Senior Year: the most anticipated year of high school. Growing up, I used to imagine what that year would look like for me; I’d be driving to school every day and walk the halls with my head held high, bearing my newly appointed seniority. Before this, I spent the entire summer day-dreaming about it–so much so that I completely forgot about my summer homework. (I like to say “forgot” as it is a more forgiving word than “procrastinated.”) But truly, could you blame me? I was tasked with reading two books on the Vietnam War and completing a lengthy journal project. Spending every day with my best friend sounded like a greater use of my time. Caught up in daydreams and quality time, I never could have predicted how suddenly my life would change.
I guess that’s the thing with post-traumatic stress disorder; if you could predict a traumatic event, you’d probably try to prevent it from happening. I know that if I had known, I would have done everything in my power to stop it. It’s been two years since my accident, but I remember every single detail of that day as if it were yesterday. I remember the temperature, how the sun was shining between the clouds, and was accompanied by a breeze. I remember the shirt I was wearing and the earrings I lost somewhere in the grass. I remember the hospital room number and the stiffness of the grey-colored socks they gave me. PTSD never lets you forget.
There is a twisted irony in having to read a book about a soldier’s PTSD after experiencing a traumatic event of your own. I couldn’t sleep for three nights straight after the accident, so my nights were spent reading about flashbacks and triggers. Things that once seemed too extreme to ever happen to me began to resonate. I, like many others, immediately and ignorantly deemed PTSD as a disorder exclusive to veterans. However, contrary to said belief, there isn’t a criterion one’s trauma must meet to develop PTSD. Triggers aren’t just loud noises; they can be speedometers and fields. Flashbacks, silently and suddenly, began to disrupt everyday life.
For months, I felt out of my body; almost as if I had been floating above myself, watching as life went on. It was a constant battle between dissociation and hypervigilance. The fight had become so exhausting that at one point, all I wanted to do was give up. However, that wasn’t an option as I was blessed with the most incredible support system: my family. They lifted me out of darkness. They validated my triggers and tried their best to prevent any circumstance where they could surface. And most importantly, they taught me that this life was worth fighting for.
It took a while to come to terms with my diagnosis. Part of me felt embarrassed that mundane tasks, such as driving, induced episodes. The other half of me remained unsure about how to navigate my life after the accident. Both components silenced me. Even now, I still have trouble trying to conceptualize how PTSD has incapacitated me. At the height of my uncertainty, I turned to journaling. I began to write daily entries that were extremely vulnerable, detailing everything I felt that day. The ritual gave me closure and an outlet to feel it all without the humiliation I feared. I become familiar with my triggers through my words. I recognized particular patterns and what I needed to feel safe. This awareness allowed me to meet my symptoms without fear.
The one thing that I have learned about PTSD is that, like most healing processes, it’s not a linear journey. While journaling and exposure therapy have both played immense roles in my healing, there are still bad days. I still cry about it, and some nights, I can’t sleep because of it. I will always feel it. However, I have found peace in not being okay because surviving is enough. I can’t claim to know the guide on how to navigate life with PTSD, as it is different for everyone. Even my coping mechanisms aren’t always reliable. It’s accepting this that has allowed me to heal. Instead of remaining silent in my struggles, I began to validate my uncertainty. Life was now viewed through a different lens, and that was okay. Today, and every day, I am loud in my healing. Silence fuels shame, and there is nothing shameful about what I am experiencing. Post-traumatic stress disorder will forever be a part of me, but once again, that is okay.
PTSD and Mental Health Resources:
https://988lifeline.org https://www.health.ny.gov/facilities/school_based_health_centers/mental_health.htm?utm_medium=Search&utm_source=Google&utm_campaign=NYSDOH-AdolescentMentalHealth25&gad_source=1&gad_campaignid=22774123918&gbraid=0AAAAA-3GlVaKvDr32oAmmG5HGNoccQTH9&gclid=CjwKCAjwz5nGBhBBEiwA-W6XRMgV7feZHehFiLfmzWtMlPPmops2El3zc-pb01JU5OoZKmHECuyQhBoCq8oQAvD_BwE