I was on the way home from Thanksgiving dinner. We stopped at a thruway rest stop. I was leaving the bathroom when it hit me. My mind was completely plagued, and I couldn’t breathe. I slowly walked towards the exit when I collapsed. It was as if time had stopped and my body was out of control. My breathing was running wild like a freight train. My eyes were pouring. Fear consumed my body. I was holding myself on the rest stop bathroom floor. I couldn’t help myself. My mother rushed to my aid, not sure what was going on. People passed by as I just sat there, unable to control my mind or body.

I was on the metro, on the way home from grocery shopping. My friend looked concerned as my face was wiped of all emotion. I slowly got off the metro when a huge weight was dropped on my chest, and I couldn’t breathe. My knees started feeling weak when my friend dragged me to a bench, elbows on my knees and hands covering my face. My mind again was kidnapped by horrific details and memories. I was terrified even though I was safe. I feared even though I was out of that situation.

PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, my psychologist labeled it. Labeling it was confirming the enigma that was overshadowing my life. It made it real that I have a problem. It was the realization that something was happening out of my control. A sickness that nobody can see. What they see is me leaving class hyperventilating. What they see is me zoned out and unresponsive to any words. What they don’t see are the memories. What they don’t see is the flashes that feel real. What they do not see is my mind trapping itself with a scarring memory. For a while, PTSD wasn’t something I would go around telling people. It was something I was ashamed of. I was embarrassed to lose control in public. I was nervous of what observations and judgments people would make. This attitude was only playing into the common conception on mental illness. It is downplayed. “I had a panic attack this morning,” doesn’t seem like a plausible reason to miss class or to call in for work.

Trauma to the mind isn’t readily treated. I refused any medication. I was terrified it would just be drowning my memories with drugs and putting a Band-Aid on the tear in my life. Surely if medication wasn’t going to treat it, time. Time heals all wounds, right? That’s what I was told. But this only made me angry. Time wouldn’t help the now. Time wouldn’t help when my body is out of control. I grew angry. Angry that I was out of control. I felt lost. My identity felt gone. I was scared. I was worried I wouldn’t be myself again. The events that led up to my diagnosis had robbed me of so much. I had let this label define me. I had let it say, “I have something wrong with me.” PTSD was part of my identity. These were all lies. PTSD is a condition. It is something I struggle with. It is a constant reminder that strength doesn’t mean no weakness. Strength is overcoming weakness.

Hiding PTSD decreases resiliency. Some common side effects of PTSD are flight or fight responses, difficulties sleeping, panic attacks, fear, flashbacks, losing the ability to talk and being withdrawn.

If you or a loved one are struggling with PTSD, join the talk. Being open with even a few trusted people significantly increases resiliency. Be patient. Things to get better. Time does play a component. In the words of one of my favorite artists, Andy Warhol, “They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.”

Remember, you are not alone.