Mental Health

THE TRUTH AND THE TRIGGERS BEHIND PTSD

The Flight Attendant is a typical pop-culture portrayal of PTSD (or Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder). Cassie Bowden, played by Kaley Cuoco in the HBO Max series, is deeply disturbed, haunted by daily flashbacks, and self-medicating with alcohol. Without giving away any spoilers, let’s just say that Cassie is not handling her past trauma very well. Instead, she’s drowning in it.

While this is often how the media portrays PTSD, it isn’t the most accurate depiction. Not everyone who suffers from the disorder struggles with rage, substance abuse, or even debilitating flashbacks. Sure, some do, and some more than others. But it’s also true that many people with PTSD also go on to lead happy and fulfilling lives.

Since June is PTSD Awareness Month, we asked two trauma specialists to help us better understand the disorder, its stereotypes, its triggers, and why those triggers can be utterly unattached to the trauma itself.

Click here for the full story on House of Wise

One Day, I Decided to Be Happy

What happens when you put all of your happiness into one person?

Justin and I were by no means perfect. We argued, and we made up like most married couples. Throughout our 10-year-marriage, we had ups and downs, but we were both in it for the long-haul. Justin made me feel safe.

Our relationship gave me confidence, and it gave me strength. I never suspected anything would threaten it, not even death.

After going through so much pain, I realize just how incredible the human mind is. Even when faced with the worst circumstances, it can grow, adapt, and overcome. It can transform into something new.

Because my mind has already passed over to the dark side, it sees the world differently; it sees it for what it really is.

 

The power to choose

Practice what we preach

I believe adults could learn a lot from this book. What if we did this in our own lives? We could take the advice we give to children and apply it to our lives as an adult. Like Danny, we can think through our decisions instead of acting on our feelings.

I know a lot of people say things like: I wouldn’t change a thing about my past. But I call bullshit. I know I would go back to New Year’s Eve 2018 and stop myself from taking that disgusting Fireball shot. I know I would hold my tongue instead of mouthing off to my mom at 16.

Having the power to choose means we have control over certain aspects of our lives — more than we might realize. If we do have the power to choose, we should have power over our happiness.

Having a good day can make a difference

I cried every day for 18 months after Justin died. Living was like watching the clock at a job I hated. Only, instead of waiting to clock-out, I was waiting to expire. I wasn’t completely lost because I still enjoyed spending time with my son, singing, and writing occasionally. But nothing made me happy. I wondered if I would ever be happy again.

Then one day the unthinkable happened — I had a really good day, and it came out of nowhere. It was Christmas time, a time I used to love but had avoided since Justin was shot. After his death, the holidays were nothing more than a stain on my heart, a constant reminder of what I’d lost.

But for some reason, that day was different. Instead of avoiding the traditions, I embraced them. I went Christmas shopping, ate lunch with my mom, and drove around looking at Christmas lights. As my 18-month-old son giggled at a tacky display of Santa Claus, my heart smiled.

I could feel his excitement, the excitement of an innocent mind, the mind I used to have. When I put him to bed that night, I had an epiphany: I remembered what it felt like to be happy. My heart had been covered in tar, frozen in grief, for so long that I had forgotten that feeling. I was finally ready to wash it clean.

Joy is powerful

After reconnecting with joy, I decided to fight for it. I craved more good days than bad. It was time to laugh, smile, and feel happy again. I felt inspired for the first time since Justin’s death, and I told myself to embrace this new desire to live.

The new me

It’s been five years since that day, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t still have bad days. Sometimes, I have bad weeks. When I feel the darkness working its way back into my heart, it scares me. The pain is too familiar and sometimes, I welcome it. It’s like going back to an abusive boyfriend.

But now, it’s different. The grief doesn’t get a permanent pass to stay as long as it likes. Instead of letting it take up space, I evict it. I force it to move out. I move forward because I choose to be happy.

You can choose your path, too

I realize that for some, this might seem impossible. Some traumas and losses cut so deep that the wounds will never fully heal, but they can scab over. I am a testimony to that.

Recently, a friend of mine came to me with a problem. She was worried about a loved one. “I’m worried that he will never find peace and that he will never find happiness again. He’s going to therapy but he’s not doing his homework. He’s not loving himself,” she said.

I told her that it was okay to be concerned and that I understood her need to save him. But I also told her that it was a waste of time because, in the end, he could only save himself.

Put mental health first

Find what works for you

Originally published on Medium

My Weighted Blanket Rescued Me From Nighttime Panic Attacks

I love to sleep. In some ways, it’s my favorite part of the day. However, I have PTSD, and that creates major sleep issues for me almost every day of the week. Primarily, it gives me nightly anxiety and weekly nighttime panic attacks — ones that wake me up in the middle of the night gasping for air. 

You know that feeling you get in a dream when it feels like you’re falling? This is what these attacks are like, only I feel like I’m slowly suffocating.

For the rest of the story, click here.

My Husband Was Murdered and, Now I Love Deeper Than Most

Photo of Jessica, Don, and child

Five years ago, I went through a life-altering tragedy when my husband was murdered in front of me, our 3-day-old son, and three other family members.

For a long time, the trauma left me paralyzed with depression, anxiety, and fear. For an entire year, I could barely function within society and I avoided life as much as possible. After two years, I’d fallen even deeper into a bottomless pit of despair. I battled against my grief, but somehow it still managed to control me. The second my husband died, my life became a collection of instances he was missing. He missed his son’s first steps, first Christmas, and first birthday. He missed his pre-K graduation and his fifth birthday. He will miss every moment of his son’s life. There’s no way to sugar-coat this — it’s tragic and it sucks.

Click Here to read the full article.

When Broken Hearts and Broken Trees Collide

I believe there are places in our lives that become a part of who we are. For some, it might be the beach, or their favorite vacation spot, like Disney World. For others, it might be their childhood home, or their grandmother’s house, where they spent most summers. I bet a lot of us can think of a few places we consider special — ones that encompass a piece of our soul.

Before

There’s a walking park in my hometown of Panama City, FL that I’ve been going to for decades. It’s a simple one-mile track, with a playground that is encircled by trees. The natural shade from the 40-foot pines made it the perfect spot for an afternoon run (I’m not much of a morning person). I’ve run here since I was a teenager. Over the years, I’ve realized that the park offered me more than just a safe shaded place to run. I channeled my emotions there, both good and bad. If I was feeling excited, my runs were energized, and a sense of euphoria took over my body — gliding my feet along the trail. If I was sad, my runs were emotional, teary-eyed, think sessions that felt like therapy for my soul.

After Justin died in 2014, it took me a while to go back — 10 months to be exact. Jax rested in his stroller as I turned on my iPod and trotted around. The beautiful trees, the glistening pond, and the pitch black asphalt beneath my feet were exactly the same — I was astonished. I had been put through the wringer, and my park knew nothing of it. I cried a lot that day while remembering the happy times I shared with Justin. He would have loved to push Jax in the stroller while I jogged on my own — I bet that would have become their “thing.”

After my first return, I was back to my old habits — only this time, Jax was along for the ride. He loved his stroller rides, and I loved to push shuffle on my Nano.

I started falling for Don a year after my first trip back to my park. Our relationship was still fresh, and I wasn’t quite ready for love — I kept Don at bay. We spent most of our time together after Jax had gone to bed but, on this particular day, I couldn’t bear to face my park without a companion. Don was a natural with Jax, and I was mesmerized. While watching 6-foot-2 Don chase around 3-foot-tall Jax, I realized something huge. It was the first time I’d seen a man I had feelings for bond with my son — Justin never got that liberty. Over the next 2 years, our relationship had its share of trials and tribulations but, as Psalm 23:5 says, “my cup runneth over.”

On September 27th, after a ten-day honeymoon in Costa Rica following a beautiful wedding, Don and I returned home to be a family. For the first time in four years, I could actually say, “life is good.”

And then……thirteen days later…….. Hurricane Michael hit, and disintegrated our town. I wasn’t even married a month, and life was already back to being upside down. Two days after the storm, Don, Jax, and I slept in a room at my parent’s house; our shower-less bodies drenched by sweat. The storm had knocked out all power, water, most cell towers, and basically everything we use in our current society. I looked at Don, tears in my eyes and said, “happy one month anniversary.” I couldn’t believe we were here, fighting to survive when 16 days prior, we were sipping cocktails on a volcanic beach in Papagayo. Then a thought came to mind, “at least we have each other.” Even though we were struggling to survive, we had survived — not everyone could say that after the storm.

After

Five months after Hurricane Michael I, once again, got up the nerve to go back to my beloved park. I knew it would look different, but I NEVER anticipated the destruction that had been unleashed. I was well aware of our town’s slaughtered timber, but at the sight of it, I unfailingly found myself feeling hurting — yet again. The running park had been reduced to a tree graveyard. Where hundreds of trees once stood, (still piled high along the sides of the track) a few dozen remained. I almost turned around and went home, but I stopped myself. I owed it to my park to be brave, and run around its broken track. I hit the shuffle button on my iPhone and a familiar song started to play: “The Night We Met,” by Lord Huron. I’d first heard it while watching the Netflix series Thirteen Reasons Why. It had struck a chord with me then, vastly because of its melodic nature, but mostly because of its offbeat lyrics. It spoke to me again.

The lyrics are as follows:

I am not the only traveler, Who has not repaid his debt

I’ve been searching for a trail to follow again, Take me back to the night we met

I had all and then most of you, Some and now none of you

Take me back to the night we met

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, Haunted by the ghost of you

Oh, take me back to the night we met

While gaining speed, I passed larger mounds of debris filled with tree trunks and branches. Three years prior, I had run around the same track, wondering how it had remained solid when I was broken in half. Suddenly, the broken trees were like the pieces of my broken heart, scattered across the pavement — reduced to a shell of their former selves. How did this happen to our town? How did this happen to me? I was angry with the storm. I was angry with Justin’s killer — life’s not fair! While wallowing in my pity, I got a text from Don that brought me back to earth: “I love you sweet Darling.” it said. “How does he know?,” I thought, “How did I get here again?” PTSD is funny like that — the triggers can catch you off guard.

I get a lot of credit for my resilience, and my undying will to move forward. But the truth is, I owe most of it to my family and friends. If it wasn’t for their continual love and support, I might still look like the park does today — scattered pieces of something that used to be whole.

The good news is, we don’t have to stay broken. As a Bay County resident, I truly believe we can rebuild; not only our homes, but also our hearts. It’s not going to happen overnight. My transformation is still underway — it always will be. I’ll never move on from Justin, or the life I once had, but I will always continue to move forward.

 

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