Okay to be Not Okay

“There is no cure for PTSD.”

I know this. And yet every time I hear those words–every time I read them–they reaffirm my (incorrect) belief that I am my diagnosis.

I’ve had post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) since 2013. Since then, I’ve seen three therapists. Thanks to them, I know how to de-escalate panic attacks and navigate flashbacks. But until recently, that knowledge didn’t really matter. In the moment of panic, in the moment that I fear for my life because of a sudden crack or boom or scream, my tools (grounding techniques, breathing exercises, visualization) become inaccessible. I see nothing but that second in slow motion, nothing but the desperate need to fight for my life. 

With my current therapist, we’re trying something new. Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) uses bilateral stimulation, such as watching a ball move back and forth across a screen, to help treat PTSD and other illnesses. When I first heard about it, I thought of old cartoons with the therapist in the tweed jacket using a pocket watch for hypnosis.

And, to be honest, it’s been a weird journey. Along with the bilateral stimulation, my therapist walks me through visualizations that, in a sense, “repair” my traumatic memories. I’ve visualized crumbling my violent images and blasting them out of my body. I’ve modified painful memories by bringing my current, logical perspective to a moment corrupted by trauma. I’ve largely corrected my night terrors by building myself a Dungeons and Dragons style support team to show up in my dreams. Mercifully, I no longer shake when I read about yet another mass shooting.

Most of all, I’m feeling vulnerable because people who don’t know me well have now seen my PTSD in a way that I did not choose to share.

Yet even with that progress, a compressor startled me yesterday. I leapt across the room, pressed my back against a wall, and scanned for anything I could use as a weapon. I knew immediately (thanks therapy) that I could treat this reaction most effectively with vigorous exercise, but I’m still feeling the aftershock. Most of all, I’m feeling vulnerable because people who don’t know me well have now seen my PTSD in a way that I did not choose to share. I’m feeling proud of how far I’ve come, and yet–

The truth is, this illness is a part of me. It’s not a “good” or “bad” thing; it simply is. I’m a person with PTSD. A setback does not negate progress. And it’s okay to not be okay.