Scott McIntyre reflects on his diagnosis and what it’s like to live with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
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I’m not very well. Or at least I think I’m not. I hurt. I cry. I’m sad. I’m manic. I’m anxious. I hate you. I love you. I want to talk. Fuck off and leave me alone. I want to talk. I need to talk but something is stopping me.
No, I’m not very well. It took me long enough to realise it. I mean, I’ve been writing for a while now, sharing my experiences and advising you to get help if you’re feeling ill. Only, I’m fucking awful at following my own advice.
Hi, I’m Scott. I’m 35 and I’ve just been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Or PTSD for short, if you like.
In 2010, an awful thing happened to us. It wasn’t the worst thing ever but it was pretty close. But this isn’t the right time to document what happened. It’s too raw, the wounds haven’t healed and it the pain is still too great. It was awful, just awful.
How did we feel at the time?
Empty. Lost. Angry. Distraught. Helpless. Hopeless.
As I said, the full story of this is for another time. I can’t bring myself to write about it. I really can’t talk about. Don’t want to. It brings it all back. Hideous memories that keep playing over and over in my mind. The problem is, people are noticing.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just tired.”
“Is something wrong? You look upset.”
“Och it’s just something at work. Don’t worry”
Something happened last night. It was my daughter Amy’s end of year dancing show. Just before we were about to go in, my wife Karen casually mentioned something to me. To her, it was quite innocuous. To me, it alerted every trigger in my head and my mind commenced meltdown.
So just before we go into the dancing: WHAM!
I’M HIT, I’M HIT! I’VE TAKEN ON FIRE AND I’M GOING DOWN! MAYDAY! MAYDAY! CAN ANYONE HEAR ME? CAN SOMEBODY HELP?
I always wanted to be a pilot.
Anyways, so in we go. Now I’m not the biggest dancing fan. I really do find nothing less entertaining than dancing. Obviously when my little girl and niece are dancing, then I’m proud as punch. But the rest of the time, it’s just me and my mind, slowly spinning around, performing a deadly waltz that sometimes never ends. I’m trying desperately not to let my thoughts spiral into the black hole of those hellish and terrible memories.
FUCKSAKE do something Scotty. Okay, okay. I’ll count the chandeliers. Six. That was too easy. Count the fucking lights on the chandeliers then. Seventeen. What about the wee holes on the lightshades. Approximately eighteen, it’s hard to tell but I’d like to have a proper look. Meanwhile, some kids are dancing inappropriately to a shite song. Some people mention how good the kids are. I don’t want to talk to them and mutter something inaudible to them. I instantly feel guilty about it.
More dancing. Amy is on again. I beam with pride. Then back to the other kids. They’re jumping about to Calvin Harris. My Mum mentions that she hates this kind of music. Personally, I don’t mind this one. The darkness is descending again. What the fuck can I do now? I look above the stage. Six curtains. Hmm. Twelve backlights, four each of yellow, red and blue. Makes sense. Oh look, there’s stars on the backdrop. One hundred and ninety-two. I think.
You get the idea. I’ve been living my life like this since 2010. Have I been living a lie? Yes. Was I refusing to accept how I felt? Probably. Should I have noticed it earlier? Hard question. You think that you’re ill but you push it away. You put it away for another day. I can’t be ill. What would my employers think? What would Karen say? My parents won’t understand. Okay then, I’m fine. What I’ll do is write blogs. Yes, a blog! I’ll talk about my experiences and pretend that I’m fine. Will anyone notice?
I certainly didn’t. Something had to give. It did.
I accepted I wasn’t well a few months ago. Talked it through with Karen, went to the doctors and was put on Citalopram. I almost immediately felt better. I was pleased with my decision. I felt good that I’d accepted my illness and eventually the pills worked too. Went back to the doctor. She’s pleased with my progress. So am I. Up the dose a little. Feel confident. Time goes by. I don’t feel as good this time. I’m expecting the same kick as I got the first time. It doesn’t come. I’m disappointed. I’m upset. I’m depressed.
Now, there’s other things going on in my life that would get any normal man down. You know, all these little things that all ball up into a bigger problem. The stress of a house move. An illness that has caused a great deal of physical pain. Many other things. But add them all into a big mixing bowl alongside my inability to cope with my past, then we are well and truly fucked.
I went back to the doctor and mentioned how I was struggling with the past and how I feel it’s some form of PTSD.
“Absolutely,” she said. “Without a shadow of a doubt, that’s what you’re suffering from. Not the most normal case in the world, but definitely PTSD.”
Well, isn’t that just dandy and just my luck? I’m very unusual, I am. So my meds have been changed to those for a major loony and I’m off to counselling. Putting a positive spin on things, this just makes me feel more like Josh Lyman. I wonder if I’ll get to go see Stanley? (One for the hardcore West Wing fans there. No, I am not a loser.)
So, here I am. I feel like a fragile bubble of glass. This is me, just carrying on with being a wee glass bubble. Until something handles me too roughly, not carefully enough, I’m tender you see. I shatter. I smash into all these tiny pieces and although I am surrounded by people who nurture me and put me back together, the pieces I break into become smaller and smaller. It’s becoming more difficult to put me back together. The glue isn’t holding.
I just want to become whole again and not be this silly wee delicate bloody human. Don’t you know who I am? I’m Scotty Mac for fuck’s sake. Or I used to be.
I’m not doing great at all. But I have the best wife in the world and she’s awesome. I have good friends. My family is great. And I have my writing. It makes me feel better. In a way, this is a form of therapy for me. It’s a good way of getting these thoughts and feelings out of my system. This is why I write about my experiences. I’m not an attention seeker and I’m not after your sympathy. I’m not looking for a pat on head and a biscuit. Although, I do like a biscuit.
It helps me to share my feelings with you. It’s probably too easy to do this from behind a keyboard rather than face to face and that’s why I find the words just flow sometimes. I know for a fact that some of you guys will be feeling the same. I’m there if you want to talk. If you read this, then the next time you see me, ask how I am. Get in touch. Comment.
Mental health problems aren’t anything to be ashamed of. I’m happy to admit it. We’re all vulnerable. It doesn’t have to take something as bad as what I went through to trigger an illness. It can be little things. It can be many things. Just don’t be afraid to admit it.
Talk. Write. Listen. Ask.
We all need to sometimes.
You never know what kind of difference you’ll make.
Photo credit: Flickr/Freidwall
I learned about 6 months ago the reason for my PTSD, severe sexual abuse at the ages of 3 and 8 by an adult male neighbor. I have struggled my entire life with the effects with out having a clue as to the origin. Now I have a future, but man has it been effing hard. To layer on top of that, my mother, whom I have been care giving for the past five years, died 4 months ago. So PTSD along with deep mourning. Fortunately I have an excellent therapist and resilient personality. Isn’t it the hero that is… Read more »
I just realized that I’ve had PTSD for the past 38 years from feeling completely abandoned, bullied, and picked on by everyone I knew. It’s affected me in so many ways. It’s taken a lot of therapy to get to this understanding. Mine wasn’t a traumatic physical event, but an emotional one. I knew all the pieces but wasn’t able to put them together until now. I’m still working on figuring out how to be the 2013 me instead of the little scared kid.
Good luck with your journey!
Hi The expert on trauma is Peter Levine. Check out his work here http://www.traumahealing.com/somatic-experiencing/peter-levine.html The key thing you need to grasp is that it is a somatic problem that has knock-on emotional and mental effects. The solution has to work at that somatic level, so talk or drug based approaches aren’t going to cut it (although talking oftens helps us to access the feelings, which can then lead to somatic release, if you’re with a therapist who knows what they’re doing). If you really want to recover, start doing body work, learn how to sit and FEEL the thing you… Read more »
I was told I had all the symptoms of PTSD but technically could not be diagnosed with it as I did not witness first hand the incident that was thought to have brought about the symptoms and trauma. I learned that in my case the biggest issue was catastrophising. Once I was able to realize and understand this I began to learn to rationalize situations more and this reduced the post traumatic symptoms somewhat. Over ten years later it still now takes some effort to catch myself from doing it but it has significantly helped me in many situations not… Read more »
Thanks for this Scott. I think that most people who have experienced PTSD in any form know the experience of “counting”. Counting the ceiling tiles, the cars that go buy, the drops of rain. Anything to make your mind appear to be moving forward, instead of backwards, to the past. I heard of one person who couldn’t make it through the day without reciting all 50 US States in alphabetical order. I am not a therapist, and don’t want to presume for a minute I know how to make things better. But the things I’ve found that have helped me… Read more »
i get it.
1000000%
and damn i appreciate your sailor mouth. it makes it real.
and you know what i love is that you kept some of the shit to yourself. my pattern has been to disclose everything in an attempt for no one to find me out.
but i’m learning we don’t owe anyone anything.
just because someone doesn’t know the details of our pain doesn’t mean it isn’t real.
self talk here.
thank you, thank you.
Scotty, go see Stanley. He can help (I hope). From one hardcore West Wing fan to another, you are loved, this can get better.
Thank you for sharing. You have a beautiful way with words. I’m wishing you all the best too!
Scotty, thank you for sharing this and for telling it like it is. I volunteer with combat vets to help them explore the transformative questions trauma raises, and find a healing path that makes sense to them. Writing is indeed a powerful way to safely release what you carry inside. Please reach out if I can be supportive to you in any way and if you are a vet reading this, please know that there is hope for you, acceptance and love. Contact me at lifeafterwar.org. I will walk with you.
I did EMDR therapy for my PTSD, and it worked for me. I am no longer on meds of any kind. I recognize triggers before they happen, and am usually able to work my way through without incident.
Hi there,
I struggled with PTSD for a while after a very traumatic accident. I must tell you that what you described feels very normal to me. People around you can’t understand, just because they have never experiences it, and that is a good thing. I can only tell you that what saved me from my own head was psychotherapy, meds helped, but didn’t solve the problem. I still have occasional anxiety related to events that remind me of the accident, but nothing even remotely comparable to what I experienced before. Hang in there and look for a good psychologist.
Scotty, I’m right there with you. My diagnosis came in 2010, although I realized I had been suffering from certain symptoms for most of my life. You’re courageous and beautiful. Keep talking about it. Keep sharing. It gets much better, even if sometimes you feel like you’re falling backwards even when you’re leaning against a cement wall.
Peace, bro.
I usually pretend that I need to go to the bathroom, then go I and hide for a while.
Talking about it is the best form of therapy. Drugs just make you feel a bit better. Good luck.