PTSD is scary, confusing — but most of all, treatable

This came from Beacon News. I searched for the name of the author but couldn't find it. I wanted to say "thank you" for telling a story that had to be told. I can try to explain what PTSD is like and come pretty close but when you hear the words from people with PTSD inside of them, then you are able to understand better than I could ever come close to explaining to you. This is powerful and comes from a regular person after surviving two traumatic events. Maybe after reading it, you will have a clearer understanding of what it is like for the troops and even our police officers. They expose themselves to traumatic events everyday, year after year because they are jobs that have to be done.

PTSD is scary, confusing — but most of all, treatable
Mar 2, 2011 2:10AM
It was late, maybe 3 a.m. I was sitting in my roommate’s parked Chevy Cavalier, alone, panicked, hoping nobody could see me — hoping I wasn’t really there.

The full story is long, much like that night was. I was at a house party in November 2003, my senior year of college — something my sorority sisters and I did almost every weekend. A girlfriend and I were about to leave when we heard a few popping sounds, much like firecrackers, from just outside the front door. The next thing I knew, one friend ran inside, yelling for someone to call 911.

Our friends hosting the party were trying to kick out a group of teenaged crashers. I’ve been told one of these strangers unexpectedly pulled a gun out of his pants, fired randomly, and ran. One of the bullets hit a friend of the party host square in the chest. He died a few minutes later.

I will never forget what it felt like, sitting in my roommate’s car as we waited for police, staring at the body sprawled on the lawn. Silent. Unmoving. Dead. “I was just dancing next to him an hour ago,” I thought, “and now he’s dead.” I’ve always lived by the mantra that “life is short,” but seeing the body of one of my peers at the age of 21 was the kind of wake-up call I never expected to experience.

Fast-forward four years later, when I was 25. I was driving my relatively new Honda Civic, on my way to a family gathering at about 9 a.m. in Chicago. I’m still not clear on exactly what happened, but I’ve been told that I went through a red stoplight that I didn’t see and crashed into the side of a gold BMW that seemed to come out of nowhere. In my confusion, I veered to the right and slammed into a curb. My airbag deployed while my hand was still on the horn.

I always compare that moment to the cartoons: When one of the characters is bonked on the head, they have little gold stars floating around them. That’s exactly what that moment felt like. When I came to, probably only a few seconds later, I didn’t feel right. I looked down, saw blood from a fingernail that had broken off, and then saw my right forearm. It was shaped like an S, and my hand was almost flattened against my inner forearm. The airbag had whipped my hand around and shattered the outer portion of my wrist.
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PTSD is scary, confusing but most of all, treatable

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