I have many more good days than bad days, now. Today is a little in-between. It was hard to write last night’s post. I do get frustrated with myself for having bad days at all, and to those who believe I lose credibility by telling this story, well, part of me agrees with you. It was nearly 40 years ago, for heaven’s sake. I’m perfectly safe, have been safe for decades. I’m a professional and a mother, with many responsibilities. I have other things to do with my time than relive memories I never knew I had. I don’t have time for numbness, staring into space, feeling fear rush through my veins for no reason, or getting persistent pokes from unwelcome memories at inconvenient times. I just want to shake myself and say “get over it, already!”

The most pernicious thing about stigma is that many of us with PTSD, or other mental health issues, actually buy into it. We stigmatize ourselves just as much as others do. I don’t need someone telling me to get over it because I tell myself that almost every day. When I came back to work and found no flowers, not even a welcome-back or get-well-soon card from my coworkers, I wasn’t surprised. I had been in a mental hospital for a month. No one gets flowers in today’s world for that.

If I had been in the hospital a month with a broken limb or appendicitis or something, I would have been welcomed back warmly. Instead, there was very little acknowledgement that I had been gone at all. Where I had been or why were questions that were studiously avoided. I have no idea what people did or didn’t know. I am grateful for the coworker that gave me a hug, and the other one who took me to lunch that day, but I don’t mind admitting that it would have made my return much easier if there were some daisies or something on my desk to let me know I had been missed, that people cared that I was okay. Instead, I felt like I had let me team down by being gone so long, so jumped into work like nothing had happened so I could pick up my slack. I kicked myself for being silly over a stupid thing like a get-well-card.

Logically, I know it’s not inappropriate to wish I had been more warmly welcomed back. I know that it’s normal  to struggle over these new memories. My emotions and unconscious acceptance of social stigma aside, with everything I’ve been through it would be no surprise if I were still in the hospital now, five months later. Think about it. I am a person who has known more violence in the first 25 years of my life than most people ever experience in a lifetime. I had come to terms with all that, had accepted it and moved on, and even helped others. Now to find out that on top of everything else, I had been raped as a child? And one of my sisters, too? And that my mother – probably due to her own struggles – allowed these things to happen, and was even present? That there may have been drugs involved?

I think it’s understandable for me to have felt that enough is enough. I’ve had more than my fair share, and last June I needed to stop the world and get off for a bit. The important thing is that I got back on the world, and relatively quickly, all things considered. Sure, it’ll be several more months before I’m completely back to normal, whatever that is, but I’m happy and working and taking care of my family and setting great future goals.

Growing up the way I did, it’s a miracle I’m not in jail, a junkie, an alcoholic, a prostitute, or dead. I beat the statistics. How many teenage runaways go to college and graduate with honors in just three years? How many children who grow up in households with 15 years of recurring, unpredictable violence are able to break the cycle and successfully raise smart, healthy, happy children of their own?

I want to be the best possible mother to my girls. I want to have mastery in my career and be a pillar of strength to the people in my life and my community. I did the right thing by checking myself into the hospital, so I could achieve those goals. I stand by that decision.

Of course I will continue to have good days and bad days for awhile. This is all still relatively new to me. Of course I should continue to reach out for help with my mental and emotional health, as much as I do for my physical health. That’s what a responsible person does.

One day, regular mental health checkups will be as normal and commonplace as regular physicals. One day, our healthcare system and insurance companies will realize that humanity is a sentient species, much more than just physical mammals, and our healthcare should reflect that.

Meanwhile, I’ll keep writing about my experience with PTSD both in and out of the hospital. Hopefully, this inside view will help people understand and accept that it is normal and expected that a human being will have mental health issues. Hopefully my story will help the movement to end the stigma. After all, silence is the enemy of change.