The Trouble With PTSD... and What To Do To Get Better
Because we are not supposed to die on that hill.
I didn’t think I was affected by it. I thought I was too strong to allow it to get me down.
I believed, foolishly, that only soldiers who saw battle or civilians who experienced psychosis were the only ones who would get it. Not me.
Even though I saw the horrors of war at close range during the Cambodian conflict, I managed to cope and let the wounds heal by themselves. Thankfully, time would do that.
Then my beloved wife died unexpectedly. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The indescribable pain I felt I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
I felt like my insides were twisting inside of me as if I had drank poison.
Maybe, it all came home to roost. Maybe, all the pain I hid before was just defensive.
I wasn’t exempt at all.
I thought PTSD syndrome was something that happened to others, an awful illness that leads you to feel compassion for the sufferer and offer assistance as required. That much I knew, but nothing beyond it.
Suddenly, it happened to me. And it wasn’t diagnosed by a doctor or a psychologist.
I just noticed something had changed deep within me.
I decided to do some reading on it, so I hit Dr. Google (ugh!) for some literature on the subject.
If I read three lines about the symptoms it would be too many. I immediately recognized that was my case.
Impulsiveness, sudden rage, and uncontrollable crying for long periods was all I needed to know.
PTSD is basically ingrained memories of terrifying experiences.
So, I understood — -after quick introspection — — that I was carrying this ghost for quite some time without knowing it. After all, I was functioning rather well with or without the company of people.
Until that dreadful day, that is.
I didn’t know how to go on without her. How to cope; how to live?
To say that I'm a mess some days is an understatement. I get out of bed because staying in it is not only unproductive, it’s more depression-prone. Writing is my outlet, my solace.
Whatever had taken place within me psychologically, has made an indelible mark in the way I now perceive the world. There was no use trying to hide it or pretend it’d pass, come tomorrow. It doesn’t.
There’s a uniform sadness that permeates even in happy moments. Nature watching and contemplating its ways are what I choose to do these days to escape that ordeal.
Survival guilt?
Maybe. Anything is possible but it doesn’t matter much.
I must trek on, and find ways to create a healthy environment where I can thrive once again.
Reading too much literature on it can be confusing and detrimental, I discovered. That wasn’t the way to go. For me.
I also tried therapists and psychologists, psychoanalysts and psychiatrists, and, in fact, ended up worse with the crazy treatments they proposed.
There are some good ones, but it’s like finding a needle in a haystack. Their ego is bigger than life, in most cases.
That was as far as I was intending to go with them. I ended up thinking they were the ones who needed help more than I did. I am not the only one who has heard stories about how some of these professionals are mental cases way worse than the patients they’re treating.
As I said, connection with nature, animals, and introspection were the tools that helped me the most, and still do.
Creating, as a distracting technique, worked wonders. It took my mind places it needed to go, and gave me another dimension where I felt guarded and safe.
Distraction is imperative, for the more we dwell on it, the worse we get. That’s a fact.
For all the ones out there who are suffering like this, I feel you and I hear you. Let time create its own healing and remember those wise words from George Harrison: “All Things Must Pass.”
That’s all I have for advice. Nothing more, nothing less.
And in the end, PTSD is me; I was just pretending it wasn’t.