Note: The story is all true, but some names have been changed, though I may change the fake names to real ones depending on who's comfortable with their real names being used, which I'll find out sometime. But for now, most of the names are fake except for a few. Also, this topic is very near and dear to my heart, and is very hard to find the right words to explain, so I apologize in advance if it doesn't come out exactly as I meant it, or it sounds repetitive. 

A lot of things in life can trigger my lung disease, especially when I walk by perfume stands at the mall or someone lights a cigarette near the outside corner of a store, and the smoke is carried by the wind just as I walk outside. People look at me weird, almost as if I just killed their pet dog, because they think it's contagious. I always reassure them that I'm not contagious, and that I just have a condition called Cystic Fibrosis. 

Everyone has a reaction to this, and the three common reactions are just a simple nod and a smile, or someone has to say their friend's cousin's dad's neighbor's uncle's nephew has it, or they immediately start showering me with "I'm so sorry" and "I can't imagine what it must be like" and "How do you stay alive". 

Truth is, Cystic Fibrosis is more than the basic medical facts I've known since I was four. It's so much worse and deeper than that, because it's a disease that I think affects the mental far more than it affects the physical. At least for me. 

Last June, I went to a leadership conference in Boston, in which we'd learn how to tell our stories no matter how hard it is. The conference was no larger than 13 people, including the guy who led it, but even there I felt extremely intimidated. 

I sat at the far end of the conference table, away from everyone else. The entire group except for me was made up of adults, and I could tell all of those adults had one hell of a story to share. While my mom conversed with everyone else, I stayed far away from the crowd, regretting my decision fully, since I feared I didn't belong, and Boston gave me almost too much anxiety to handle. I'm just a teenager after all, what do I have to offer to these adults who have all likely been through and know much more than me?

Eventually, Eric, the guy who organized the gathering, stood at my end of the table, and got everyone quiet and in their own seat quickly. He introduced himself, and decided that along with his name, he'd tell us a bit of his story. He wrote a book called A Sherpa Named Zoi, which is a self-help book/memoir about grief, resilience, and the loss of his teenage daughter who committed suicide at the age of 14. Through his tears, he talked about the events leading up to his daughter's suicide, and what happened after that. 

Once he finished, he decided to give everyone in the class 20-30 minutes each to introduce themselves and open up about their story. Eric looked at me first, but I just sank back in my seat and pulled down my hat, so he looked to the young man sitting across from me instead, and decided we'd start with him. 

Alan was his name. He was an army recruiter-turned-TV-actor who had served in Iraq and Afghanistan as a private. He looked like the guy in high school every girl has a crush on, but he was one hell of a soldier who lost most of his hearing due to the bombs he had lived through. Miraculously, he came out of the war without any visible physical scars, but the mental scars were far from invisible.

When he returned home to his family, Alan and his wife decided to take a trip to Disney World to celebrate. That night, there were fireworks, and Alan was already ducked down and 40 yards from his wife by the time he realized what his body was doing. The entire crowd around him was dead silent and staring at him. They had split apart like the Red Sea did for Moses, and Alan looked back at his wife, who had tears streaming down her face. 

As I reflected on Alan's story, a couple people went before I came back to reality. I worried my story had no merit compared to Alan's, and we were just getting started. Anxiety was wrecking me like nothing else, and I knew, as much as I hated it, that my anxiety wasn't invisible. 

The next voice I listened to belonged to a man called Jay, who was also a soldier and medic in Iraq and Afghanistan, who later became a motivational speaker and life coach. He liberated a terrorist-controlled city almost single-handedly by helping friendly citizens. He said he prayed to God every night before sneaking into the city in disguise, and God guided him every night for months.

He started by helping treat a mother who lost her arm to an explosion, and eventually he was delivering small bags of supplies to ally citizens, who used those supplies to take back their city. When Jay went to the mother with a prosthetic arm, she grabbed his arm and whispered, "You saved my life... Now, I must save yours... You have been discovered by the enemy. You need to get out and stay out, because they are after you."

Not two nights later, the city was liberated from the terrorists, and Jay returned home, where he was showered with medals and praise. But he said those never compensated for the PTSD he ended up with, which is still a great struggle nearly 20 years later. 

After hearing that story, I began to really panic on the inside. I didn't think I was a hero to anyone, and I have certainly never been to war. My story is definitely not nearly as heroic or miraculous as Jay's, nor is the PTSD I suffer from nearly as severe... Or so I thought. 

Next up was a man called Neil, who if I remember correctly, started off as a Drill Sargent and then was chosen to become a Lieutenant to lead a small platoon of soldiers on several missions throughout Iraq and Afghanistan.

Many of his men died in the war, but when the war was over for them, Neil lost even more of his soldiers to suicide. Neil almost committed suicide himself, but just when he thought all hope was lost, the sound of a baby crying in the apartment above him made him lay down his gun and pray. There, he says God gave him a calling.

Years later, he now runs a small organization that is designed to help veterans cope with their pain that is caused by PTSD, and is also a life coach for many. 

The hours felt like minutes as my turn grew closer. I heard more testimonies from veterans, as well as from people who have suffered greatly throughout their life. All of which intimidated me more and more.

My mom went, and after sharing her story, she turned her attention to me as she talked about what it's been like to raise me. I did my best to look down and use my hat to shield my eyes from the group. I was terrified of being put on the spot. I always have been. By the time my mom was done and it was my turn, I was soaked in sweat and shivering. I almost didn't go, but my mom gave me the look, so I didn't have much of a choice. 

I stumbled over my words in every sentence. I was terrified of being judged. Every time I've been put on the spotlight like that before, it gave my bullies a lot of ammo, and most adults I've talked to about my life have never reacted in a way that made me comfortable. But there, in that Boston conference room, I began to feel something different I never felt before. For once in my life, there was a level of understanding, and when I realized that, it became easier to speak and I was able to lift my head and raise my voice a little bit. 

When I finished, the room was dead silent, and all eyes remained on me. I sank down in my seat again. I glanced at Eric who was giving me the same look as everyone else, but it wasn't a critical stare. Eric, like many others in the room, had tears in his eyes. 

That's when Neil cleared his throat and said in a strained, choked up voice, "My brother died when I was five from Cystic Fibrosis."

I swallowed. Neil, the Lieutenant and Drill Sargent, was in tears because I reminded him of his brother who died fighting the same battle I'm fighting. It sounds silly, but I never thought Drill Sargents cried until then. 

And then, a man called Luke, who was also a soldier in the Iraq war and became a well-respected military psychologist said, "We understand your pain. Don't be afraid to open up. We are here for you." 

I cocked my head a bit in confusion, but then I realized I ended my speech with, "And I still struggle with severe anxiety and night terrors. Despite being in intense therapy for years and years, no amount of EMDR, medication, or talk-therapy has helped me overcome the trauma. Only extreme sports and time seem to put a dent in it." 

I wanted to take back those words. Those had come from deep within my heart where I almost never allow anyone to go, yet I had spat them out as if they were nothing. But, that was huge, because that meant deep down I knew I was safe and connected with some people who, for once in my life, actually understood some of my pain.

Over the next couple days, I got to know everyone in the room. I connected with everyone, but the war veterans took me in as their own. I found out that even though I've never witnessed war, what I've gone through has had the same effect on me as it has on them, and our experiences at home have basically been the same. 

It was interesting to talk with them. We started finishing each others' sentences when we talked about the things PTSD has done to us, and it turns out we share the same sense of dark/immature humor. Hell, we even enjoy similar hobbies of extreme sports and writing to help cope with our struggles. A veteran named Chad rode dirtbikes growing up, and got back into motocross as a way to cope with his trauma. And Neil still does a lot of martial arts and weight lifting to vent out his pain. 

I connected with Jay the most, because my mom had talked to him a little before the first class started, and told him about me. Jay explained that PTSD really shouldn't be a stigma to hide from the world. Obviously, it shouldn't be something I share within the first five minutes of meeting someone, but it shouldn't be something I believe I struggle with alone, or be afraid to ask for help with. The truth is, I'm not alone. The PTSD I have isn't much different from the PTSD a soldier has. Sure, it was caused by different circumstances, but Jay basically wrapped it up by saying, "You're just a soldier who was born into a lifelong war... and you're my hero... and a hero to many others." 

I broke eye-contact with him and sank my head down onto my hands, which rested on my knees. I knew Jay was being sincere, and he knew that as uncomfortable as it made me, I knew it was true. I am a hero to many, and all the memories of people coming up to me who heard my story through my mom, just to hug me and tell me how much hope I gave them came flooding back. He patted me on the back as I wiped the sweat off my face and miraculously swallowed back my tears, and then he pulled out a business card. On the card, which I still carry around in my wallet, he wrote his cell phone number along with a note that reads, "You are NEVER alone. Call me ANYTIME. I'm available 25/8."

Truth is, Cystic Fibrosis has wrecked more than just my physical body. My mind suffers from it too, and the PTSD isn't entirely invisible. Sometimes I catch people staring at my fingernails which are bitten down so much that they often bleed. Or they see me pacing around, shivering, stuttering, and/or sweating even if it's freezing. 

PTSD doesn't mean I'm a danger to myself and others. In fact, it's quite the opposite. In some ways, PTSD has given me a reason to take risks that I otherwise wouldn't have taken, that ended up being lifesaving, and has also kept me out of other dangers. I hate hospitals, and I'll do literally anything to stay out of them. After what I've gone through, I shiver every time my name and "hospitalization" are used in the same sentence, regardless of context. It doesn't matter if the doctor says, "We are considering hospitalizing you." or "You will not need to be hospitalized.", the fear, dread, and memories from the past all come flooding back.

Sometimes, those things come back at the most random and inconvenient times possible, such as when I'm in a restaurant trying to engage in casual conversation with people I barely know, or when I'm just about to fall asleep. People notice when I sink down in my seat and get a little flushed, so they ask what they said to make me do that. Truth is, it has nothing to do with them or the conversation. Of course, people rarely believe me. 

I often flee at the slightest sense of danger, and I'm pretty sure that has saved me a lot of trouble over the years. I don't make friends easily at all, mostly because most of my bullies started off as "friends". However, it has allowed me to be more empathetic with people, because I've been through enough to at least understand some parts of their deepest pain. Sure, PTSD still gets in the way, and still sucks to have, but it doesn't control or ruin my life. In fact, most of the people I know who have PTSD can say the same. 

Some people are reluctant to shake my hand due to their phobia of chewed nails, but I promise my hands are very clean and I'm not contagious anyway. Others think I'll suddenly freak out over something that reminds me of my past, but that's not true. I've learned a lot of coping skills over the years, and my therapists have agreed that I'm stable, content, and actually miraculously normal, even though my upbringing was messed up in nearly every way. I've never spent a night in a mental ward, and the medication I have taken for anxiety and depression were more or less supplemental. I often watch movies that have graphic medical scenes. That, and my mom is a fan of House and Grey's Anatomy, so I'm desensitized. Medical stuff is just my life, so it doesn't get to me like movies often portray PTSD triggers doing. Still, it gets hard sometimes, especially when illness sets in and doctors do consider hospitalizing me, but I know how to get through it without losing control of myself. PTSD doesn't get in the way of a person's ability to choose, unless the sufferer has something that is more than the PTSD itself. 

If I'm having a bad day, I'm not leaving my house, and chances are I'll spend it sleeping or playing video games like any other person who doesn't feel good. I don't go into fits of rage or depression, like so many think those of us who suffer from PTSD do. I'm still accountable for my emotions and actions just like anyone else, no matter how much pain I suffer. My therapists and psychologists have had only good things to say about me, and each and every one of them has promised that PTSD, while not curable in my case, is very livable.

With time, the symptoms become easier to cope with, and slowly with time become less and less severe, though they never truly goes away. There's not much out there that sends me into immediate panic mode that doesn't send any normal person screaming in the opposite direction. Sure, getting an IV into me is a nightmare, because as calm as I look on the outside, my shriveled-up veins and sweaty forehead don't lie. But unlike back when I was a scared little girl, I can keep myself together and fake a brave face.

Still, I suffer in silence, most of the time. At night, I often wake up from night terrors. I used to wake up screaming when I was little, but now I only know that I've had a night terror when my PJs are completely soaked in sweat and my heart is thumping a million miles per hour. Sometimes I remember a dream, but I forget about it within minutes. I know how to cope with that stuff. It's nothing a hot shower, some fresh PJs, and a stupid comedy show can't fix. 

Talking about it is hard because I almost never find anyone who gets it, or is willing to talk about it, and it almost never comes out right anyway. I know better than to bring it up with just any old war veteran. Most vets don't talk about their pain and don't want to, and to be honest, I hardly ever want to talk about mine either. But, it's important to talk about, because PTSD is a largely misunderstood and misrepresented condition, and as I was writing this, some news broke out that I highly doubt will help with that stigma. 

My social anxiety shows. I give pretty much everyone I meet the silent treatment until I know them enough to feel comfortable. It's nothing personal. It's just my way of figuring out who to trust, because I've been burned and back-stabbed more times than I can count. But that doesn't mean I don't assume the best of people when I first meet them, because I do.

I'm just shy and cautious of people, which is something my parents actually really love about me since they know I'm not gonna go sneaking off with the wrong crowd. Plus, if anyone messes with me, I will fight back and I will tell everyone I know who can help me. My social life may be a bit in the toilet, but I can survive with just a small circle of friends, and at the very least my family. I always have and I always will. 

PTSD is and isn't what people think it is. It's different for everyone, but the same for everyone too. For some people, treatment works, and for others it doesn't. But we all have our own little ways of coping with it. My ways just happen to be through humor, exercise, and writing. I may be a changed person after what I've gone through, but I wouldn't say the changes are all bad. If anything, PTSD has turned me into the best version of myself, because I see the world in a different light, and am appreciative of every day I'm blessed with. 

While it keeps me perpetually in therapy, it doesn't keep me from doing the things that I love the most. Nor does it prevent me from feeling, thinking, or interacting with the world like anyone else. Like most people with PTSD, I'm not a danger to myself or society, and I can handle whatever triggers me just fine. My head may constantly be on a swivel, and I may start to sweat and shiver at times, but that's just how it's always been, and it's not necessarily a bad thing. 

PTSD just means I've seen some shit. But it doesn't automatically make anyone who suffers from it a burden on society or a threat. In fact, PTSD, more often than not, has the opposite effect. We just have to remove most of the stigma so more people can feel comfortable about asking for help, kinda like what we've done with anxiety and depression, so they can be the best versions of themselves that they can be.

Unfortunately, while I know a lot of veterans who have sought help, I know a lot who haven't. And they haven't because they are afraid of a number of different things, ranging from fears that their rights to gun ownership and voting will be revoked, to fears of being looked down upon and/or feared by society. And to be honest, I've had those same exact fears before, but the therapists and psychologists I've had, have all reassured me that won't happen unless I have something other than PTSD that makes me clinically crazy. 

PTSD isn't something to be ashamed of. It's just a condition, kind of like how Cystic Fibrosis is a condition. It's there and it will always be there, but it's manageable, and it does get better with time and age. People like me just have to figure out the one thing that helps them cope, because there's not a fix-all solution. 

For some, EMDR works wonders, while it didn't have an effect on me at all. For others, talking about it helps. It helped me, to an extent, but what really helped me was getting outside and enjoying myself. Hunting, motocross, target shooting, horseback riding, cattle ranching, and even Tae Kwon Do have all helped me get through my pain, by replacing terrible yet faded memories from my childhood with fresh, wonderful memories, as well as tiring me out so I can sleep through the night with a smile on my face. 

It just comes down to what works and what doesn't. And, if we remove the stigma and misconceptions of PTSD, and encourage people to get help, the world will be a better place, especially for war veterans and survivors of extreme childhood trauma like myself. PTSD isn't really a terrible thing. Yes, it hurts a lot, but it doesn't mean we're crazy or dangerous or unstable. It's a treatable condition, and is simply what happens when we go through hell. 

If you or someone you know has PTSD, there is hope. Don't be afraid to ask for help. You are not alone. 

 

Special thanks to Eric Hodgdon and everyone else I met and got to know at the conference in Boston. Y'all are amazing people.