PTSD and Me
Soldiers.
Soldiers. Battlefields.
Unspeakable things.
Untold stories.
Missions completed.
Missions failed.
Combat.
Killing.
Heartbreak.
War.
PTSD.
Soldiers.
Not me.
Church girl. Choir kid. Bookworm. Music lover. Curly hair. Freckle face. Ready Smile.
Not me.
She says yes.
I’d had honest counselors before.
Pull up their chair and look me in the eye
Tell me the truth
Knock down my walls
Call me on my cute little tricks.
But this one?
“What are we going to do about your hair?” She asked me. “It looks bad.”
This one is honest.
And this one says I have Clinical Depression.
(Category: Lifelong.)
This one says I have a mood disorder in my brain.
And this one.
This one says I have PTSD.
Me.
The non violent, non confrontational, non soldier.
Me.
The girl who walks around singing so much that her friends call her a Disney Princess.
Born on Sunday
Cries at Animal Movies
Bubble Gum Chewing
In Love with Love
Pajama Wearing
Me.
Not only that,
She says I’ve had it for years.
Like…decades.
I didn’t know that.
I didn’t know that trauma wasn’t just blood and guts and loud noises and missing limbs and absent friends.
Trauma rips out your heart.
Trauma messes with your mind.
Trauma stops your breathing
and shakes your hands
and makes you see things that aren’t there.
I didn’t know that.
I didn’t know that was why I do double takes when I see men of certain size, shape and hair color.
I didn’t know why that was why it’s hard to hear one song over the other
or walk into a room
or sometimes
Even breathe.
I didn’t know that was why I sometimes recoil when someone comes in for hug.
Or why I scream when I don’t know someone has come up behind me.
Or kick out in my sleep when movies play in my mind.
I didn’t know that that is why I am crying now.
Years and years later
Over things I thought had long passed.
Trauma doesn’t like to hide.
You can push it down with logistics.
You can bury it in concern for other people.
You can tell yourself that it’s been too long.
Trauma’s sneaky. And jealous. And wants attention.
In my case, it wove itself around grief.
The fights that were had were years ago.
The man who touched me has long moved on.
The car that hit me has driven away.
The children I would have taught have grown.
The dreams I would have reaped are dissolved
And
The friendships I would have cultivated have scattered.
But still
Angry words
Unwanted kisses
Caresses unasked for
Broken bones
Tiny hands
Lost identities
Half remembered dreams
I didn’t know there would still be tears.
Twenty years later.
No.
Wait.
More.
Twenty years
And more.
Me
The curly haired
Freckle face
Disney Princess
Decades later
I didn’t know
That trauma would still be in my head.
I didn’t know
That trauma
Would still be in my heart.
I didn’t know.
Until I walked into that office.
And she told me why.