My PTSD Diagnosis

A few months ago my psychologist told me that I have PTSD. She was astounded no one had diagnosed it earlier; I wasn’t. I’ve often struggled with my mental health but a diagnosis that made sense evaded me. I dove into research and it was like flicking through a transcript of my life.

It’s been slow going accepting that I am symptomatic of PTSD. The first cog clicked into place while reading Michelle Elman’s book ‘Am I Ugly?’. In it she describes obsessively checking the locks in her home when feeling unsafe. I acquired that habit as a child. It’s cropped up periodically ever since but I told myself that it was just an odd thing I did, that it couldn’t possibly be a symptom of something more damaging.

As a child I couldn’t sleep unless I’d checked every nook and cranny in my room for the monster my parents couldn’t see. Then I started to emotionally detach myself from the world around me; I could no longer trust my vision of it. At seven-years-old I started self-harming. I developed insomnia at eight-years-old and frequently had brutal night terrors.

In my teen years I abused drugs and alcohol, I self-harmed religiously and I was dangerously impulsive. I buried my emotions and disassociated from the world around me. I saw no value in my life or my body. I kept everyone at arms length and welded a steel trap around my heart. I slept four hours a night, if I was lucky, and experienced a near constant stream of nightmares. At the height of it, I became suicidal and kept lists of the ways I could escape it all.

At 17, I sought help and mistakenly believed that I had ‘cured’ my darkness. Then two years ago something sparked a resurgence of symptoms. It’s taken me a long time to accept that there will always be dark corners of my mind. I will never let it define me but I have to work hard to keep the worst parts at bay.

When I started having night terrors and developing insomnia at nine-years-old, my mum couldn’t figure it out and I didn’t have the vocabulary to explain what was happening. Most crucially, she didn’t have an important piece of the puzzle. Back then, I don’t think I did either, but I do now and I want to use my knowledge to help others.

I was simultaneously elated and dejected when the #metoo movement took off. I was immensely proud of those sharing their truth but I couldn’t fathom putting mine out there. It felt too shameful, too taboo, and the pitying looks I would get off anyone who read mine would be unbearable. It’s the same look I’ve gotten every time I tell this particular story.

I refuse to let that hold my tongue anymore. I won’t shame myself into silence when I have so much to say. I guess this is the part where I stop skirting around the subject and tell you what this is all really about.

I was groomed and sexually abused by a family friend for nearly three years as a child. I’ve experienced several sexual assaults in my lifetime but the childhood abuse has effected me more than any other event in my 24 years.

The trauma overwhelmed my life for a long time; I’ve dedicated the last few years to working through the residual damage. I no longer see it as some tragic story to be pitied or ashamed of. It has moulded me into an incredibly strong person and I want to share the lessons I’ve learned. I experienced something awful that no child deserves to live through, but I have the privilege and the power to use that experience in a positive way. If putting my hand up and saying ‘me too’ can help a single person, then it’s worth speaking up.

The wounds don’t just disappear once the abuse stops; it has a lifelong effect that has to be constantly monitored. I’ve spent years of my life sifting through the wreckage and piecing things back together one scrap at a time; that project will probably never have a true end.

I used to shrug off any suggestion that I might have PTSD. I wanted no part in a condition I felt was reserved for people who had experienced ‘real trauma’. In my mind what I’d endured didn’t measure up to the diagnosis. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I thought my symptoms were just one of the many prices I’d paid for the abuse but manifestations of PTSD are not a lifelong sentence for trauma. While the condition sticks around for a long time, its effects can be managed and deescalated. Finally accepting those four letters has helped me to take the first big step in learning how to manage it. Sharing this publicly is the second.

The abuse I’ve lived through and the mental health problems that have followed are scary things but they have never defined my character. Instead they have forged an unyielding determination in me. I want to spend the rest of my life using whatever tools I have at my disposal to help elevate the voices and experiences of other survivors.

This is the scariest thing I’ve ever shared publicly. Although I still fear the judgement and the pitying looks, I know I have nothing to feel ashamed of. I refuse to bow to that fear but I’m going to break it down for my own sanity. Am I sharing too much? No, my #metoo is as valid as anyone else’s. Do I need your pity? Absolutely not. While I appreciate that it comes from a place of love, it has no use to me. Can you do something to help? Definitely. Engage in discussions about preventing sexual abuse of all kinds and help prevent the next #metoo before it happens.

Resources:

https://www.nspcc.org.uk/preventing-abuse/

https://www.lucyfaithfull.org.uk/

http://capacares.org/

https://www.childhelp.org/story-resource-center/child-abuse-prevention/

https://www.ptsduk.org/what-is-ptsd/symptoms-of-ptsd/?gclid=CjwKCAiAt4rfBRBKEiwAC678KftWNA2ISlz704Ou8zFCGi-XC-hz5BvYmA8YG3fAtW7_1B-2J8bvmxoC7Z4QAvD_BwE