Post by Mel on Dec 28, 2005 20:52:27 GMT -5
I'd had post-traumatic stress disorder for years- only I didn't know it.
By Candyce Brokaw as told to Cate Terwilliger
As a teenager I was sexually abused, and the fear of it happening again has been with me ever since. It took nearly 30 years for me to realize I could get help, that I could turn my life around.
After the assaults, I pushed the awful feelings and memories far away. I told myself that in order to survive I would have to make life as normal and happy as possible, especially after I married at 19 and had three wonderful daughters.
Throughout my 20s and early 30s, it seemed as if I would succeed, mostly by staying busy. I had to be the best housewife and mother, the best PTA leader; I had to have the cleanest house in the neighborhood. I did anything and everything to keep the pain of what had happened to me from rising to the surface, and for a while, it worked.
Yet there was always a core anxiety underneath. Once, when my husband and girls were away visiting his mother, I called the police, certain that someone was lurking outside our home. I was too apprehensive to lie on the beach alone. I worried constantly about my children's safety; when, as toddlers, they'd come shopping with me, I'd actually try to get them to growl at people so no one would hurt them!
By my mid-30s, things had gotten so bad that I often didn't want to leave home. I began to make excuses for why I couldn't do the things other people took for granted. If I was depressed, for example, I would tell my daughters I was tired and go to bed.
Of course, my husband knew what I'd gone through, and he tried his best to comfort me. It wasn't easy; it wasn't really even possible. Night after night I woke up with my heart pounding. I would sit up in bed, terrified to go to the bathroom or even get a drink of water, re-experiencing the terror of being raped.
Even in daylight I could be ambushed by horrible feelings. They might be triggered by smells or dates associated with the assaults, or a news story about an abused child. I got so I was watching only G-rated movies or nature shows. Once, I saw a man in a supermarket who reminded me of one of my abusers, and—wham! I left the groceries in the cart and went straight home.
At 38, I broke down. I couldn't get off the couch or out of bed. I was no longer able to care for my daughters as I wanted to—and that was devastating. I sought help. Through therapy, I began to talk about what had happened for the first time. I even told my daughters, so they could finally understand why their mom was acting so strangely. I joined a support group, went on antidepressants and began drawing to express my emotions. Within a few years, the feelings of isolation and depression eased, and I began to feel better.
But I was still anxious; I still had nightmares. And I still didn't have a name for what was wrong with me—until two years ago. I came across an article on post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and immediately saw many of my symptoms in the description: anxiety, flashbacks, disturbing dreams, loss of emotional connection, inability to enjoy normal activities. Suddenly, everything began to click. While my therapists knew what I'd been through and had helped me, they'd treated me for depression and anxiety without making the connection to PTSD. (Until the early 1980s, the condition had been associated mainly with combat veterans—not victims of sexual abuse, natural disaster or other traumatic events; even today, it is sometimes misdiagnosed.) And I hadn't told the doctor who prescribed my antidepressants about the abuse or the extent of my symptoms, so he also assumed I was just suffering from depression.
That week I went to the doctor and tearfully told him everything. When he made the diagnosis, I felt relieved. I finally knew what had been plaguing me all these years—and that I wasn't alone. PTSD affects about 9 percent of Americans; sexual assault is a major cause. My doctor gave me a better antidepressant, Zoloft, which, at the time, had just been approved specifically for the treatment of PTSD. Unlike the other antidepressants I had taken, which target only depression, Zoloft also eases symptoms like panic and nightmares.
It's been two years now, and not only do I sleep better, but I also feel less anxious and scared during the day. I kayak with my husband and enjoy picnics at the beach with my girls. I'm still taking Zoloft and participating in online support groups. I even started a nonprofit to help trauma victims, the Survivors Art Foundation. But the best part is that I'm finally living a normal, happy life—not because I'm forcing myself, but because I can.
By Candyce Brokaw as told to Cate Terwilliger
As a teenager I was sexually abused, and the fear of it happening again has been with me ever since. It took nearly 30 years for me to realize I could get help, that I could turn my life around.
After the assaults, I pushed the awful feelings and memories far away. I told myself that in order to survive I would have to make life as normal and happy as possible, especially after I married at 19 and had three wonderful daughters.
Throughout my 20s and early 30s, it seemed as if I would succeed, mostly by staying busy. I had to be the best housewife and mother, the best PTA leader; I had to have the cleanest house in the neighborhood. I did anything and everything to keep the pain of what had happened to me from rising to the surface, and for a while, it worked.
Yet there was always a core anxiety underneath. Once, when my husband and girls were away visiting his mother, I called the police, certain that someone was lurking outside our home. I was too apprehensive to lie on the beach alone. I worried constantly about my children's safety; when, as toddlers, they'd come shopping with me, I'd actually try to get them to growl at people so no one would hurt them!
By my mid-30s, things had gotten so bad that I often didn't want to leave home. I began to make excuses for why I couldn't do the things other people took for granted. If I was depressed, for example, I would tell my daughters I was tired and go to bed.
Of course, my husband knew what I'd gone through, and he tried his best to comfort me. It wasn't easy; it wasn't really even possible. Night after night I woke up with my heart pounding. I would sit up in bed, terrified to go to the bathroom or even get a drink of water, re-experiencing the terror of being raped.
Even in daylight I could be ambushed by horrible feelings. They might be triggered by smells or dates associated with the assaults, or a news story about an abused child. I got so I was watching only G-rated movies or nature shows. Once, I saw a man in a supermarket who reminded me of one of my abusers, and—wham! I left the groceries in the cart and went straight home.
At 38, I broke down. I couldn't get off the couch or out of bed. I was no longer able to care for my daughters as I wanted to—and that was devastating. I sought help. Through therapy, I began to talk about what had happened for the first time. I even told my daughters, so they could finally understand why their mom was acting so strangely. I joined a support group, went on antidepressants and began drawing to express my emotions. Within a few years, the feelings of isolation and depression eased, and I began to feel better.
But I was still anxious; I still had nightmares. And I still didn't have a name for what was wrong with me—until two years ago. I came across an article on post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and immediately saw many of my symptoms in the description: anxiety, flashbacks, disturbing dreams, loss of emotional connection, inability to enjoy normal activities. Suddenly, everything began to click. While my therapists knew what I'd been through and had helped me, they'd treated me for depression and anxiety without making the connection to PTSD. (Until the early 1980s, the condition had been associated mainly with combat veterans—not victims of sexual abuse, natural disaster or other traumatic events; even today, it is sometimes misdiagnosed.) And I hadn't told the doctor who prescribed my antidepressants about the abuse or the extent of my symptoms, so he also assumed I was just suffering from depression.
That week I went to the doctor and tearfully told him everything. When he made the diagnosis, I felt relieved. I finally knew what had been plaguing me all these years—and that I wasn't alone. PTSD affects about 9 percent of Americans; sexual assault is a major cause. My doctor gave me a better antidepressant, Zoloft, which, at the time, had just been approved specifically for the treatment of PTSD. Unlike the other antidepressants I had taken, which target only depression, Zoloft also eases symptoms like panic and nightmares.
It's been two years now, and not only do I sleep better, but I also feel less anxious and scared during the day. I kayak with my husband and enjoy picnics at the beach with my girls. I'm still taking Zoloft and participating in online support groups. I even started a nonprofit to help trauma victims, the Survivors Art Foundation. But the best part is that I'm finally living a normal, happy life—not because I'm forcing myself, but because I can.