PTSD

PTSD

I am 76 and I suffer from PTSD. In fact, I have two doses of it. One is medical: cancer and its treatment, dating from 2023. The other is psychological, dating from 2013, and concerns my departure from the University of Miami. I have no wish to discuss either situation and indeed generally avoid discussing either of them (I would like to expunge both from my memory). But I would like to say something analytical and therapeutic, in case it may help someone else and to clarify my own thoughts on the subject. In my experience, this condition is characterized by a chronic apprehensiveness—that there may be a recurrence. It feels as if the world might suddenly give way beneath your feet for no discernible reason. You never know what might happen and you can’t stop it from happening. All you can do is ride the wave as best you can. There is an initial shock and then a drawn-out aftermath. It is like being hit on the head from behind and concussed. You are constantly looking over your shoulder. There can be intense anger, a sense of outrage. Some people around you behave well, others badly (incredibly badly). You go into survival mode. Sleep is an ordeal. What is particularly troubling is the accumulation of aftershocks over a longish period of time. It never seems to be finished, and you have to think about it—your life depends on it. Your life feels threatened. Small things like car accidents get magnified. Pet deaths hit you hard. People close to you suffer too, through no fault of their own. It is not so much post-traumatic as traumatic.

How to deal with it? There may not be a uniform formula, but I can talk about my own case. I did things I valued and spent time with people I liked. I kept away from people and things I didn’t like. Here I was fortunate. I wrote and read, played tennis, played music, threw knives, swam, sang. In particular, I wrote articles for this blog: these are my answer to PTSD, medical or psychological. This gave me an escape from the ongoing psychological torments of trauma. I dedicated myself to daily tennis, because I needed to make a physical recovery. Slowly and steadily, I regained normality—I mean, over a number of years. It took work and concentration. I was lucky in some ways: I didn’t die and my mind wasn’t permanently damaged. Of course, I bear the scars (I will show you them if you like) and they will never go away. There is a reason people are called “survivors”: it isn’t victory but sheer persistence. You don’t beat it, but it doesn’t beat you. Is there anything good about it? Not that I can see, though I suppose it does concentrate the mind (like the death penalty). And it really is about death: will it kill you or will you come out on the other side? Am I a better person for it? I don’t think so, perhaps slightly worse (I have less tolerance for idiots—you see what I mean?). I think it is good to recognize PTSD for what it is and face up to the challenge; there’s no use denying it. I have no uplifting positive note to end on.