What It’s Really Like To Have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
An honest account of living with PTSD in your twenties …
Words: Holly Atkinson
Illustration: Georgia of SimmoScribbles
“Walking around my local supermarket, I look totally ‘normal’. I look a little too interested in the oranges but other than that, I look fairly casual in composure. A woman looks at me curiously, smiling as she reaches over for a bag of orange delights. It’s a polite smile but I know she would be more grateful if I’d moved a few paces left to avoid her now awkward stretch across the crates. I should’ve told her that the bunch she picked were battered, having inspected them a few moments prior to her arrival. I’ve been staring at the sweet clems for a while. But I’m inspecting the clementines rigorously to bring myself out of a trigger. No, the clementines didn’t trigger me, it’s not that kind of trauma. A nurse just walked past. I have medically induced PTSD and these orangey spheres are the only thing keeping me from falling to the floor in fear.
For the most part, my PTSD is an invisible part of me that I carry around. It’s there in meetings as I nod along, it’s there in conversations with friends and strangers and sometimes it’s there so much that I can’t leave the house. To explain what it’s like to have PTSD is like trying to describe what an extra-terrestrial being is in a different language. No one knows what you’re talking about; my descriptions are different from those someone else might experience and people, on the whole, nod kindly but give you a look of heartfelt concern. PTSD has stigma attached to it. It conjures up images of war-beaten soldiers screaming in cells. It does not bring to mind a twenty three year old woman who looks normal, makes six jokes per minute and who always manages to affix a cat flick to her eyelids daily.
“It takes patience and loving tones to try and train my own brain. Oh, and a hot buck’s worth of therapy…”
I kept my PTSD hidden for three years before I sought treatment. It got worse over time, debilitating me mentally and eventually leading to a mental collapse. It’s a self-attacking alarm system in the brain. It’s an over-reactive mother trying to keep her baby safe by screaming for help in innocent situations. PTSD is, in actual fact, totally normal and part of the human reaction to survival and self-protection. It works with past information and alerts the brain to similar environments, triggering a huge fight or flight response and re-surfacing all memories of the traumatic past event. It’s quite literally a living nightmare.
For the last few years, I have felt really uncomfortable with my PTSD. I felt as if I were going crazy and I also felt like it was my fault whenever I felt as though I was in danger in totally non-threatening situations. From being triggered and passing out at the vet’s and waking up to find my toy poodles ferociously licking my eyeballs, to getting triggered mid-conversation and having to run for the hills – it’s caused me a lot of embarrassment. Trying to explain why you’re dipping out of parties mid-bite of the cake and fondling clementines in ASDA has become an habitual reflex. PTSD can be discrete while lingering in the eves but in action it can feel like the whole world is staring. I’ve learnt a lot of ways to mask my triggers. I’ve endured conversations by politely zoning out and thinking of all things fluffy and bright. I’ve powered through situations by similar methods of subtle distraction. But I’ve also been caught red-handed and tried to excuse my flighty behaviour. While shopping with a friend, I got triggered by lighting and had to walk quickly and purposefully to the toilet, leaving her by the rack of faux leather. My quick walk turned into a run and just as I thought I was getting to safety, my friend caught up with me. I felt like a bride who had fled from her groom. Caught and guilty, I blurted, ‘I am desperate for the toilet! IBS, ey! BRB!’. I think she knew from my heart pounding out of my chest and the sweat dripping down my back and face, that it was a pretty bad case of ‘IBS’ and she ought to leave me to it…
“Much like a baby learning a new language; learning how to walk again; going to the sea side for the first time; or trying its first peanut - it feels dangerous, impossible but also rewarding. ”
PTSD is a lonely and individual experience in its early forms. I never understood why my brain was constantly re-surfacing my traumatic event and turning the present moment into one of terrorising fear. I also didn’t realise what it was for a while either. Having suffered with anxiety since childhood, I thought it was an extreme form of it. PTSD can feel like it’s self-inflicted. Now, I still find myself slipping into self-hatred for the lack of control that I have over my triggers and by extension, my own brain. It’s hard to accept that your brain is doing a ‘good job’ and if it weren’t reacting like this after a traumatic event then I wouldn’t be ‘normal’. But, like trying to teach my dogs not to soil the carpet, it takes patience and loving tones to try and train my own brain. Oh, and a hot buck’s worth of therapy…
While at the supermarket handling the eighth bag of clementines, (perhaps I should try the bananas next time to commit to the oddity), not only am I beginning not to look ‘normal’, but I’m also starting to feel like I might need to leave the shop. Abandoning my groceries, I leave the shop quickly, trying not to cause alarm to the security guy. I am not in the mood to have my pockets searched. I unzip my handbag and flick through my flashcards. They’re gentle reminders that both during and post trigger, I am in fact safe. I find help to ground me into the present moment. Having PTSD has helped to relieve me of self-consciousness, developed my patience and helped to aid my own self-care. It’s taken a huge hiatus from work and for my world literally to fall and stop around me, to realise that what I am trying to train myself for is life. Life in all of its unexpected, crazy and tumultuous glory. Much like a baby learning a new language; learning how to walk again; going to the sea side for the first time; or trying its first peanut - it feels dangerous, impossible but also rewarding.
I still find myself getting embarrassed admitting that I have PTSD. I hid it from so many people around me, or I coated it with a few jokes to lighten its severity. While mental health awareness is on the rise, there’s still a long way to go. At nearly twenty three years old, this isn’t quite how I imagined my life. Skipping social events, declining invites and ignoring messages that seem impossible to answer, my inner extroverted socialite is in despair. A trip to the supermarket un-triggered isn’t enough to satisfy the craving for life. It takes willpower not to throw in the towel. I’ve found strength in walking away, strength in powering through and strength in saying, ‘I’m not OK’.
My relationships have strengthened as I’ve removed my mask and shown the truth of my PTSD to friends, family and colleagues. Pride is a funny ol’ thing and I often still find myself making light of the worst time of my life because I hate being vulnerable. But I’ve found the freedom in vulnerability, in wholehearted honesty and bearing my roots. It’s part of the road to my recovery – admitting that I need space, time and help.
But when life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Perhaps I’ve been handling the wrong fruit…”
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Thank you so much to the gorgeous Holly from www.iblogthefashion.com for contributing such a thoughtful and vulnerable piece. You can find her on Instagram @hollylouisea_!