The Terrifying Boat Ride In The Original Willy Wonka

I guess it began 6 years ago. Not all at once. Slow. Like a winding river. I would notice myself become paranoid about things that I, at one time, never would have thought twice about. Loud noises made me cry. Literally cry. To the point where one a friend opened a to-go box at a restaurant too loudly and there I was, back in the hospital, tubes up and down my arms. Tube coming out of my nose. Those leg compressor things to make sure I didn’t get blood clots. I tear up. “It was just a box, Anna,” she said, “get over it.” Her words cut sharp. But little did either of us know that I had just been triggered into having a flash-back. Motorcycles and loud cars did it too, made me have flashbacks. I had dreams that my stomach was still open and I had to protect it from being touched in any slight way. But it was okay for a while, manageable. Then this past year and a half happened. I guess it was a combo of bipolar and PTSD, but I went crazy trying to numb this phantom pain of which I did not know the source, nor could have dreamed that it would have been the surgery.

When people ask me what it’s like to learn Arabic as a primary English speaker, I say its like treading water with a brick. I would say the same now that I know what to call this silent foe, except I would add that the water I’m treading is in the middle of the Atlantic, no shore in sight. PTSD.

I wore a hole in my bottom sheet because I barely left my bed for about a month. I couldn’t drive farther than the Starbucks down the road for more than two. I would have panic attacks and nightmares almost every night, for seemingly no reason.

But now I have a name for this foe. I can study it, and learn how to defeat it. I just got an American Translators Association t-shirt in the mail… a glimmer of hope. I’m going to live. I’m going to live fully. I’m going to be a translator if I want, or a ballerina, or a pilot. I will not let mental illness stop me.

If you’ve read this far, welcome to my journey. It’s not always pretty, but I can promise it will be gritty and I will come out better on the other side. I hope you stay along for the ride (and for the record it will not be like the terrifying boat ride in the original Willy Wonka that traumatized us all as children.. maybe a little terrifying at times but no Oompa Loompas). See you all on the journey!

My PTSD Diagnosis

The last few episodes of season three of This Is Us dealt with Jack and his little brother Nicky’s PTSD from events in Vietnam. Silent tears rolled down my face. ‘I understand,’ I thought. The scenes resonated deeply with me and I had no idea why; I had never seen war. But maybe I have.

Today, my psychiatrist diagnosed me with PTSD. I can’t say I was shocked. These last six years and particularly year and a half have been the most painful, confusing, and scary years of my life. Since I heard the words from a genteel middle-aged doctor, “You have cancer.” One silent tear rolled down my face as my mom sobbed in the corner. I texted my three best friends at the time, Anna, Daytona, and Danielle. “What does a ‘mass in your pancreas’ mean?” Danielle asked. I didn’t yet know, but I would soon find out.

Surgery and recovery were brutal, and I’m not being dramatic. But over the course of the last six years, I would find myself having frequent flashbacks to the worst nights in the hospital and nightmares that my stomach was still cut wide open.

It got worse a year and a half ago: anxiety reared its ugly head. I couldn’t leave my bed for weeks except to see my boyfriend (for some reason, I could always get out of bed to see my boyfriend, I still don’t know how). I barely ate, I had panic attacks complete with hyperventilation. Flashbacks and paranoia. I haven’t functioned right for a long time.

While I later cried over this diagnosis—another hurdle to jump over—I also felt awash with a strange sense of relief. I finally have an answer for the past six years of hell. Like death in reverse makes sense.¹

I am still going to take my medications prescribed predominantly for Bipolar but they would be what I would get for PTSD anyways. I am working hard to find the right counselor to work through these traumas with.

If you think of me, say a prayer that I find healing and wholeness and can finally move on from my time with cancer and find life abundant. There’s lots of life for me to live and I want to live if fully.

To Him be the glory,

Amen.

1. listen to JMM's song Death In Reverse

Grief On The Fourth Of July

I feel weak. Physically weak. And nauseous. And my scar hurts… a “physical memory” my therapist says. I like to think it just makes me more like Harry Potter, except for the part that when his scar hurt, it was because Voldemort, Pure Evil, was near. Death is Pure Evil and will be the last enemy to be destroyed.¹ But man, I wish it would be the first enemy to go. I wish it wasn’t part of being human, but since the time of Adam and Eve, it has been.

Grief strikes at the oddest times. So today, I am weary. I am alone in bed listening to sad music (see my “On the Mend” playlist on Spotify). It’s the fourth of july but I feel like I have the emotional stomach flu. I am weary. My stomach tenses up. I have to conscientiously unclench it. It’s done that ever since surgery. I actually have been throwing up but I don’t know when or why it happens. I am tired. I slept for 17 hours last night. I think one way my body deals with grief is by physically shutting down. I was invited several places today for the celebration but I’m not going to any. It’s too sad… it’s all too sad. And that is okay. It’s okay to stay in for the night, sometimes. To curl up in bed with a book literally called, The Path of Loneliness, by Elisabeth Elliot.

I remember the fourth five years ago. Sitting in the home I shared with some friends Sitting alone and staring at a wall. I was in the worst depressive episode of my life (the worst because it was unmedicated). I think I called my dad and he drove across Chesapeake to make sure I didn’t kill myself (yes, it was that bad).

Celebration can be the worst thing for a grief-stricken person, embedding bitterness deep within his or her psyche. So I chose to not party today, to not celebrate with my friends. To not pretend to be happy when I’m not. And that’s okay. Sometimes it’s okay for the grief-afflicted to take a breather. I definitely did today. I stared blankly into space for hours before I called my dad up, so much like Father God, and told him all that afflicted me. But the end of our conversation I was cracking jokes. Grace.

I know I’ve had so many stream of consciousness posts lately and I’m sorry, it’s just the place I’m in. But if I could convey one thing to those that are grieving it would be that it’s okay to take a break. Breathe. Scream. Whisper. Believe. Don’t believe. You have permission. Much love, Anna

1. "The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death" (1 Cor. 15.26 KJV).