I remember when I was diagnosed with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I think it was January or February 2007. Sometime shortly after the worst Christmas break of my life. I remember during that time feeling completely out of touch with things around me. I felt invisible, alone, and at times like there was an unbearable static in my head. Other times, I would pace the room muttering to myself. It was as if my mind had just checked out. Then I tried to kill myself. I didn't understand what I was doing at the time. I didn't understand the concept of physical pain, death, hospitals, whathaveyou. It was not me, I feel, that was doing it. It was the middle of winter, two days after Christmas, and my mother was throwing my things onto the lawn. She called the police and asked to have all of her children taken away. I locked myself in the bathroom, poured a family-sized bottle of ibuprofen into the sink and ran the water. Handful by handful, I filled my mouth with pills and water from the faucet. I swallowed. The orange-brown color on the capsules stained my face. My eyes looked strange in the mirror. I was hoping that the chaos that was exploding on the other side of the door would suddenly stop because of what I had done. I hoped my mom would hear me, eyes wide, and realize she was acting irrational. But that didn't happen. I was called a drama queen and sent to the ER. I was treated by some pretty annoyed doctors. I would be annoyed too, to have to take care of someone that purposely hurt themselves. It was a waste of a bed. The nurses were nice, but I was uncomfortable for most of the time, especially having to be watched 24/7 so I wouldn't hang myself with the IV tubing.
My mom came to visit me, she gave me a journal and a hoodie. They took the hoodie away as soon as she left, because I guess I could have killed myself with that too. For some reason, this broke my heart and I sobbed for hours over it.
I realize now, looking back and after the diagnosis, that I have felt absolute terror on a consistent basis due to the way my mom treated me. I think my body began to tire of the rhythm of my rapid heartbeat, my sweaty palms, and the buzzing in my ears that I can't quite explain. I began to feel like that when there was nothing wrong. Nothing to be afraid of. On buses, during pointless disagreements, even after something as miniscule as skinning my knees. I began to feel cold on the inside, like the world was swallowing me whole and no one even blinked an eye. When I would think about the past, it wasn't just recalling a memory, it felt like I was reliving the experience. I would feel all the same emotions that I felt when the incident initially happened. I would often have these flashbacks before bed or I'd dream about them. It made sleep difficult.
When the psychiatrist told me she believed I had PTSD, I didn't know what it was. After she explained it to me, it seemed to make a lot of sense and there was a feeling of relief that what I was experiencing had a name, but I didn't feel like I had gone through anything that was really all that horrible. I mean, PTSD is something soldiers who come back from war, or people in mass shootings, are diagnosed with. I just had a bitchy mom, I figured.
At any rate, I no longer feel the intense feelings of fear that kept me from going out, but I am always nervous or worried about something and I often feel like a complete failure. I get kind of pissed when I realize where these feelings stem from. People can really fuck up their kids without even knowing that they're doing it.
I'm afraid my parents have ruined my chances at living a normal life. I'm constantly afraid of people I care about leaving. I'm always afraid of making mistakes. I get petrified when people get mad, even if it's at a vending machine that stole their money, I feel like they're mad at me. I am amazed that people even decide to get to know me, let alone stick around for any amount of time.
When I think about this kind of thing, I just feel so old; old and weary. Luckily, I don't think about it too often anymore.
My mom came to visit me, she gave me a journal and a hoodie. They took the hoodie away as soon as she left, because I guess I could have killed myself with that too. For some reason, this broke my heart and I sobbed for hours over it.
I realize now, looking back and after the diagnosis, that I have felt absolute terror on a consistent basis due to the way my mom treated me. I think my body began to tire of the rhythm of my rapid heartbeat, my sweaty palms, and the buzzing in my ears that I can't quite explain. I began to feel like that when there was nothing wrong. Nothing to be afraid of. On buses, during pointless disagreements, even after something as miniscule as skinning my knees. I began to feel cold on the inside, like the world was swallowing me whole and no one even blinked an eye. When I would think about the past, it wasn't just recalling a memory, it felt like I was reliving the experience. I would feel all the same emotions that I felt when the incident initially happened. I would often have these flashbacks before bed or I'd dream about them. It made sleep difficult.
When the psychiatrist told me she believed I had PTSD, I didn't know what it was. After she explained it to me, it seemed to make a lot of sense and there was a feeling of relief that what I was experiencing had a name, but I didn't feel like I had gone through anything that was really all that horrible. I mean, PTSD is something soldiers who come back from war, or people in mass shootings, are diagnosed with. I just had a bitchy mom, I figured.
At any rate, I no longer feel the intense feelings of fear that kept me from going out, but I am always nervous or worried about something and I often feel like a complete failure. I get kind of pissed when I realize where these feelings stem from. People can really fuck up their kids without even knowing that they're doing it.
I'm afraid my parents have ruined my chances at living a normal life. I'm constantly afraid of people I care about leaving. I'm always afraid of making mistakes. I get petrified when people get mad, even if it's at a vending machine that stole their money, I feel like they're mad at me. I am amazed that people even decide to get to know me, let alone stick around for any amount of time.
When I think about this kind of thing, I just feel so old; old and weary. Luckily, I don't think about it too often anymore.
