PTSD Symptoms: Deciding to Seek Help, Part 2

For a long time I thought I was stronger than my trauma. After all, I had survived it, so that meant something, right? I was tough. It wasn't going to beat me twice. It wasn't going to beat me once - I was done with it. Over it. Fini! Oh, those symptoms? They're not trauma related...

I would have gone on suffering and struggling forever if I hadn't reached a day that something broke in me and I accepted the fact that I could not continue the way I was, and that I could not get where I needed to go alone, and that there was definitely a psychological snag that was hanging me up.

While the circumstances of the day we each decide to seek help are different, I think what we may have in common is the fact that we reach a turning point. Something in us shifts, something happens, someone points out something, asks the right questions, makes the right comment, and if we step 0utside the pain for a minute - or go deeper into it than we usually care to go - we recognize the fact that trauma is bigger than we are, and that we need some help, guidance, intervention, philosophy, method, plan or strategy to map out how we will rise up and overcome it.

That day for me came in December 1998. I'd been physically very ill for a year and a half. After an allergic reaction to a medication (if we're looking for triggers, yes, that was one of mine) something had gone very wrong with my stomach, small intestine and liver. I'd gone from 130 pounds to 105 and was continuing to lose weight with no end in sight. My organs weren't functioning properly, my body could take in no nutrients and this condition was mystifying the medical community. Despite seeing multiple specialists in New York City I was wasting away in a desert of medical support. And then came the day I met with a world-famous doctor, someone on whom I pinned all my hopes for salvation.

After an entire day of tests at Dr. A's center, we met to discuss the results. He made a bunch of suggestions and referrals, all of which I'd already tried. Finally, he fell silent, shuffled my file on his desk and knit his brow.

Then he sighed and said, "I haven't seen a case this difficult in.... seven years. I'm afraid I'm stumped."

I stared at him in silence.

"I wish I could do more," he said, standing up. "I'm sorry."

I knew I was supposed to stand up, but I couldn't. I was stunned. I was used to doctors not having answers. I was even getting used to them having answers that were wrong. But I was completely unprepared for one who would not even try to suggest something that might bring me relief.

"I'm afraid that's all," the doctor said as he moved toward the door. He opened it, and then stood waiting for me to walk through.

In a fog I stepped out of the office into the December cold and walked west. The city was already mounting its huge display of holiday cheer. The electric snowflake sparkled above Fifth Avenue. Saks' windows hosted those signature motorized scenes that I'd loved as a little girl. This year, however, it all annoyed me. There were too many people jostling me in the street. The air was too cold, the wind too searing. Holiday promotions were highlighted everywhere and the city was bustling with an influx of happy tourists and I -

I shivered beneath five layers of sweaters, two scarves, thick gloves and a hat. Irrational and unstoppable tears spilled onto my cheeks. As I walked Grinch-like in the early dusk toward Park Avenue I imagined myself wasting away to a skeleton. A single thought plagued me: If the top doctors in New York City could not help me what would become of me? How would I survive? How could I survive if no one could figure out what was wrong or how to cure me? How could I exist if I kept losing weight? I saw nothing in the future except my slow, starved deterioration. There was my body, with its skin hanging loosely over its skeleton; and me, wandering the streets searching for a cure. There was my body, once again doing something no one could understand, diagnose, or treat; and me, again, alone and sick and frightened.

As I turned south onto Park Avenue I couldn't help myself. The tears poured out. Too tired for embarrassment, I stood there watching the after work crowd shuffle by with heads down into the wind. At first I remained motionless and let the tears flow. But then I got so comfortable I really let myself go and sobbed until I was completely worn out.

Finally, I went to the nearest pay phone. I was only a few blocks from my father's office where he and my mother worked together. When my father answered the phone I burst into a fresh round of tears.

"Michele? What's wrong? Where are you?"

I couldn't answer and then my mother's voice was on the line.

"Michele, what's happened?"

"He can't help me," I said between sobs.

"Oh, honey...."

"What's going to happen to me? What am I going to do?"

"Maybe it's time for you to get a different kind of help."

It was at that moment I realized she was right. I did need psychological help. I could no longer endure these symptoms on my own, nor could I pretend that I was stronger than the shadow hovering over me.

I shifted.

The next day I sought help.

And then my world broke wide open and the path to healing revealed itself: It was my mind that needed to be healed, not my body. (As a side note: the physical symptoms all vanished as the invisible wounds were tended.)

Sometimes, the thing we fight against most - seeking help from ourselves, friends, family or professionals - is exactly the thing we need to heal. We aren't meant to overcome trauma all alone. The more we fight this fact the further we move from freedom.

What moment shifted everything for you? If you haven't yet made the decision to seek help, what's holding you back?

(Photo: Ansy)