Accepting PTSD Diagnosis

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I had heard about PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder before I got my very own diagnosis. I read about it, heard stories of war vets coming back with it, and believed it to be a very real thing.

But a married woman in her late 30s, a stay-at-home mom who homeschooled her children, seemed ridiculous to me. I denied having PTSD to my therapist for months.

I desperately tried to convince him I thought I had a mental disorder far less intrusive, like dyslexia. I kid you not. I blamed being dyslexic for my problems.

Suppose I didn't think backward sometimes. He could understand me better if I didn't mix my words up so much.

I always get numbers wrong, and he hates it when I do that because it could have meant a job for him. I mess up the checkbook causing us late fees.

I blamed it on stress.

I blamed it on being tired and depressed.

I blamed it on anxiety.

I'm just an anxious person, I guess. I think about the past. I think about the future. It's hard to stay focused on the present.

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Backing up a little bit…

I thought we were going to therapy because the church offered us free sessions with their private counselor that they used over the years, both personally and professionally, in the church.

A Christian psychologist. A person who knew God, understood scriptures, and became a psychologist.

My brain knew that this was someone who studied human behavior and helped people overcome their traumas and illnesses.

I was excited about the opportunity. My husband was not.

He kept saying before we left the house and on the drive there, "I thought you were over this. How many times can I say I'm sorry?"

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But I intended to ask the therapist, "How do we develop trust?"

I wanted to know how my husband and I could have trust again after all we've been through.

The therapist started with insurance papers and then his disclosure about reporting abuse.

My heart started racing. I couldn't speak. I forgot my children's names and ages. I couldn't see anything in his office other than a blue rug in front of me at my feet. I was fading in and out until I was sitting beside myself.

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"So, what brings you in tonight?" He says.

Nothing. I said absolutely nothing. My mouth never opened.

"We're here because she can't forgive something from a long time ago." My then-husband said.

"Oh," the therapist seemed intrigued.

I don't think he was prepared for what flew out of my husband's mouth.

I wasn't prepared.

"So, what did you do that she can't forgive you?"

"I raped her."

Dead silence fills the room.

Did he just say that? Did he just say those words? (all in my head, of course)

He starts to talk again, but I can't hear him. I can't hear anybody.

Why can't I hear anything? Oh my god, my heart feels like it's going to beat right out of my chest. Now my eyesight is gone. I can't see anything.

I can't hear or see anything.

Am I dying?

What the hell is happening right now?

Where am I?

I'm dreaming, yes that's it, this must be a dream. This can't possibly be real.

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I don't remember anything from the session after that. The ride home was scary, though.

He was yelling at me for not speaking and making him look like an idiot.

I was staring out the window, and the car swerved, "SHIT, I almost ran off the F-ing road cuz of you."

Oh my god, honey, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know what happened. I can't explain it. Don't worry. Just keep your eyes on the road. I'll sort this out with the therapist at the next appointment.

Fast forward to today…

I accept that I have Complex-PTSD. I also accept I have a dissociative disorder. I accept that I was a victim of domestic abuse, and I am now a thriving survivor.

My diagnoses do not define me. They do not weaken me.

They do, however, challenge me. Some days I have a tight grip on my mental health.

I'm more aware of my triggers.

I'm doing the things I was taught in therapy and in all the books I've read.

I'm staying present for more time than ever before.

I feel the need to write stories like this because it helps me see how far I've come. Yes, I'm insecure and seek validation.

I'm excited for the day that outside validation doesn't matter anymore. That my own acceptance of myself will be enough.

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If you or someone you know is living in domestic abuse, help is out there. Click the Domestic Violence Support National hotline.

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