If you had asked me to define PTSD  (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) a few years ago, I would have said: the mental and emotional battleground soldiers face after war. I would have included people suffering from chronic or fatal illnesses.

I never expected it to be my diagnosis. Sure I’d suffered a badly broken ankle, surgery, a year-long recovery, and permanent damage…but surely this didn’t “qualify” as trauma or compare to the horrors faced by veterans.

However, as flashbacks, anxiety attacks, nightmares, sadness without tears, the inability to do the things I love, loss of emotional response all together, and fear took over my life, PTSD moved from a distant possibility to my up close and personal reality.

When I was growing up, mental illness wasn’t talked about. It was shrouded in shame and clothed in mystery. The whispers and raised eyebrows of the adults around me hinted at something worse – it was evil, disgusting, and weak. The topic inspired gossip and fostered judgment. 

Although inroads to education and compassion have opened up … mental illness is still often misunderstood and the same old prejudices remain.

I should have known something was up moments after my accident. I knew the ankle was broken and knew that I had to “handle” it.

At that moment I felt as if I’d found my own internal light switch and flicked it off. I went into full coping mode.

I somehow forgot how to flip it back on.

I’ve been stumbling around in a dark, strange place of restrained to no emotion.  My mind recognizes the sorrows and pain of others and immediately begins to distance me from feeling. This is not normal behavior for me.

There are pieces of me missing in action. My heart is puzzled.

I have to confess to outright jealousy when I’ve watched people walking like I used to – not worrying about falling…with their heads up…eyes seeing the beauty around them.  These days I’m into hyper -vigilance.

Fear rules my life internally and externally. I’m afraid to sleep…the nightmares lurk there and I resist them diligently. Flashbacks and anxiety spring surprise attacks when I least expect them. I walk with my head down needing to make sure every step is a safe one.

This fear leaves me breathless, exhausted, and … determined to get well!

Coping is a gift…but left to rule this God-given protection can become a dictator. It governs with lies. Watching my every step does not make walking safer. Not sleeping is unhealthy. The inability to weep with those who weep is not the real me – it is me resisting being involved in the real lives of people…hindering me from fulfilling part of my purpose here on earth.

Feeling at a heart level used to be my norm. Now…it’s too risky.

The cycle is fierce. I fight rest and use all my remaining energy in trying not to feel. So the things I love to do cannot be done. Showing people I love them, writing, and speaking all take energy and passion. New projects take creative spark. Just thinking about what I want to do leaves me needing a nap…but a nap means nightmares…so I fall into a surface sleep…one where I warn myself not let go completely.  Bad dreams plague my rest, rob me of peace, and wear me out body and soul.  

I am a stubborn woman. I refuse to claim any shame. My mom has heart disease. My dad has cancer. I have a mental illness. I’m really the blessed one. There is a cure for my PSTD and it’s on its way. God is using His Word, praying family & friends, and professional helpers.

This is not a “pat” or trite Christian response…this is my truth: The God I love loves me more and He’s very near to me in all of this. He promises in James 4:8a if I draw near to Him, He will draw near to me…I’m holding Him to it and He’s keeping His Word!