Eight million people have PTSD. I am one of them. — Darci Klein
Life got much much better when I grew up, sought treatment, and made healthy friendships. I now have a family I love more than Krispy Kremes right out of the oven. I earned a degree from one of those fancy universities. Hell, I’ve even got a great dog. What more can a person ask for?
Life is exceptionally good for me. Cue the PTSD. It invades my peace like some drunk, crashing my party, damn near wrecking the place. Still, I’m lucky. It’s usually dormant for me. Until it isn’t.
Now is one of those times. I’ve had three or four active episodes in my life. I’m in one now, but I’m doing something different this time. I’m telling people.
My usual m.o. is to army crawl my way out without a world to anyone. PTSD makes me feel ashamed. Defective. Burdensome. This leaves me searingly isolated.
The first person I reached out to was a friend whose only words were on my way. She’ll never understand how much those 45 minutes meant to me. I wish we lived in a world where everybody had at least one ‘ on my way ‘ friend.
Turns out, I’m blessed with more than one! It’s strange to be anxious and quivering and grateful all at the same time, but I am.
I don’t know how long this one’s going to last, but I’ll bet it’s quicker than usual. Showing someone your pain, feeling their compassion and concern, it’s healing.
I’ll be posting as I stumble through this episode, sharing what I learn, and celebrating when this experience is just another part of my complex history.
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