Living with PTSD

Wrote this in December of last year. Courage gave way this morning. Here goes nothing.I remember the diagnosis conversation. Nestled in a box of an office on the corner of Cermak and California. The year around 2012. The place: Latino Youth High School. Hot red Chicago gang turfs surrounded the building like electrical tape. He was tall, slender, bald, and radiated an innocent kindness. He was our school psych. I remember his face, can't remember his name. We'd all call him Doc or Dr., as he had a PHD in psychology.My knees were buckling and shaking even as I sat down."The nightmares are vivid, I'm crying in spurts, and my shoulders fly up with loud and sudden noises. And what's with my aversion to sirens and fireworks? I'm moody, irritable, and extremely heavy in random parts of my day.""Mrs. G. I'm afraid your showing symptoms of PTSD with stress and anxiety." He cleared his throat and waited for my reaction."Like what soldiers have after war or something?" I fired back."Yes, I'm afraid so. I'd suggest laying low on student hospital visits and funeral services this year. Interested in meds?"My mouth got dry, my eyes swelled of tears, my heart beating rapid. "No, I'm not. No, I don't want that. What do I do?"Looking right through my pupils it felt, a concerned smile cracked from the side of his mouth. "Well, you're going to have to identify what are called your triggers. Stimuli that ignites your anxiety and activates your fight or flight impulses."My eyes scanned the room, suddenly focused on his degrees and certificates that draped the walls. Snapping back to his suggestion, I blurt out something like, "Well working here is my trigger then. Our kids are dying, they come in like wounded animals with bullet holes. And I just left the ICU where Ruben laid with wires, tubes, bullet wounds, and a huge blanket on him to maintain his body temp. It's a war right now between the 22 boys and the Kings. Our kids are Kings. This won't be stopping anytime soon." My voice was starting to crack and he began to irritate me, his question. His probing being the source of a trigger in that moment."And it's not just them," I continued. "It's their loved ones getting gunned or knifed down. It's my single moms, one of which I just found out is living in a run down basement with her son. Or my other girl I discovered was homeless with no registered address. She was sleeping in the park or on couches. They are jacking me up doc. Way too much trauma. I feel it. It soaks in my skin as they speak their truth.""It's called vicarious trauma.""Vicarious?""Mrs.G., you are taking on their trauma and grief as if it were your own. But your heart and your coping mechanisms aren't strong enough to handle the burden of it. You have to let it go, or you need to think of another place of employment to survive this."The room hushed itself.My face felt tingly and numb. I started playing with my fingers and cracking my knuckles. Nervousness strangled me. I started to experience shortness of breath. It'd be the first of many panic attack episodes I'd have to muscle through. I started reaching for air, but I couldn't grab it. I held onto both sides of the arm rests to get some leverage-to no avail."Mrs. G. it looks like you're having a small panic attack, just slow down, breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth," as he mimicked breathing sounds like yoga class was starting.It worked, only for this moment. And he was right too. I'd eventually have to leave my first teaching gig if I wanted to survive and teach and breathe and live...and preserve the quality of my own life as a wife and mother.Fast forward. Oh great. Different school, same sh**. Kids dying, lockdowns, poverty, hallway fights, hostile home environments, fathers beyond absent. Now on the Southside. Really Mrs. G.? This is not any better. First year there we lose a girl to a bullet in her back. Wrong place, wrong time. Channel 7 came and we released balloons.  I can't breathe. I just can't escape this.Was a pastor's wife at the time.Spiraling in front of my congregation, I'd be preaching and all of a sudden a dam of emotions would overtake me and I'd start weeping as I nursed my open wounds publicly. Speaking would put me in a vulnerable place, almost like a talk session, and out would spill my traumatic build up, my PTSD flares before all to see. I'd kept my condition quiet at that point. Thus, concerned church leaders cautioned me to hold it together, to not show that much weakness publicly. As I was the pastor's wife, one that was supposed to be strong for others. That caution alone enraged me. For what? To save face? To look prim and proper? To show no weakness or humanity? That punctured a new hole in my soul.I understood their concern, but it was something that was hard to control. I never advocated for looking like a basketcase all day. I understood the need for resolve in public service and leadership. Yet, this would cause a tendency to stuff authentic feelings in fear of being judged for being weak, less of a leader, or too emotional. So I decided to reach for biblical subjects and stick to them. I also decided to suppress as many toxic uprisings as possible. I put a ton of surgical tape on my lesions, praying they wouldn't bust open for the audience to be overcome with.2013.All hell breaks loose. My marriage and reputation in public shambles. This threw lighter fluid on my condition. And I was pregnant too. A dangerous combination emerged, sending me into professional and pastoral counseling for the duration of that year into 2014. I hit rock bottom. Depression almost bludgeoned me. The shock, the trauma, the emotional pain was almost too much to bare.It worsened. I became unstable, lost concentration, emotional stability- I broke in a million pieces. Only God himself was able to save me. I quit my job at the end of that school year, not knowing where I'd land the next. And I don’t quit anything.What helped? Counseling, journaling, meditation, letting go, forgiveness, hope.Check ins with my new school social worker. I take my own advice I give my students. Talk it out when it's too much.Workouts, fitness, weight loss, boxing. My meds, and it's working. I'm not self-destructing anytime soon.Yet, living with PTSD is still very difficult.Now a teacher in my home district, the classroom was still in the cards for me. Pastoring wasn't-well at least not in the traditional sense anymore. Church triggers and loss of relationships still injure me. I turn to my coping agreements with myself. Each time it gets me through.I have to remind my husband and my principal and everyone I feel comfortable sharing with that my episodes are pointing to PTSD, and to please be patient. I always need some space to kneed out the kinks before I return to my normal.Lost another student this year to gun violence, along with my student whose brother committed suicide. A few weeks ago this student said his brother's body was in a bunch of pieces by the railroad that he apparently threw himself in front of. Shortly after, myself and my colleague broke up a physical fight where this kid was in fetal position with his backpack as shield while the other kid was wailing on him, pushing all my panic buttons. Phones out recording, crowds closing in on me. I felt like I was under water. By the time I got to lunch I had a full blown panic attack at the table. Nurses rushed to me, and eventually wheelchaired me out of there, glares from passerby's and all.Before that I'm hiding in the back room of Burlington Coat Factory with my daughter as police shoot and kill and armed man. Trauma keeps finding me, and I'm not sure why.Insert February 14, 2018. Insert one of the deadliest school shootings America has witnessed. Insert 17 bodies dropping. Was out to dinner with my family when a mass text came in from a good friend sharing condolences for a few of us teachers she texted. My eyes swelled at the table. I ran to google and typed in Stoneman Douglas shooting, and there it was. The next day at school was brutal, and my hypervigellance was through the steel roof. Checking exits, rapid heart rate, dry mouth, and short quick breaths ensued. Griefstricken, barely making it to last period.My triggers?Broken Ministry. God expectations and allowance of trouble. The hurt and empathy I feel towards those involved in my personal faith crisis, and sadness towards their obvious second hand impact. My destiny assignment, whether or not it's still viable. Gangs. Violence. School shooting reports. Sirens. Loud sounds, and busy rooms with mounds of people. Student funerals, as I peer into the white, puffy casket and see my dead student stuffed with death whilst I lean over in peril and anguish. Recollection of betrayal, erratic driving, people yelling and talking loudly at once, my children fighting=some of my ongoing triggers. It's hard to escape, well, I can't.It's hard to remember who you are. Your old self and sense of identity is held captive by this imposter that's trying to capitalize on your blind spots and adaptation to what is your reality after each storm.Sometimes I care and sometimes I don't. Sometimes I accept and sometimes I travail over loss. Sometimes I feel like damaged goods. Then I face the Word like a mirror, and remember who the heck I am according to the One who made me.Grief.It has stages.Honesty.Always the best policy.So I walk. Once injured, but now walking. I quote my former blog when I say-Blessed are the injured. My hope is we will see new beginnings.Yet, there's a problem. It's hard for people to respect this injury and condition because it's invisible. People are less likely to kick a random person in their cast or yank a child's arm who's wearing a sling after the break.People, instances, memories, locations, behaviors yank at my injury all the time. I get comments like, "Man you're a spaz, just calm down, you need relationships again, and girl are you ok?" One person accused me of being self-absorbed and into myself only because I wanted to touch base on the grief I was feeling over our lost sisterhood. I thought to myself, I'm a teacher and an activist. Though no one radiates perfection, I can't live from a posture more selfless than that. Pull, kick, yank. Thanks a lot! So I have to explain. People's eyes always gauge open. I understood, sometimes mine do too.If you know someone who has this condition, a few things you need to know.1. Know their symptoms. Some common ones are: irritability, mood swings, hopelessness, fits of rage, a sudden need to be alone, shortness of breath, panic, crying spells, lethargy, isolation, anxiety, flashbacks, and nightmares.2. Give them space. Sometimes all we need is to recalibrate, refocus, and redirect our own behavior that could be affecting others in a negative way. We know we are out of pocket sometimes, again, we can't help it.3. Don't try to fix or correct us without permission. We know, we get it. Sometimes when we are ready to talk, just LISTEN. It's hard when people lack patience and try to fix us. We know there's some psychological breakage. Trust me, we know. Don't shut us down by unwanted counsel. When we need to talk for counsel we will tell you. At least most of us will. We do need trusted people to discuss our blindspots, but with caution. With caution.4. Respect the condition: Though we should never say it often in a way where it owns us, and confine ourselves to self-fulfilling prophecy, it's like cancer or diabetes. If left untreated, it can be just as debilitating. Respect that we struggle to control it every single day.5. Just love us through it. This bares no explanation.Just love us...Dedicated to school shooting victims and families dealing with PTSD.