PERSONAL STORIES AND Analysis
*This account of PTSD is about hot childhood trauma haunted his life for years until he recieved proper help and treatment*
P.K. Philips
It is a continuous challenge living with posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and I've suffered from it for most of my life. I can look back now and gently laugh at all the people who thought I had the perfect life. I was young, beautiful, and talented, but unbeknownst to them, I was terrorized by an undiagnosed debilitating mental illness.
Having been properly diagnosed with PTSD at age 35, I know that there is not one aspect of my life that has gone untouched by this mental illness. My PTSD was triggered by several traumas, including a childhood laced with physical, mental, and sexual abuse, as well as an attack at knifepoint that left me thinking I would die. I would never be the same after that attack. For me there was no safe place in the world, not even my home. I went to the police and filed a report. Rape counselors came to see me while I was in the hospital, but I declined their help, convinced that I didn't need it. This would be the most damaging decision of my life.
For months after the attack, I couldn't close my eyes without envisioning the face of my attacker. I suffered horrific flashbacks and nightmares. For four years after the attack I was unable to sleep alone in my house. I obsessively checked windows, doors, and locks. By age 17, I'd suffered my first panic attack. Soon I became unable to leave my apartment for weeks at a time, ending my modeling career abruptly. This just became a way of life. Years passed when I had few or no symptoms at all, and I led what I thought was a fairly normal life, just thinking I had a "panic problem."
Then another traumatic event re-triggered the PTSD. It was as if the past had evaporated, and I was back in the place of my attack, only now I had uncontrollable thoughts of someone entering my house and harming my daughter. I saw violent images every time I closed my eyes. I lost all ability to concentrate or even complete simple tasks. Normally social, I stopped trying to make friends or get involved in my community. I often felt disoriented, forgetting where, or who, I was. I would panic on the freeway and became unable to drive, again ending a career. I felt as if I had completely lost my mind. For a time, I managed to keep it together on the outside, but then I became unable to leave my house again.
Around this time I was diagnosed with PTSD. I cannot express to you the enormous relief I felt when I discovered my condition was real and treatable. I felt safe for the first time in 32 years. Taking medication and undergoing behavioral therapy marked the turning point in my regaining control of my life I'm rebuilding a satisfying career as an artist, and I am enjoying my life. The world is new to me and not limited by the restrictive vision of anxiety. It amazes me to think back to what my life was like only a year ago, and just how far I've come.
For me there is no cure, no final healing. But there are things I can do to ensure that I never have to suffer as I did before being diagnosed with PTSD. I'm no longer at the mercy of my disorder and I would not be here today had I not had the proper diagnosis and treatment. The most important thing to know is that it's never too late to seek help.
Philips tells the story of how her childhood was ruined by abuse and rape. As a result, she developed a case of undiagnosed PTSD. She was in a state of absolute denial that anything was wrong except that she may have a "panic problem" and refused help from any counselors. Philips is quite a stubborn person, and because of that trait, she let this disorder completely ruin and take over her life, which is one of the effects of having PTSD. At the end of her personal story, Philips explains that eventually she was diagnosed with PTSD and was relieved. She began to rebuild the life she had made for herself and for her daughter. When Philips found out about what was really going on with her, her findings definitely justified the authors conclusions that there is no cure, however there are ways to cope with and treat it.
https://vva.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/PTSD2008.pdf
P.K. Philips
It is a continuous challenge living with posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and I've suffered from it for most of my life. I can look back now and gently laugh at all the people who thought I had the perfect life. I was young, beautiful, and talented, but unbeknownst to them, I was terrorized by an undiagnosed debilitating mental illness.
Having been properly diagnosed with PTSD at age 35, I know that there is not one aspect of my life that has gone untouched by this mental illness. My PTSD was triggered by several traumas, including a childhood laced with physical, mental, and sexual abuse, as well as an attack at knifepoint that left me thinking I would die. I would never be the same after that attack. For me there was no safe place in the world, not even my home. I went to the police and filed a report. Rape counselors came to see me while I was in the hospital, but I declined their help, convinced that I didn't need it. This would be the most damaging decision of my life.
For months after the attack, I couldn't close my eyes without envisioning the face of my attacker. I suffered horrific flashbacks and nightmares. For four years after the attack I was unable to sleep alone in my house. I obsessively checked windows, doors, and locks. By age 17, I'd suffered my first panic attack. Soon I became unable to leave my apartment for weeks at a time, ending my modeling career abruptly. This just became a way of life. Years passed when I had few or no symptoms at all, and I led what I thought was a fairly normal life, just thinking I had a "panic problem."
Then another traumatic event re-triggered the PTSD. It was as if the past had evaporated, and I was back in the place of my attack, only now I had uncontrollable thoughts of someone entering my house and harming my daughter. I saw violent images every time I closed my eyes. I lost all ability to concentrate or even complete simple tasks. Normally social, I stopped trying to make friends or get involved in my community. I often felt disoriented, forgetting where, or who, I was. I would panic on the freeway and became unable to drive, again ending a career. I felt as if I had completely lost my mind. For a time, I managed to keep it together on the outside, but then I became unable to leave my house again.
Around this time I was diagnosed with PTSD. I cannot express to you the enormous relief I felt when I discovered my condition was real and treatable. I felt safe for the first time in 32 years. Taking medication and undergoing behavioral therapy marked the turning point in my regaining control of my life I'm rebuilding a satisfying career as an artist, and I am enjoying my life. The world is new to me and not limited by the restrictive vision of anxiety. It amazes me to think back to what my life was like only a year ago, and just how far I've come.
For me there is no cure, no final healing. But there are things I can do to ensure that I never have to suffer as I did before being diagnosed with PTSD. I'm no longer at the mercy of my disorder and I would not be here today had I not had the proper diagnosis and treatment. The most important thing to know is that it's never too late to seek help.
Philips tells the story of how her childhood was ruined by abuse and rape. As a result, she developed a case of undiagnosed PTSD. She was in a state of absolute denial that anything was wrong except that she may have a "panic problem" and refused help from any counselors. Philips is quite a stubborn person, and because of that trait, she let this disorder completely ruin and take over her life, which is one of the effects of having PTSD. At the end of her personal story, Philips explains that eventually she was diagnosed with PTSD and was relieved. She began to rebuild the life she had made for herself and for her daughter. When Philips found out about what was really going on with her, her findings definitely justified the authors conclusions that there is no cure, however there are ways to cope with and treat it.
https://vva.org/wp-content/uploads/2014/11/PTSD2008.pdf
*This account of PTSD was written by Vietnam veteran dealing with guilt from surviving the war while many others did not*
Mike A.
It didn’t take long to fill up the landing craft. Maybe two or three minutes. Just enough time to look up into the faces of the soldiers and Marines, three deep, lining the edge of the ship.
For the first time since the USS General Gordon had set sail from Okinawa two weeks earlier, there was no horseplay. Instead, the mood was reverent. Nobody spoke. Only the occasional cry of the seabird and creak of a landing craft gate broke the silence. We all knew what the other was thinking. Some of us would be going home in body bags.
I knew at least a dozen corpsmen who died there. Of the eight corpsmen who sailed over on the General Gordon with me in 1967, half didn’t make it back.
The expression on each man’s face was the same. You could almost read the question, “Will you be the unlucky one, or will it be the guy next to you? If I'm the unlucky one, will it be because I decide to do this instead of that? When the shit hits the fan, will I be brave? Can I hack it? Will I make it back home in one piece?
“If you ‘get it’ and I don't, am I worthy of that special blessing?”
I was surrounded by death in Vietnam. No one needs to tell me how lucky I was. Statistics weren’t on my side. I was a field corpsman, a prized target.
I knew at least a dozen corpsmen who died there. Of the eight corpsmen who sailed over on the General Gordon with me in 1967, half didn’t make it back. I still wonder why I survived and those others didn’t. Feeling deserving is so unthinkable. How could I ever feel equal to those who gave it up? They seemed so much more heroic than I was. If they were so much more than me, why am I still here and they’re not?
I've been dealing with this for decades. It’s called “survivor's guilt,” a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder.
Sometimes I think I have most of this PTSD and guilt resolved. Other times I feel nothing has changed. I’m always rehashing the past, turning things over and over in my mind. I feel like I'm under constant scrutiny. I avoid group attention. I dread the thought of others considering my faults and imperfections. I fear other combat vets won’t think me worthy of being called “Doc,” a title of respect given to field corpsmen and medics. On bad days, I have a hard time accepting the title myself.
In Vietnam, I always felt ill-prepared. I now realize that I was in fact highly trained. But I still wonder how some of those men and women I worked on would have fared had they been tended by another corpsman.
The self-criticism never stops. I am my own worst enemy.
This personal story by Mike A. talks about his experience in Vietnam and how he has been developing symptoms of PTSD. He knew many of the people in his military field that died. The odds were not in his favor, however Mike made it out alive. When he returned home, he reminisced on the people he met who died and how he was lucky and didn't die. He questioned why he didn't die and what made him so special. He admits that because he didn't die, he didn't feel like a hero. He didn't feel equal to those who gave up their life's for their country. These symptoms are called "survivor guilt" and the author deals with it and has been dealing with it for decades. He doesn't talk at all about receiving help or getting treatment, but he says that everyday he is his own worst enemy. He calls himself this because he feels unworthy of being called a hero or being titled "Doc." He never feels good about the things he had done for his country. This is why PTSD is called the invisible wound, because though no one can see it, these depressing thoughts tug at his soul every minute of every day.
Mike A.
It didn’t take long to fill up the landing craft. Maybe two or three minutes. Just enough time to look up into the faces of the soldiers and Marines, three deep, lining the edge of the ship.
For the first time since the USS General Gordon had set sail from Okinawa two weeks earlier, there was no horseplay. Instead, the mood was reverent. Nobody spoke. Only the occasional cry of the seabird and creak of a landing craft gate broke the silence. We all knew what the other was thinking. Some of us would be going home in body bags.
I knew at least a dozen corpsmen who died there. Of the eight corpsmen who sailed over on the General Gordon with me in 1967, half didn’t make it back.
The expression on each man’s face was the same. You could almost read the question, “Will you be the unlucky one, or will it be the guy next to you? If I'm the unlucky one, will it be because I decide to do this instead of that? When the shit hits the fan, will I be brave? Can I hack it? Will I make it back home in one piece?
“If you ‘get it’ and I don't, am I worthy of that special blessing?”
I was surrounded by death in Vietnam. No one needs to tell me how lucky I was. Statistics weren’t on my side. I was a field corpsman, a prized target.
I knew at least a dozen corpsmen who died there. Of the eight corpsmen who sailed over on the General Gordon with me in 1967, half didn’t make it back. I still wonder why I survived and those others didn’t. Feeling deserving is so unthinkable. How could I ever feel equal to those who gave it up? They seemed so much more heroic than I was. If they were so much more than me, why am I still here and they’re not?
I've been dealing with this for decades. It’s called “survivor's guilt,” a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder.
Sometimes I think I have most of this PTSD and guilt resolved. Other times I feel nothing has changed. I’m always rehashing the past, turning things over and over in my mind. I feel like I'm under constant scrutiny. I avoid group attention. I dread the thought of others considering my faults and imperfections. I fear other combat vets won’t think me worthy of being called “Doc,” a title of respect given to field corpsmen and medics. On bad days, I have a hard time accepting the title myself.
In Vietnam, I always felt ill-prepared. I now realize that I was in fact highly trained. But I still wonder how some of those men and women I worked on would have fared had they been tended by another corpsman.
The self-criticism never stops. I am my own worst enemy.
This personal story by Mike A. talks about his experience in Vietnam and how he has been developing symptoms of PTSD. He knew many of the people in his military field that died. The odds were not in his favor, however Mike made it out alive. When he returned home, he reminisced on the people he met who died and how he was lucky and didn't die. He questioned why he didn't die and what made him so special. He admits that because he didn't die, he didn't feel like a hero. He didn't feel equal to those who gave up their life's for their country. These symptoms are called "survivor guilt" and the author deals with it and has been dealing with it for decades. He doesn't talk at all about receiving help or getting treatment, but he says that everyday he is his own worst enemy. He calls himself this because he feels unworthy of being called a hero or being titled "Doc." He never feels good about the things he had done for his country. This is why PTSD is called the invisible wound, because though no one can see it, these depressing thoughts tug at his soul every minute of every day.