As if it were a few weeks ago, I remember sitting in the office of my brother’s attorney listening to his presentation on the horrors seen by soldiers in Afghanistan. Mouth agape, I watched the accompanying slideshow containing images not one person in humankind should ever see. When I looked at my brother in disbelief, he gave a slight nod and a shrug. I knew it was bad. I had no idea it was that awful.
He arrived home from two tours and four years in the United States Marine Corps with baggage that included his duffel and a mental illness.
PTSD is something soldiers contract after time spent collecting blown off body parts, after experiencing ‘pink mist’, or after shooting a dog that came too close because it might be unwittingly harboring a bomb. PTSD is what happens when my brother watched the guy beside him shot in the head by a sniper. It’s what can occur naturally when 6 of 40 soldiers brothers, don’t come home.
So imagine the surprise when the therapist said, “I believe you to have PTSD.”
PTSD? No way. I’ve never been to war. I’ve never been raped or beaten or seen another person die. I’ve never experience trauma.
Funny how we see ourselves though. According to her, my life has been saturated with trauma.
It took a little convincing, but the more I paid attention, the more I started to understand. One of the lifetime mantras that kept me functioning was: Someone else had it worse. Someone else was raped by their stepfather, not just exploited or manipulated into sexual acts. Someone else’s mother left marks when she hit, not just psychological scars. Someone else didn’t get to say goodbye to their best friend, instead of having the opportunity to make the end count. Someone else’s brother succeeded in his suicide attempt, rather than watching him survive and make a 180-degree change. Someone else’s brother died in Afghanistan, instead of coming home broken. Someone else lost the whole of their mother to mental illness, and I’ve only lost most. Someone else got PTSD from their trauma, where I just have a hard time sometimes.
Someone else had it worse was a mantra of survival. It was buoyant when I might have otherwise sunk had I known how much better it should have been.
I had it bad. I told my mom that my dad sexually abused me and that was the straw beam that broke the camel’s back. She was hospitalized in the psych ward for six weeks. I learned a detrimental lesson at the age of six – if you tell your mom, she will have a mental breakdown and you will be left. Alone. With him.
I had it bad. I used to provoke my mom until she would hit me so I could physically feel what I felt inside.
I have it bad. My best friend is dying.
I have it bad. My mom is so sick and has been for so long.
Mantra be damned. I have it bad.
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