The Reality of PTSD as a Result of My Disability

*This post was originally posted on my first blog. I felt like it was applicable to the fear and anxiety I still have related to my past. I’m working through it of course, but change doesn’t happen overnight. It’s just one day at a time.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always been a nervous person. Along with those nerves, I was also very scared, especially as a kid. Rather than using the word “fears,” I was simply told by my parents and my doctors that I had a “vivid imagination.”

Because of this vivid imagination, I remember one specific time when I was 12 and my parents waited a while before they told me about a specific scheduled surgery. I understand now that they didn’t want to alert me to it too far in advance because they knew I’d essentially be a nervous wreck right up until I had to go in for surgery. Though I can understand this now and I know it was a protective measure, I didn’t see it that way when it happened. I remember the night my parents sat me down to tell me about a surgery that would be occurring in about a month. I couldn’t exactly comprehend at first that my parents had waited to tell me, but once I did I immediately started to worry. Not long after that moment, the dreams I would always have leading up to a big operation started. The most common, of course, was the dream in which I woke up during surgery.

Due to my “vivid imagination,” my dreams were exceptionally vivid. In my dream, I was lying on the operating table. My eyes were open, and I was seeing everything. The doctors had the femur of my left leg in their hands, and they were twisting it to the left in order to straighten it out. Though I couldn’t feel any pain in the dream, I could imagine it, which was almost as bad. I looked at the doctor’s gloves, which were covered in blood, my blood. In a room as white as the operating room, the red seemed out of place. And yet, there it was. On the doctor’s hands was the blood that ran through my very veins. As I watched the doctors attempt to “fix” what was “not normal,” I tried to scream out. My mouth opened to make any kind of sound, but nothing happened. I tried to move. I focused so hard on trying to simply raise my right hand off the table, but it was too heavy. The doctors had to know I was awake. If they knew, they’d stop. If they knew, it would all be over. I just needed to do something to get their attention, but they were so focused on my legs. They didn’t even glance up towards my face, not even once, to see the fear and the anguish that was mirrored in my eyes. I wanted nothing more than to get as far away from that room as possible. I wanted to get away from the dead quiet that enveloped me like a blanket that was too heavy, practically suffocating me. The moment I closed my eyes to escape the horror I was seeing, I woke up.

When I woke up from this dream, I felt like I could barely breathe. Without even giving it a second thought, I yanked back the covers to look at my legs. I touched them to make sure they were still intact, still closed up tight. I looked on my legs, my hands, and my sheets for the blood. The blood that had been so incredibly red, so out of place in that white room. With my sweaty palms resting on my knees, my emotions took over. I cried out, knowing that tears couldn’t do this type of fear justice. I rocked back and forth, holding the stuffed teddy bear that was tucked into the bed beside me, and knowing as I started to shake that the tears were coming. When my body finally allowed me to cry, I curled up on my side, hugging the stuffed teddy bear to my chest like a shield, and let my tears speak for me. After the immediate emotion passed and I was curled up into the tightest ball I could form, I began to hum. I hummed the lullaby that my dad so often sung to me when he’d rock me in his mother’s rocking chair on the nights I couldn’t sleep. Eventually, sleep tugged at me again, and I opened my eyes for a pleading moment as I looked into the darkness, knowing the dream was waiting for me.

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The Road to Acceptance

In the world of disability, there is a term known as “acceptance,” as in….acceptance of your disability and all that it means for you. I’m going to be honest. I’m 25, and I’ve had Cerebral Palsy since birth, but there are still plenty of days where I get just plain frustrated with my CP. Typically, most of my frustrations are aimed at the outside world and the lack of understanding of disabilities (physical and mental) in general. Yes, there are a lot of positive changes for the disability community, like the Americans with Disabilities Act and the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act. However, there is much more work to be done, and we can’t stop here. No matter how positive your outlook, 100% overcoming societal stigma experienced by being a member of the largest minority in the world is close to impossible (at least in my opinion), and for me, that is the hardest thing about being disabled. Living my day-to-day life with CP is a walk in the park compared to societal stigmas and societal responses to having a disability. I don’t know how many times I’ve gotten pissed because someone has parked in a handicapped spot without a handicapped placard or someone has parked in the access lane next to a handicapped spot and/or parked in front of an access ramp because they are “just waiting on someone and they’ll only be a few minutes.” Because, news flash, those spots and accommodations are there for those that need them. Just be respectful and realize that.

It’s safe to say I haven’t reached the point where I’ve fully accepted my disability. However, I’m doing much, much better with it now than even just a few years ago. I’ve gotten more comfortable expressing my needs and asking for help when I need it. I’ve started to better understand the reality of getting older with my disability as opposed to still thinking I can do the things I did even 5 years ago. I’ve settled in, in a sense. For some, that may look like giving up. But trust me, I’m far from it. I’m way too much of a fighter to stop trying to have the most fulfilling life possible. Trust me, those who know me know that “giving up” does not even exist in my vocabulary. Yes, being disabled is just a piece of who I am, but from my standpoint, it’s a pretty big piece simply due to how much it impacts me on a daily basis.

Best of all, I’ve reached a point where I actually want to utilize my experiences of living with CP to connect with and help others. That used to not be the case. I used to want to get as far away from my disability as I could. Simply put, I was in denial, and I was in a space where I just felt like I couldn’t process all the emotions that come with living with a disability. Day by day, I’m processing through those emotions. And best of all, processing all those feelings is best done for me through writing. I have a feeling that’s partly because not only do I love to write, but I am hopeful that my words will connect with someone else, even if only in a small way.

So, have I fully accepted my disability? Likely not. And why do you ask? Because there is always, always more work to be done on ourselves and more thoughts, emotions, and situations to sift through. I’m content with that, though. As long as I’m processing through things and changing, I’m growing and ultimately becoming the person I’m meant to be. And for me, there’s nothing better.