I am touched by the very kind emails and posts I’ve received, encouraging me to keep writing and publish. When we think of PTSD, we usually think of soldiers recovering from the horrors of the battlefield. I can’t possibly imagine what they must be going through, although I have more of an inkling now than I did this time last year. To just thank them for their sacrifice seems so feeble and inadequate. On the other hand, we don’t thank our servicemen and women near enough. I don’t want my story to take away from the vital importance of raising awareness of PTSD in the military and the need for funds for research and their continuing care.

But there’s another population with PTSD. There are children who grow up knowing more violence and pain in their first 15 years of life than most people experience in a lifetime. Those children become adults who are remarkably strong and incredibly fragile at the same time. Too many of them do not get help, and never reach their full potential. This is a “pick yourself up by your own bootstraps” nation. We don’t talk about mental health issues. We deny there’s a problem. We grin and bear it. We keep a stiff upper lip. Shame on those who don’t.

These attitudes negatively affect government and private funding. The research is not near as far along as it could be, and new studies raise more questions than answers. Apparently, my children could be genetically affected by DNA affects that my PTSD may have done to my genes? Yeah, I’d kinda like to see another study clarifying what the heck that’s all about. There’s a few million of us who’d like to see more research. According to the National Center for PTSD,  about 5.2 million Americans have PTSD during the course of a given year.

But my story is not just about the sudden onset and resulting treatment of PTSD. It’s about child abuse. It’s about domestic violence. It’s about parental kidnapping, rape, and sexual assault and molestation of children. And it doesn’t include other common factors of trauma in children’s lives: gang violence, homelessness, and hunger. I grew up in middle-class privilege, and still experienced the kinds of violence that America thinks only happens in impoverished inner cities. Much as I want to raise awareness that childhood violence occurs in the suburbs, I absolutely don’t want to take away from the fact that we should be doing a better job of addressing it in cities, too. We should be doing a better job addressing it worldwide. It shouldn’t hurt to be a child.

I know who I’ve been. I don’t know who I’m becoming. I do know that I’m changing a little bit every day through this process of shocking realizations, acceptance, and healing. I do know that treatment for non-military PTSD is still filled with guesswork and trial and error. I know that not one professional has pointed me in the right direction, to the right type of treatment, and I have to kiss a lot of frogs to find what will work for me.

I’ve been involved in public policy for the last twenty years. It’s so ingrained in me that I cannot sit in a therapy session without thinking of the larger ramifications of treatment and public health. I met a reporter in the hospital, and he told me he was thinking the same thing. Whatever’s happening to us, we may as well have it happen for a reason.

My story is not uncommon. There are many of us trying to figure out where to go for help, keeping it secret from the workplace, and keeping a stiff upper lip while we search. I hope writing about it will encourage others to seek help; encourage people to call their legislators and demand increased funding for research and care; and raise the level of conversation in this country about the importance of addressing mental health. Perhaps, one day, an annual mental health checkup will be as common and expected as an annual physical. Maybe my book will help make these things happen. Maybe that reporter I met will write about it and make change. Something good has to come from all this. Cross fingers.

If you share any post, I hope you share this one. Thank you for taking the time to read it, and a special thank you to all of you who have sent me your kind words and prayers. I am truly touched.

                                                Warmly,

                                               Josephine Bautista