[TRIGGER WARNING: VIVID DEPICTIONS OF POST-TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER]
I wake up with shaking hands, a racing heart, and the urge to run away as far as possible. I shiver beneath the thick duvet covering my body, coldness clinging to the spots on my face where tears had trailed earlier. With every hiccup that makes its way out of my mouth, every sob, and every beat of my heart, I feel like I’ve been transported back to that day again, that feeling of helplessness freezing my bones as it had done that day.
I close my eyes to calm myself down, but it seems to have the opposite effect. As my eyelids shut down and darkness envelops me for a brief second, a horrifyingly familiar scene replaces the blankness I crave. I open my eyes with a gasp, but it is too late. The memory has instilled itself in the front of my mind, playing itself over and over again like a broken record as fear grips me by the throat.
It feels like I’m standing on that wretched street again– I can almost smell the waft of freshly baked goods from the store behind me, the chill of the cold wind against my face, and can hear the high-pitched, terrified male scream that dominated every sound in that street; the last sound the man had ever made in his life again. It had happened quickly, way too quickly. One minute I had been walking down the street with music in my ears and a chocolate in my hands, and the next moment, I had stopped with shock, the chocolate colliding with the footpath and one earphone falling out of my ears as my stunned eyes struggled to process what was happening in front of me.
I had been paces away, I could’ve easily helped, could’ve done something. I was closest to the glass door that opened into the small ATM booth. That glass door was halfway open, and I was mere paces away, watching with dumbfounded eyes and frozen limbs as two masked men threatened the man withdrawing his cash with guns in their hands. Several people were standing in the street behind me, but I was the closest to the man– it had been me who heard the man wail out in anguish, getting a front seat to his pleas and cries as he begged the burglars to show him some mercy, that he was a single parent and his daughter needed him.
It had been me who heard his pained scream up close when one of the masked men shot his shoulder, demanding more money. It had been me who saw the dread in the man’s eyes as he gazed up. It was me who could see the malice glinting in the masked men’s eyes.
The helpless man had locked his eyes with me, begging me wordlessly to do something, his mouth opening in a wordless prayer as tears trailed down his cheeks. And I had been the one who saw the splatter of blood against the transparent glass in the end when a bullet had embedded itself in the man’s chest, followed by two more shots that collided with a sick sound, a drop of blood landing on my shirt due to the force. I was the one who saw the light leave the man’s eyes, which were still locked with mine as he died. I was the one who saw the burglars run away, my eyes still stuck to the horrifying crime scene as one of my earphones stuck to my ear continued to play that song I had been listening to moments ago.
“There was nothing you could’ve done,” my mother had murmured to me as her warm embrace enveloped me hours afterward. That wasn’t true– I could’ve done something. I was close enough to hurt one of the masked men, and the surprise of my attack would’ve thrown them off guard. I could’ve called the police. I could’ve done something other than watch the light leave the man’s eyes, my stupid body frozen even after the police arrived and the ambulance carted away the man’s body.
A fresh layer of fear coats itself over all of my feelings as my shaking fingers clutch my hair to get the scene out of my head, get the fright out of my mind. But I can’t. I know I can’t. It has been five months since I’ve seen that man die in front of me, but I experience that horror every day. I see it happening vividly, and I’m reliving that moment all over again, my heart aching and my body freezing.
I can't fall back asleep after that. I spent the rest of the night pacing the length of my room, overwhelmed with anxiety and fear. I compulsively check if my windows are locked, if my door is locked, feeling unsafe in my own house and my room. I remain awake until the sun cracks out and signs of dawn start to filter through my curtains, scared for my safety. It wasn’t just fear. The feeling of guilt and shame overwhelms me every day, and I can’t help but think about the man I witnessed getting murdered that day– his life, his daughter, and a family that could’ve remained happy and untouched if I had done something that day instead of watching with dumb eyes and my stupid frozen limbs. What happened with his daughter now? Just thinking about it made me shudder.
I am a shell of who I was before. No longer the girl who topped all her exams, adored by all of her schoolmates, who was the female lead in her band, with melodies flowing in her mind and notebooks full of made-up lyrics, no longer the girl who dreamed of becoming a music artist someday. I’m the opposite. My grades had dropped– I could no longer concentrate in classes and barely form a proper string of words for socializing with others because I wished to be alone. I no longer found solace in the things I love.
And music? A bitter chuckle threatened to escape my lips as the thought sped through my mind. I couldn’t even listen to a second of rock songs, let alone sing. It was our band’s primary genre and a genre I loved. But since that day, even listening to a song that resembled the one I had been listening to kicked my body into overdrive. It took me back to that day when one earphone had covered my ear, but the other hadn’t– while I could hear the heavy beats of the drum and the catchy lyrics, another part of me was overwhelmed by the terrified screams, threatening voices and the sounds of bullets embedding themselves into flesh, the sick sound of blood splatter, terrified screams, and sirens. The genre that I loved was the background scores for the sick renditions of that awful, awful day, and even listening to a bit of those songs transported me back to that day, stealing breath away from my lungs and producing a fear so huge in my mind that it threatened to wipe me out.
I started avoiding that street, choosing to take a long detour instead. I distanced myself from others, bearing all the sleepless nights with intense nightmares and vivid flashbacks. I go through the daily routines every day, feeling numb to it all. Every moment I spend outside, I feel vulnerable and exposed, glancing at my surroundings almost every five seconds to make sure no one is coming onto me with their guns blazing.
My eyes threaten to flutter shut during school hours, the lack of sleep catching up with me. But a sudden, banging noise rang through the air, a noise that was way too similar to the gunshots that day. I jolt upwards, my heart slamming against my chest, nausea rolling the contents in my stomach as tears fill my eyes, terror lighting up my entire system. That single bang echoes in my ears over and over again until I see it all over again in front of my eyes, fear shutting my entire system off.
It becomes harder and harder for me to take oxygen into my lungs. I can feel my entire body trembling, my hands shaking as the opposite of it occurs in my mind– my mind shutting down due to the intense fear and terror. Bang. Bang. Bang. Those sounds reverberated in my mind again, accompanied by the man’s horrified screams and the terrified look in his eyes as he begged me to do something wordlessly. Bang. Bang. I see red splatter across my white shirt again, the light leaving the man’s eyes. The man’s screams pierce my ears again, drowning in the sound of heavy rock playing in the background like a broken record.
I sob, struggling to breathe. My heart aches as my fingers tremble, sweat dripping down my forehead as a wave of dizziness hits me. This is it– I’m dying, I thought, totally convinced. But that thought brought on a completely new wave of terror and horror, drowning me in it. I remember tasting the metallic tang of terror in my mouth, and the buzz and murmurs of students around me made it worse.
I scream into the fabric of my T-shirt, curling into a ball and burying my head into the crook of my knees, praying that this feeling would end.
I had been taken to the hospital shortly after that incident, where I was later told that the sound I heard– the sound that I thought was a gunshot had just been the sound of a metal box falling from a table.
I could feel my heart sinking when my father told me that, tears brimming in my eyes. What happened to me? I’m barely functioning, mind and body collapsing entirely after listening to a box fall, constantly living in fear and worry, and everything that made me change.
That evening, my parents had scheduled an appointment with a psychologist. Familiar feelings of dread and anxiety battled inside me as I walked to the door and turned the knob. But as I sat down in front of the psychologist who gave me a warm, comforting smile, a small bud of hope bloomed in my chest, a positive feeling I hadn’t experienced in months. Maybe I would turn out to be alright someday. I knew it was going to be a long, rocky journey to get to that day, but I was willing to talk about those horrors again if it assured me a peace-filled day in the future.
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This is a glimpse of the everyday life of someone with PTSD. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is a psychiatric disorder that may occur in people who have experienced or witnessed a traumatic event, series of events, or set of circumstances. An individual may experience this as emotionally or physically harmful or life-threatening and may affect mental, physical, social, and/or spiritual well-being. This is the story of a fictional character whose experiences are written for a better understanding of this condition.
If you feel like your experiences are similar to what is being portrayed in this blog, do not hesitate to reach out for help. Asking for help doesn’t mean that you are weak.
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*Check out the previous blog in the 'Living with' series, "Living with Bulimia", here: https://www.psychophilics.com/post/living-with-bulimia*
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