to the cockpit while the plane you sit in flies through the air, suspended on two flimsy bits of metal, so breakable. At the time, you’ll be watching a movie, and the harsh transition between fiction and reality will jar you. So much so, that, by the time you finally land in Côte d’Ivoire, you’ll be shaken and wishing for the familiar.

Hang in there.

After spending the night at the home of a kindly woman (who blesses your heart because you’re so sleepy) and an extroverted man (who wears a cowboy hat and defends your luggage from thieves), you’ll find yourself packed into a hot, tight car for the long trip to Yamoussoukro (Yakro for short). Your excitement will return and then grow on that long stretch while the red dirt plains and the towering ant hills streak by in your periphery.

More than anything, you won’t be able to stop thinking about that music box you left behind the first time. You’ll remember picking it out from the Mission Barrel (a place where missionaries drop and swap). It was like digging up gold from a slag heap of old clothes and angry hornets. That music box is perhaps your most valued possession, and years down the road, you still won’t have the slightest clue why. All the while you’ve stayed in America, the fact that you didn’t rescue it earlier has eaten at you. I realize you already know this—of course you do, since your very first thought on learning you were going back to Africa was that you could reclaim that music box (your second thought, of course, centered around how much you’d miss your cousins)—but I had to say something.

So, the music box will consume your mind as you make headway to your old home, that building that still stands safe and sound, filled with all your belongings, untouched by the locals, just waiting for you. Along the way, you’ll remind your sister multiple times that, when you arrive, the music box is yours and yours alone. She can’t have it—in fact, you’ll prefer it if she didn’t even touch it. (The thought of her picking it up first will really bother you.) All you’ll think about is lifting that lid with the little glass window in it and winding the key so you can watch the flimsy plastic dancer with her raised arm and her wisp-of-lace skirt spin while the music tinkles out.

But, horror of horrors, the car you’re riding in will break down, and you’ll be forced to wait ages and ages—itching—no, dying—in anticipation while your driver (the cowboy-hat-wearing, luggage-saving, missionary man) figures out what to do. Fortunately, a flatbed tow truck will happen along and rescue you. Even though it’s probably super dangerous, after they hitch your vehicle onto the back of theirs, you’ll ride inside the car on the last stretch to Ivory Coast’s capitol city.

As an aside, here, Lizzie, it’s going to bug you when you research Côte d’Ivoire later and find that some cartographers are under the illusion that Abidjan is still the capitol of Ivory Coast. Take comfort in knowing that the presidential palace is in Yakro, not Abidjan, which means—no matter what people might say to the contrary—the official capitol is Yamoussoukro. And that’s where you live, where your music box waits for you. So let’s get back to that.

Strange though it may seem, you’ll feel a little sad when you burst through the blue gate that leads from the courtyard to your yard, as you fly down the stone path to the house you remember so well and yet don’t. For one, your faithful German shepherd won’t be there, and you’ll feel a pang at that. You miss her, so you have to remember that it isn’t your fault she’s dead, even though you can’t shake the notion that it is. Seriously, it’s not your fault that the vet gave her cow-sized shots which made her sick and sore. Of course you’d wanted to comfort her—who could blame you?—and it wasn’t your fault you petted her right on the spot where they gave her the medicine (and got chomped for your trouble). Later, after you’d left the continent, when she ran out into the street because she didn’t want to go to the vet, it wasn’t your fault the taxi killed her. So don’t beat yourself up about it.

I’m telling you this because you’ll find Africa to be a surprisingly emotional place this time around. First of all, there’ll be a weird drop from the giddy adrenaline high you’ve been riding on for the past day or so. On top of that, some of your friends from before won’t be coming back, and you’ll have to adjust to a bunch of new faces in your little missionary community. You’ll find that you won’t slide back into the old groove of things the way you expect to. You’ve grown and changed as a person since the last time you were here, so you can’t expect everything to be the same.

Sure, the walls in your house will still be peeling, (and you’ll remember—with fondness—how you would often pull the paint off and then eat the chips to hide the evidence). You’ll have some cleaning to do, since ants have built their nests in papers and under furniture. You’ll find you’re almost too big for your bike. You’ll find the dark shadows around the edges of your yard, where the trees shade the grass and the shed presses close to the wall, will frighten you far more than they did before. Nothing will seem quite so innocent anymore.

You’ll be shocked by how homesick you get. At first, it won’t be all that strong, just the normal stuff. And you’ll tell yourself it will pass. But it won’t, not really. Though you’ll enjoy spending time with your friends, even the bright spots will get lost in the gloom far too often for your taste. You’ll discover just how thick and black that strange, seemingly inexplicable loneliness will become. Unfortunately, you won’t really realize until much later that the new medication you’ll be taking to prevent malaria comes with some nasty psychological side effects. That stuff will give you vivid, vivid nightmares. It will, in fact, forever change the way you dream—even when your sleep is sweet. Though the effects aren’t as permanent, the medicine will also intensify and warp all your waking emotions. Let’s face it, you’ll be tired to begin with, and some of your dreams will feature your worst fears (like coming back to the US after being away for ten years only to find that your cousins are all grown up and singing in rock bonds and they have no clue who you are). So you need to brace yourself for that, and always remember, stuff won’t be as bad as it’s going to seem.

As much as you can, try to focus on the cool stuff, the way the mission community will play capture-the-flag in the dark—the way you’ll have potlucks—the way your best friends will be British and Northern Irish (and those won’t be the only nationalities). You’ll study French, and you’ll love it so much, you’ll try to teach it to your Dad’s African friend even though he already speaks the language fluently (rest assured, he’ll still humor you because he’s sweet like that). Though it would probably break about a thousand American safety regulations, you’ll get to play in a giant, human-sized hamster wheel in the school playground (safety is for wimps). One day, your father will bring home a dead, headless viper, and he’ll take pictures that make it look like it’s attacking him. You’ll get to visit a zoo at a gas station and a restaurant with a deer living indoors, and you’ll get to play at a pizza place that has a tree growing up through the ceiling and a stream cutting off the corner of the yard with a swing set on the other side. Could it really get much better than all that?

Unfortunately, you won’t get to bring that music box home with you, and even when you’re much older than you are now, that loss will bother you far more than it should. (In fact, you’ll probably always get the urge to cry when you see a music box.) But you’ll bring home a collection of memories and pictures instead, vivid and sure, unfading; even though sometimes you’ll wish to just forget it all, because it will hurt—it will hurt so much to let go, to look but not touch.

So please, I know you’ll be homesick and sad, and I know you’ll be scared and a lot of things won’t make sense. You’ll be growing up, and that hurts just by itself. But the clock starts when you set foot on African soil, and you’ll only have three months to reacquaint yourself with this life before you lose it again. You’ll never be able to recreate the comradery that you’ll find there—the way a bunch of different nationalities can band together, and yes, disagree about how to do the dishes and whatnot. But you have it good now, and you won’t even realize that until later, when you find that America is so much colder, in more ways than one.

Don’t be too sad. Please have fun. Take notes and remember everything. You won’t get another chance like this. Soon, all you’ll think about is wanting to leave Africa, but when it comes time to go, you’ll realize too late that you want so badly to stay.

Don’t waste the time you do have.

Love,

Liz

 

Note: The main bombing described in I Am Seven took place on November 6, 2004. We left the country shortly thereafter, and while we originally planned to return to Africa—this time as missionaries to Guinea—we chose to take several years off from missionary work instead. During our break, we learned of political unrest in Guinea and decided to remain permanently stateside.

Welcome to the Blogosphere

Note: The winner of Out of Coffee, Out of Mind’s First Blogversary Giveaway is Tessa Ann from Books, Bubbles, & Arohanui! Congratulations, Tessa!

When I first started blogging, I had no clue what I was getting into. I mean, yes, I was aware that I would hold myself to a strict schedule (at that point, a post every Wednesday), so I knew I would have to come up with something to write each week. How hard could that be?

Apparently more difficult than my cavalier brain made it sound.

Now, I realize some of you don’t struggle with blogging ideas, and I’m very happy for you. That’s actually not so much the issue with me. At the moment, I have over ten potential posts lined up—some even partially drafted. But, from the first, I underestimated the fact that I wouldn’t always feel confident about my ideas, that I wouldn’t always find them interesting a few days after their inception.

I was an ignorant little coffee bean about a lot of things, so I figured I’d enlighten you a little, in case you’re new to blogging, or in case you’re just curious.

During the early weeks of blogging, I got a handful of page views for every post, and I struggled not to get too discouraged. Instead of letting myself mope, I did my best to shake it off and look on the bright side. I decided to just go for it, to act as though I was speaking to a larger audience than my lone follower and the one or two weary travelers who found themselves stumbling through the caffeine haze of my brain. After a while, I found myself getting into the rhythm of things. Sometimes I forgot that I even had any readers, and I enjoyed the feeling of talking to myself in my own little corner of the internet. (That might have sounded a tad arrogant, or insane. *hides*)

Then I got my first comment, during November, and I suddenly remembered the existence of my readers. Right around that time, my page view count spiked, and that threw me for a loop. Suddenly I found myself balking at the idea of blogging at all. Somehow, I had been fine with the false sense of security that came with writing only for myself without the promise of a caring (or uncaring) audience. I realized I wasn’t so sure I liked the idea of people reading my work, and possibly, actually…liking it? Translation: I got stage fright.

For a few months after that, as I started getting a few comments here and there, and more and more page views, I found myself mesmerized by the little graph depicting the dips and rises of traffic on my blog, kicking myself when the numbers fell, cursing myself when they rose. Because, if there’s one thing you need to know about me, it’s that I’m a very confusing person—but I’m also human (bet you didn’t see that coming), so I know this problem isn’t unique to me.

During this time, I consoled myself with the notion that, after the initial rush had faded, I would stop being such a wonky shot of espresso. And there’s a point to which that happened. Sometimes I go through whole weeks where I don’t even track my page views (although I do keep an eye on my audience, because it’s always exciting to get a new country—so far I’ve had hits from every continent except Antarctica. *waits impatiently for the Antarcticans to discover me*). But there are still periods when I care far too much, when I unconsciously (or consciously) gauge my worth by the rise and fall of my page view count.

Unfortunately, that close attention to my readership is what exhausts me the most and drains me of my ability to write anything even vaguely interesting. It’s brought me to that point of fatigue, on several occasions, when I’m not sure if I can post at all.

Looking back, I wish my self of August, 2014 had known what to expect. I wish I could tell younger me that it’s hard, but I shouldn’t let myself get hitched up in all the details, because the reward is well worth the effort—in fact, the reward IS the effort, rather than the outcome.

The reason I’m bringing all this up is that I’m going through one of the rougher times. There are many reasons why I’ve been struggling. For a while, it looked like my mother might have had cancer, and I spent two weeks living away from home while she recovered from surgery. During that time, I had a great deal of trouble focusing, because there were so many distractions. When I got home, I immediately started a new job, which cuts into my day, and I have other obligations that tend to take priority over reading and writing and other things I love—things that help me maintain my sanity.

That’s not to say I don’t love blogging. Lately I’ve found that love and discomfort aren’t mutually exclusive. But neither are they hugely harmonious.

Last Wednesday’s post, “I am Seven” did very well. Within a matter of twenty-four hours, it far surpassed my previous most popular post. I’ve received some very encouraging feedback, and I appreciate that so much. But writing that post was extremely difficult, and it burned me out a little. Unfortunately, though, there’s that part of me that wants to keep seeking out success, to tap into that something that made “I am Seven” resonate with people and made them want to share it with others. I know if I do that, without giving myself the necessary break from all things Africa, I’ll turn blogging into a chore, rather than a joy. (That’s not to say that I don’t appreciate it when you tell me you want to read more about Côte d’Ivoire, since I really am happy to oblige—I just need time.)

Even as I write this, I’m nervous, because I feel like I’ve set a precedent, reached a high score that I won’t be able to manage again for a long time. That everything’s going to be downhill from here. You’d think I’d only be happy at how successful “I am Seven” was, and I am. But I dread the mundane, the posts that don’t resonate as widely, the ones that get forgotten. All my other ideas pale in comparison, and I don’t want to get sucked into the trap of writing for page views, like a dog doing tricks for treats.

All that to say, in my experience, blogging doesn’t necessarily get easier as you garner a larger audience, because, if you’re like me, you’ll frequently catch yourself wanting more. So find your purpose, the reason why you blog, and cling to that, because comment counts and page views will always let you down. And write every post with the love it deserves. In the end, popularity is less important than art.

 

Note: A few weeks back, Heather @ Sometimes I’m a Story shared a lovely post, “How to Survive a Viscous Comment Count”, which taps into a similar vein and is well worth the read.