After diagnosing me with a severe form of PTSD, the therapist told me that it would never go away. The symptoms, however, could be managed. Formally, I have paperwork from a psychologist that says I have Autism Spectrum Disorder and Major Depressive Disorder. It did occur to me to see another psychologist to formalize my PTSD diagnosis, and get paperwork that officially says I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. And, depending on the psychologist, they might add another diagnosis as a comorbidity because, while Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is recognized internationally by the World Health Organization, the disorder is not recognized as a distinct diagnosis in the United States by the American Psychiatric Association. In any case, I have PTSD, whatever the flavor is.
And PTSD is something I often minimize, which is why I’ve thought of formalizing the diagnosis. After giving a therapist my “Trauma Timeline,” which is a spreadsheet of every traumatic thing I experienced and the age of the event, I asked them if they were sure if the diagnosis was right, that I had PTSD. And that was one of the few times in my life where someone looking at me with shock as if I were Earth’s biggest moron was validating—I was validated. I still minimize sometimes, but not as much as I used to. I’ve accepted it—accepted these diagnoses in some form or another.
The nightmares aren’t as bad as they used to be, though I’m still afraid to close my eyes some nights. The hypervigilance isn’t as bad, either, in that I feel like I can sit still and be ok with it; I don’t have to go on these marathon walks or exercise sessions to exhaust my body so my brain will feel relief. The intrusive thoughts are there, though, but they don’t sting as much. And there are lots of thoughts—lots of intrusive thoughts I unfortunately still draw upon over the years. I don’t reexperience them like I used to. They’re more in the distance. I’m not sure how much of that distance is due to dissociation and how much is therapeutic processing, though.
I’m at the point with it all, though, where I’m left wondering “why?” And I mean this as if to ask various people who inflicted the trauma upon me what was going on with them. I’d never do it, though. I never want to interact with these people again. Some, I even hope are in a better place, or happy, or that life has become good to them. But I still wonder “why?” even though it is extremely absurd, given how disproportionate it all has become. It’s so disproportionate that it’s almost a contradiction. And I mean it is disproportionate through the following idealized example:
EXT. CITY – DAY
CAMERA looks down at the sidewalk filled with people going to work. There is a lone man with a multi-colored backpack and a bicycle exiting a building.
ANGLE. BEHIND THE MAN ON THE BICYCLE
LOUIS rides through the sea of people to get to the TRAIN STATION
FRONT ANGLE. CU. LOUIS’s FACE.
EXT. TRANSTATION – DAY
LOUIS is on the TRAIN PLATFORM. He looks down at something, then squints and lifts it into view. It is his PHONE. He’s fiddling with the screen as a TRAIN arrives on the platform behind him.
People unload from the train and wait on the crowded platform.
LOUIS pulls his bicycle close to make room, only to accidentally bump into someone who drops their documents on the crowded platform.
LOUIS
Oh my god! I’m so sorry. Let me help you.
The PERSON looks up. It’s someone LOUIS hasn’t seen in years.
LOUIS
Uh… Well, this is weird.
LOUIS doesn’t move.
PERSON
Wow. How are you? It’s been so long. What
are you doing these days?
LOUIS
Fine… and I’m doing stuff. (A BEAT) So, weird
question. Like, at the end of our relationship,
when you used to hit me a lot, and strangle me,
and smother me in my sleep, and call me names,
and when you ran at me with a knife, what was
up with all that? Like, I remember you telling me
you wouldn’t hit me if I just did what you said,
but the knife thing. Were you just trying to scare
me? Because I have this weird thing with minimizing
my experiences to make them easy to process.
But, one of my friends who’s a combat vet was
like, ‘Louis. You don’t do that to someone unless
you’re trying to kill them.’ So, like, was that what
was going on? Like how much pre-meditation
was there in this. Was it like, if I died, then you’d
be like ‘oopsie daisy’ or something?
HOLD on LOUIS’s face and his plain look. He is without anger or pain.
FADE OUT on his face. HOLD IN BLACK.
THE END.
So yeah. That’s about how I imagine it going. In reality, though, I’d probably have a panic attack and ride off like hell, and hide in a dark closet. Then I’d probably eat a pint of ice cream and need a hug from my wife. But the disproportionality of the experience with where I am at an emotional level with these traumas is surreal. And this quasi script serves as a blueprint for there are a lot of people I’d like to ask a question of. And I’d film it as a montage with me in all sorts of locations. You’d only see my face and me asking the following:
“So like, you know that’s dysfunctional?”
“I was a one-off, right. You don’t do that to others?”
“Did it occur to you that my living in a meth-lab was dangerous for my health?”
And I could go on with the questions as they get increasingly disturbing. But despite all this, and the diagnoses, I’m writing poetry despite what the Secretary of Health says about people with Autism. I’ve done a lot with my life. And my wife and my therapist say I’ve put in a lot of work and done a lot to work on myself. Personally, I think I’m just lucky. But saying I’m lucky might be just another form of minimizing. I need to stop doing that.
I am me 