Haunted by PTSD
TW: child molestation, incest
There is one diagnosis that I have never truly taken the time to accept or understand: PTSD. My psychiatrist told me I had PTSD within five seconds of meeting me and when I asked why she would diagnose me with that, she said calmly, “because you were molested.” I thought for sure she was wrong about this diagnosis. However, considering my interactions with men, especially those in my family, I suppose I understand her reasoning.
I remember the first time a family member touched me inappropriately. I was eleven. It was summertime and I was wearing an orange halter top shirt (which should have had nothing to do with what ensued, but from a young age people are prone to internalize rape culture and victim-blame). I remember being confused when he pulled me onto his lap and tentatively dipped his fingers in my underwear. I assumed his hand slipped because surely my relative would not touch me like this on purpose.
As naive as it was, I:
wanted to assume the best of him and
2. assumed that incest only happened in caucasian families.
That misconception is mainly because when it does happen in the Black community, we sweep it under the rug and pretend it never happened. My family appeared to be no different.
I told my mom what happened sometime after Christmas. It happened a couple more times since that first time, and each time my mind struggled to accept that what transpired was intentional on his part. It was pretty easy to rationalize his abuse because it wasn’t violent and it didn’t cause me pain; it just made me uncomfortable.
I don’t remember how I confessed these atrocities to my mother or what words I used. But I do remember sitting down with my mother and his mother who explained to me that “teenage boys have urges they don’t know how to control.” By now at twelve years of age, I simply nodded along, silently agreeing to sweep it under the rug as the adults seemed eager to do. As an adult, I’ve been assured that a lot was going on behind the scenes that I was not aware of. I hadn’t been ignored, although it seemed like it at the time due to a lack of communication.
What I didn’t realize then was how the language used normalized the situation. I knew what he did was wrong, but it seemed like it was to be expected, and I began to look at every man in my life with suspicion from that day forward. Many years later when a male cousin found out I had moved to Brooklyn, close to his apartment, he invited me out for dinner. On my way there he told me he was running late and suggested I swing by his place first so I wasn’t waiting alone in public. I immediately assumed the worst. I did not want to be alone in an apartment with a male relative. Besides, I’d been in a full house the last time I was touched inappropriately and nobody was any wiser. I went into a mild panic attack in the Uber, calling my mom frantically over FaceTime because I thought it was the most nefarious thing that my cousin suggested I go to his apartment. I told him it was no problem and I’d just meet him at the restaurant and wait for him there. We had a good meal together and a good time talking, but internally I was shaken. Our whole interaction was tainted by my fear. Since childhood I expected every man to be a predator, familial relation notwithstanding, and I was on edge.
Recently I was getting ready to go to another male cousin’s house. I closed the door to my house and started to walk down the steps when I abruptly turned around and came back inside the house. Something seemed wrong. My mom, who just watched me leave, looked confused. Did I forget something? No. “Should I change my clothes?” I asked before I reminded myself that no, leggings aren’t sexual, and my cousin wasn’t a creep who would sexualize me. I turned right back around and jogged down the steps, slightly shaken by my reaction- a subconscious reminder of the trauma I thought I’d buried long ago. My cousin and I had a nice time together. We worked on my website together, he cooked me dinner, and on my way out the door, almost as an afterthought, he told me my outfit was cute. We’d had such a great evening together and I was nervous the entire time. I cried on my way home from his house.
The outfit I was wearing to go visit my cousin that I was worried was too inappropriate.
According to mayoclinic.org PTSD can be categorized by several symptoms:
Intrusive memories
Recurrent, unwanted distressing memories of the traumatic event
Reliving the traumatic event as if it were happening again (flashbacks)
Upsetting dreams or nightmares about the traumatic event
Severe emotional distress or physical reactions to something that reminds you of the traumatic event
Avoidance
Trying to avoid thinking or talking about the traumatic event
Avoiding places, activities, or people that remind you of the traumatic event
Negative changes in thinking and mood
Negative thoughts about yourself, other people, or the world
Hopelessness about the future
Memory problems, including not remembering important aspects of the traumatic event
Difficulty maintaining close relationships
Feeling detached from family and friends
Lack of interest in activities you once enjoyed
Difficulty experiencing positive emotions
Feeling emotionally numb
Changes in physical and emotional reactions
Being easily startled or frightened
Always being on guard for danger
Self-destructive behavior, such as drinking too much or driving too fast
Trouble sleeping
Trouble concentrating
Irritability, angry outbursts, or aggressive behavior
Overwhelming guilt or shame
I used to think, based on media portrayal, that PTSD was limited to panic attacks and flashbacks. Nothing I had ever experienced was that dramatic. For years, I had even convinced myself that being molested was no big deal. Obviously, I barely had a relationship with my offending family member after that, and I’d thought that I, too, had become successful at sweeping the past under the rug. We would see each other at family gatherings and I would even hug him, rather than make a scene by rejecting his touch.
Now as I’m grappling with accepting this diagnosis for the first time, I am realizing how I avoid thinking of the past and how I have difficulty maintaining relationships with the men in my family because I’m always on guard for danger. I hate that I have come to view every man in my family with suspicion. Young minds make certain connections with the words they’re given and it can take years to renew those thought processes. I am working to overcome the harmful ways in which it was subconsciously embedded that I’m not safe around my male relatives. Even though my body is on the defensive, and even though I'm scared at times, I know that I have some great cousins and I want to continue to build relationships with them.
Me with one of my cousins, hanging out a couple Easters ago.
Years later, when those in the know ask me about reconciliation etc. I think it is very interesting that they come to the victim to begin peace talks. Those who are wronged should not be the ones to rebuild bridges that the other party burned. Forgiveness does not mean reconciliation. I can say I forgive this family member but in that same vein I don’t really want anything to do with him, and I will probably never feel comfortable around him again. People should respect that. But through open and honest communication, the members of my family have begun to lift up the rug and discuss the dirt that was kept hidden for so long. I still have hope that we will get to cleaning and I’ll be able to get to healing.
S/O to Candice Blake for editing.
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