Telling PTSD To Screw Itself

"Time heals all wounds", but some wounds leave permanent scars. PTSD isn't a visible injury. I was 16, homeless and my friend was dead, I didn't want to feel anymore.

The tattoo across my ribs of the skin opening up is being stitched by a pocket watch with the time 4: 18: 02. The tattoo commemorates and celebrates the freedom over my body and my future. Though I have many tattoos and they all tell a story, this is in a spot normally hidden by clothes because only those absolutely closest to me know my whole truth. Time has made it easier, but those scars are here forever. 

I had been removed from my home before. Sometimes my parents just disappeared too, for months, or a year, never left together, but they always came back eventually and we all had to pretend like nothing ever happened. PTSD breaks through the space- time continuum.  It was April 18th almost 20 years ago. It's hard to place most things on a timeline before this date.  My brain has decided to remove chunks of my childhood memories,  probably for the best.  This particular day in April, I had found out my friend had committed suicide.  I was in pain and mistakenly thought I could share my sadness over the situation with my mother when I returned home. She dismissed me as if I wasn't even there.

My mother was unfortunately a section 8 stereotype.  She just stopped working and mostly stayed home chain smoking and struggling with very untreated mental illness that made the whole ecosystem of our household inconsistent day to day.  

My father was very consistent. Often unemployed as well, he threw fits of inconceivable rage at any hour of the day.  Sometimes over something I said, sometimes as menial as having one paper cup in the room my sister and I shared.  In his mind it meant the room was a mess.  He would throw everything in the room around and we weren't allowed to sleep until it was clean again.  If you refused, the items were thrown at you, but even if you finished the war with him wasn't over.

I just remember hearing the cracking sound of his ankles as he approached the bedroom in the middle of the night. I would try so hard to pretend I was asleep, but it never seemed to matter.  I will spare you reading this the spurts of graphic detail I do remember from these occurrences.

I was broken down by these people that raised me.  Abused mentally,  physically, sexually, spiritually, my soul felt gone. This led to me having no self esteem, and almost never looking in the mirror.  I didn't matter.

That April 18th, when I was hurting because one of the only supports in my life was dead, I had been dismissed by my mother and I was trying to just be a teenager and listen to some music in my room to process everything.   My father burst in. I don't remember what I did, but I had some type of hard plastic whipped at my head.  I couldn't cry, the only thing streaming down my face was blood, I was now just full of rage. Something I said had my mother now screaming too kicking me out of the house telling me I'm not allowed back.

In this moment, some little voice in my head told me if I don't actually get out now, I never will. I took the opportunity to pack one bag, say goodbye to my beloved cat, and make a run for it. Promising to myself that I will never go back.

I didn't either.  I was on every friend's couch, had certain parks I would sleep in and eventually was put back into the foster care/ group home system which carried it own sets of problems,  but ultimately saved my life.  All I wanted was to numb out these feelings I thought I wasn't allowed to have.

Fast forward many chapters to now, I'm livng across the country from my state of origin, happily married to a military veteran.   Nobody else understands PTSD as well as someone else with it. Waking up screaming, constantly scanning your surroundings, being easily startled, how it's not funny to scare someone by jumping out at them, avoiding crowds, and other stuff like that. Thankfully my sister made it across the country too. And in an odd turn of events, I actually make a living off of making people laugh.  (When there isn't a pandemic)

After years of continuous therapy and finding the right antidepressants, I have feelings again, and they suck. It gets easier the more you dig through it.  I have yet to fill in the color of my tattoo.  I will when I feel I have reached another level of healing.

Time doesn't heal these wounds, it helps stitch it up a bit, but only if you go through the work with a therapist, no matter how painful it might seem, you can get through it.  As they say in trauma therapy, "the worst is over".  A tattoo, even on your ribs, is temporary pain, it's nothing in comparison to what you have been through already if you are struggling with PTSD.  

I chose to keep my identity on this post anonymous, but I hope my truth can speak out to someone afraid of getting help.  Afraid that if they started crying about the past, they would never stop.  Process it.  Work through it with a professional then get a tattoo that is a symbol of strength for you, a daily reminder that when you do, actually, now look in the mirror,  you see someone with a steel backbone that has been through hell, and is out.