My Story: Living with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

Over 7.7 million adults in America alone suffer from post traumatic stress disorder or PSTD, according to the Anxiety Disorders Association of America. This is my post traumatic stress disorder story. I also suffer from major depression. Not everyone with PSTD will also suffer from depression.

Complete Breakdown

In 1999, when I was 29 and living in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, I suffered what laypeople call a nervous or mental breakdown and for which the medical community has no official name for. I was suffered from endogenous recurring depression. I worked two jobs and yet still could not afford therapy or medications. However, at the time I was convinced that my depression was incurable. Little did I know my post traumatic stress disorder story was just beginning.

So, I went to Bath, England, for a vacation. Three years previously during a vacation to Bath, I met my favorite singer-songwriter, Peter Gabriel. I was gambling on another meeting. Why I was convinced there would be a meeting, I do not know. Trying to rationalize my thought process then is akin to trying to remember how to speak in a foreign language.

I did meet Gabriel, but he completely blanked me. On hindsight, I'm glad he did. Too frightened and ashamed to speak a word to the great man, I went out to wander the Bath city centre. And met Mitch (not his real name '" I think).

Mitch

Mitch shared many similar qualities to Gabriel, but he was a homeless busker. In my irrational state I fell in love with him. Mitch asked me to run away with him and I did.

Mitch turned out to be a monster and a career alcoholic. But at times he was the most brilliant thing in the world. He could play the recorder by ear, was a master story-teller and taught me how to cook. But then his blue eyes would turn black and the fights would begin. Cut off from family, Mitch had me convinced that I deserved all the abuse I received.

It was Mitch who managed to get me to Julian House, the Bath homeless centre, after a failed a suicide attempt. It was April of 2003. Julian House doctors immediately diagnosed me and put me on 40 milligrams of fluoxetine '" better known as Prozac. After two weeks of constant wooziness, my body adjusted. After three weeks, I was getting regular sleep '" when Mitch allowed me to sleep, that is. Mitch went "on the dry" (stopped drinking) during the Christmas holidays.

On Boxing Day, 2004, Mitch beat my four month old puppy, Pony, for peeing on the carpet of his friend's flat. That's when my eyes finally opened and I left Mitch for good. Pony and I lived in a make-shift shelter called a bender in the woods of Bathwick. I was determined to make my own life in England, which I had grown to love, even though I was a homeless illegal alien.

On August 6, 2005, Pony and I arrived back home from getting spring water only to discover that our little home was on fire so that it appeared like a serpent of flame had swallowed the home and it was now sliding through it's gut. I was told my screams could be heard about a half-mile away. Inside was not only just about everything I possessed, but an 800 page manuscript I had spent years on.

Mom to the Rescue

The fire brigade told me that they suspected arson and advised me to get out of England as soon as possible. In the next couple of days, I discovered who set fire to my bender and even how much he was paid to do it, but I knew I could never prove it in court. Someone had tried to kill me and my puppy. If he tried once, he'd try it again and again until we were dead.

Julian House contacted my long-suffering Mother back in America. She not only took me in, but my puppy as well. Mom managed to find a low-income abuse and mental health center in the area. I began talk therapy and continued taking fluoxetine. That November, I was hired by a national retail chain. By March I had quit because a customer screamed and swore at me in the same way Mitch did.

If it wasn't for my dog needing to be walked, I would never have left the house. Everyone seemed to look like Mitch. The smell of beer would trigger memories that I could not shove away. Although I did not suffer vivid flashbacks, the memories were so loud that real life seemed far, far away down a dark tunnel. My thoughts would whisper, "Nothing can help you know, you stupid ****, because you're worthless."

Today

After two years, I realized that Mitch wasn't coming to get me. Today, I make my living as a freelance writer. Keeping busy helps to still the screaming thoughts.

I stopped talk therapy in 2009 but now only need 20 milligrams of fluoextine. I was briefly on alprazolam (Xanax) but I began taking more without realizing it and had to stop. I still have days where I am too scared to get out of bed but I do anyway to care for my pets and my Mom.

In 2010, I had enough money to see Peter Gabriel in concert three times and got to meet him twice. He said he remembered me. I doubt that, but it was good to hear him say it. It was a nice chapter in my post traumatic stress disorder story.

Sources

Anxiety Disorders Association of America. "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)." http://www.adaa.org/understanding-anxiety/posttraumatic-stress-disorder-ptsd

Mayo Clinic. "Nervous breakdown: What does it mean?" http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/nervous-breakdown/AN00476

Author's personal experience.