I hate you in the shower....

I was in the shower. It wan't anything special. This, the first of two showers that I take a day as a simple habit. The water was steaming hot, providing the perfect environment for relaxation. Pandora was playing on my phone and I had my new favorite soap. Fucking wicked, right? Well, as my hand ran over a scar on my chest, I stopped and tried to remember where I got it. "I hate you," escaped my lips. Suddenly, my shower was not so enjoyable. I said it, and had no idea why. I had spoken loud enough that anyone in the next room would have heard. I was so confused. Such awful words slipped off of my tongue without any hesitation or origin. Embarrassed, I shook it off and continued without another thought.
      One of my favorite songs came on Pandora and I soon was in a chipper mood again. Rinsing the soap off, my hand met the same scar and again I said, "I hate you." At this point I was rather sure that it was not just a random meaningless twitch as I had previously assumed.
      Annoyed, I stepped out of the shower and began to dry myself off and again, my hand ran over one of my scars. This time I managed to stop myself before I said it again. Realizing that I was about to say it, I focused hard on not why I was saying it, but where I got that scar. Then it hit me. Like a fucking thunderbolt, it hit me. This scar was from abuse that I had suffered when I was a child and I found myself stricken with an ugly epiphany. I would always say this when I thought of my scars because I was able to quickly vent my frustration without having to think about it. I was able to stop that thought process dead in its tracks. In short, I was blocking out a memory.
      I can't even remember how long I have been doing this. I cannot help but wonder how this coping mechanism has effected me over the years. Several times a day I would say this, unprovoked, and not notice it. Upon further thought, I figured out that I was talking to myself about the frustration I felt, without ever having to really feel anything. Unknown to me, I had been saying that I hated myself all of the time without noticing.
      The moral of this story?
                            -Take a bath instead.

A very religious place?

      This is really kind of awkward but something that I have to deal with every day. Having moved from a large city to a small southern town, there are quite some big changes to be noticed. I was raised in a household with religious variety but the same cannot be said for this small town. You see, unlike my parents and the majority of this town, I am not Christian; I am Buddhist. There are more religious groups on campus than you can shake a stick at. I feel as if I spend the majority of my time dodging and dancing around bible study invites and “soul-saving” handouts. People are always saying really awkward things to me. I have teachers advising me to pray before a test and I am painfully dumbfounded. In the teachings of the Buddha, it is believed that praying is useless.

      I try not to be petty about it, but I am bothered that everyone assumes that I am Christian. People say things to me like “I asked God for this” or “God told me that” and try as I might to not be judgmental, these people sound like a bunch of loons to me. Please don’t get me wrong. I am not saying that there is no god. I am just implying that maybe putting more time into studies might be more helpful than talking to people in other plains of existence?

      A few weeks into this semester, I was walking to class when someone tries to hand me a handout about the crucifixion that was printed to look as if it were smeared in blood. I was offended by the fact that they would choose to use blood and death as an attention grabber when talking about something good. I politely rejected the handout and continued walking when from behind me the same man yells to me “This could be your last chance!”. To be honest, this really pissed me off. I couldn’t help but turn around and call this man an asshole. I am not Christian. In fact, I believe that people who are to be the most insane people in the world, however, I would never publicly bash someone for what they did or did not believe.

      Two weeks ago, I was sitting in the lab doing my homework when a woman walks up to me and points out the little Buddha idol that I keep with me. “Are you Buddhis”? she asks. I tell her that I am and then continue with my reading. “You’re going to hell for that, you know? Worshiping anyone other than God is a sin” She complained. At this point all I wanted to do was to bash in her religiously ignorant face with her bible that she knew “Oh so well”. With a smile that hurt to force, I explained to her that just because she believed those things did not mean that everyone else did to which she replied “I just don’t want to see you go to hell”. Annoyed, I told her that Buddhist do not worship Buddha. Buddha was not a god, never had any magical powers, and never claimed to. This is not the first time that this has happened to me but I suppose that it is to be expected in a small southern town. I just wish that people would be more open-minded.

If You Ever Want to Talk About it.

     “If you every want to talk about it…” that is what they say. Every teacher, adviser, therapist, classmate, anyone, they all say it. The truth is, I don’t want to talk about it. I can hardly think about it without getting sick or triggered. In all reality, it seems as if people just want the gory details out of curiosity, not compassion. Sitting in my professor’s office, going over notebooks and whatnot, she asks me how I am doing outside of college. Trying to be as vague as possible, I told her that I was stressed, to which she questioned me as to why. “Just life” I replied. She told me that same line that I always hear: “If you ever want to talk about it, I’ll be here”. I am not an ungrateful person and I am well aware that when people say this they are only trying to show some level of kindness, but what if I did? What if I did want to talk about it? What if I just wanted to unload all of my anger and pain onto someone and tell them what happened to me, and why I am the way that I am? I don’t think they would offer again. But what good would it do, to talk to the people that are around me? They are as helpless as I am when it comes to mental illness.  

      I only slept for about an hour last night, and it wasn’t restful. Whenever I would close my eyes, the nightmares would return. Each more vicious than the last. My boyfriend reached over to see if I was okay but just made it worse. He asked me what I dreamed about and I did not want to tell him and I never do. I don’t want to have to relive every sickening detail and image that flows into my mind as I am trying to get some much needed rest. No one does.

      The thing about PTSD, is not that we willingly focus on our trauma, but we are unable to move on from it. It is like a ghost that haunts us, our dreams, our relationships, our thoughts, and even stays with us throughout our day. There are times when I just want to forget. I want to go back to the person that I used to be but I have been this way for so long that I have completely forgotten who he is and where to find him.

      There are days where I feel suicidal but it is not because I want to die. I want to live. This world is full of beauty, meaning, growth, kindness, and I was to experience all of it, however, I am simply unable. I don’t want to die, I just want the pain to stop. I want the flashbacks, the triggers, the nightmares, and the panic attack to just fucking stop. I want to be able to hold my boyfriend’s hand, to pet my dog, to hug my mother without everything coming back to me and reliving it. At this moment, I should be happy. I am in a loving relationship, I am close with my family, my grades are good, and I have a dream of being a botanist. Right now I am sitting on campus writing this, but in my mind I am still trapped. Five years ago I was locked inside a house without hope of ever leaving alive. Although I am here now, a huge piece of me is still locking in that house crying, wishing to be rescued.

      Life has a funny way of playing give and take. Life is poured into us like water into a barrel, but when you suffer from PTSD, there is a whole in the very bottom of your barrel and it cannot be filled again. No matter what happens, I will always try my hardest to be full of life. It’s so easy to just give up and let yourself run empty, but please don’t. I am worth more than a trauma and so are you. Stay strong and to try see that there is joy to be had in being here on this earth. 

Life After Trauma: I Taken From Me

      I am about half way through the semester and I have to say that going back to school has been one of the hardest things that I have done since the incident that started my PTSD. I am finding it difficult to form new relations and maintain old relations with the people around me. When I am confronted by people at school, I freeze up and panic. The only thoughts that cross my mind are negative and hateful, and that is not the person that I want to be.  I wish that I could be free from my trauma and go back to a normal life.

      There are days that I just want to go into hiding and avoid the world. The last few weeks have been full of those days it would seem. On one such day, I had arrived early to class and was left to wait outside while the earlier class had finished. Standing in the hallway, I wore my headphones and tried to pretend that I was elsewhere. Without consent or warning, a woman in my class that I had never spoken to, walks up to me and starts playing with my hair. Unknown to her, she had just triggered a flashback. Paralyzed, I stood in the hallway trying to bring myself back to reality. Hands shaking and mind racing, I managed to stumble my way into class and plop down in my normal seat. The lecture began and I was unable to think straight. Memories of violence, torture, and abuse ravaged my thoughts and it slowly and painfully got progressively worse. The walls began to close in on me and all the sounds in the room became background. It would seem that I would learn little this period all because someone had touched me.

      The second that class was over, I gathered my things and chose the quickest exit. I did what I do every time this happens to me on campus, I hastily walked to the business and news building that is always quiet with very few people. I stood on the second floor bridge and smoked one of my last cigarettes and hopelessly tried to find an ounce of inner peace. I looked out over the campus and continued to tell myself that I was safe and that I was stronger than my illness. To add to the horror, an acquaintance came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. I jumped back and when I looked at him, it was not his face that I saw. It was the face of someone that I once knew and I tried to hold in the rage but failed. It took all of me to see things clearly and not strike him. He look at me with an annoyingly confused expression and apologized for scaring me, to which I replied as calmly as I could by shouting “FUCKING SHIT!”

      I hate this illness, I really do. I wish that I could go back to the fun and friendly person that I used to be, but to be honest, I don’t believe that it is possible. When I think about my disorder, I don’t feel as if life was taken from me. I feel as if I were taken from me. 

Life After Trauma: Here I Am

      Wow, where do I begin? I would imagine that a short introduction would be useful. My name is Nat and I am a 22 year old college Biology major on my fourth semester. Mostly I am attending class, running around campus, doing homework until my eyes bleed, or attending an assortment of campus events. I have started spending most of my free time gardening. I am kept sane by a small collection of plants that cover the walls and tables of my study. I am actually a little proud of my collection. I have a variety of trees, bushes, vines, shrubs, and whatever I can get my hands on.

      On another note, I suffer from PTSD, of which I was diagnosed with a little over a year ago. For those who have no idea what PTSD is, I will do my best to try and explain. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is a mental disorder that is caused when someone is exposed to a traumatic situation and is unable to cope afterwards. This is a mental illness that is very common in people that are exposed to combat situations, however, it may also be caused by violent assault, sexual assault, natural disasters, serious accidents, the list goes on and on. Symptoms can include, flash backs, anxiety, depression, suicidal tendencies, emotional numbness, nightmares, crippling fear, and disorientation.

      I have PTSD from a series of events that happened between the ages of 11 and 17. For the longest time I believed that I was crazy. I knew nothing of mental illness and trauma until I decided to seek professional help. It was a huge eye opener when I realized that I was just sick and I started looking into the disorder. I wanted to start this blog to document my attempt at a recovery and to show anyone living with PTSD that you are not alone in your struggle to go back to a normal life. I want to be as optimistic as I can but I will be honest, it feels like I am being haunted. I am tormented by frequent nightmares, flashbacks, triggers, violent panic attacks, and just not feeling right anymore, however, I am not about to give up.