Emerging Victoriously

No detail was spared.  I told her exactly what happened...a play by play of the facts.  And, when finished, I took a deep breath and sat there silently.   My therapist, taking notes with such fervor, filled the room with a scratching noise caused by the tip of her ball point pen making contact with the paper’s surface.

She took a lot of notes.  And she kept writing.  And writing....

Her focus was unbreakable.  The scratching sound was unnerving.  So I began speaking again.

“Uhhm.  And, also I....I keep seeing the incident over and over again in my head.”   She silenced her pen and looked up at me without speaking.

“....yes”, I said, as we held eye contact.  “The incident plays like a movie in my mind’s eye, on a continuous loop.  It doesn’t have an ‘off’ button.”

Placing her pen and notebook on a nearby table, she leaned forward and flatly responded, “You have a serious case of PTSD”.   Her words felt like a swarm of bees flying out of her mouth, attacking every inch of my exposed flesh.   

Stunned, I only caught bits and pieces of her continued explanation... about my seeing Aaron’s suicide, about how I thought I also was going to die, and how all those images, segment by segment, got stored in the wrong part of my brain.

I left that first session feeling like a carton of eggshells - too fragile to be out in the world with the diagnosis of PTSD.   How easily could I be set off?   What are my triggers?  How will I react?

Those questions were answered just a few days later when fireworks went off near by as I sat in the backyard of Aaron’s parent’s house.  I’ll spare the details but to say that it was ugly would be an understatement.

I didn’t want to live the rest of my life having a melt down every time I heard a loud bang.

In my second session with my therapist I explained what happened.  “That’s your PTSD”, she said in response.  

And, that’s the last time she said those words.

Over the course of just two sessions, she repeated the phrase “your ptsd” enough times that I finally requested she word it so that the PTSD was less.....mine.

“Can PTSD be fully cured?”, I asked. 

“Yes”.  

“Then from this point forward please refer to my diagnosis as ‘The temporary PTSD related to the incident’ versus ‘Your PTSD’”.   

I’d eventually switch therapists.   I explained to her from the beginning about my diagnosis but I assured her that I would become PTSD-free very soon.  She smiled and said  “There’s a societal consciousness around PTSD where the diagnosis has become more powerful than people’s ability to be restored from it...but full restoration and healing is possible as long as therapy is available to patients.”  

My new therapist conducted 90-minute EMDR sessions with me over the course of several weeks (as compared to just 20-30 minutes with my previous therapist).  They were exhausting.  It was a lot of hard work.  I went through countless boxes of tissue paper.  But, I embarked on every session with the sole purpose of emerging victorious.   

I still conjure up images of that horrific day but the images don't paralyze me; I'm in control of them.  And, I still live in a world where cars unexpectedly backfire while I’m out walking my dogs.  And, where large canyons of fireworks go off while I'm cheering on an ASU football player who just scored a touchdown at Sun Devil Stadium.  

I jump at the loud sounds just like everyone else.  But, then I smile.  Victoriously.