Hidden Disabilities
Not all disabilities are readily visible. Not all disabilities are easily explained. Not all disabilities are recognized as disabilities.
PTSD or, in my case, C-PTSD is labeled a disorder. It’s right there in the name - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Usually associated with the military it does also happen to non-military. I’m one of the non-military. The C in my diagnosis stands for Complex because there are aspects that began in childhood. That was a surprise as I really thought that living through bombings, dead bodies in the streets, lack of water, living in houses wired for 24/7 audio and visual surveillance, and other assorted oddities would have been enough to cause the disorder. What happens with a disorder is that you are expected to recover. There are drugs to bring your chemicals back into balance, therapy to work through the issues, and coping mechanisms learned for, well, coping. What happens when you don’t fully recover? What happens when the years of therapy, the drugs that keep you stable, and the coping mechanisms only bring you so far? What happens when you’re broken and being put back together has made you something different than what you were?
There are aspects of me that remain the same. I’m still not afraid to speak my mind. I’m still a confident woman when facing the world. I still have the driving need to take care of others, to create comfortable spaces where others can find respite from the world. I’m still intelligent. But there are things I no longer am. I am no longer tireless. No longer is it possible to cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner, clean the house, do the laundry, grocery shop, work in the yard, keep track of doctor appointments for myself, hubby, and kids and go to all of them, go to work, take the kids to activities, go to church and participate in several church activities, give parties, go to parties, plan day trips and vacations, decorate for and celebrate every holiday in the year including birthdays, cope with parents and in-laws, support friends, and take care of animals without missing a step. The very thought is enough to induce a panic attack. Now my time and energy has to be deliberately meted out. Shopping? That’s the event for the day. Well, the morning or afternoon. Too much time and too many people leave me overwhelmed. Household chores? There has to be some order to begin with or it’s overwhelming and stops me cold. Holidays? The idea is still exciting and enticing. The reality is stressful and I may not be able to follow through. Grandkids? I wear out so fast that I can’t be the grandmother I want to be. Friends who need respite, advice, a sounding board? I am no longer the rock from whom others can continually draw strength. My emotional strength is sapped as quickly as water runs down the drain. I crave order when I once thrived on chaos but am unable to create that order on my own. I love the loud mess and love of family but can’t function when surrounded by it. I love going out and doing things but can’t contend with the press of people.
I also live with the fact that my body has failed me. A serious illness damaged parts of me beyond repair and left me with PSS (Post Sepsis Syndrome). This includes PTSD-like symptoms along with a vulnerability to illness. I pick up illnesses from others at a single sniffle. Sneeze in my direction and, if I’m lucky, I’ll only end up with a sinus infection. None of this is visible to the casual observer but nonetheless impacts my daily life.
There are times, sometimes months, when I am up and about and busy and capable. There are also times when just getting out of bed is a major struggle. Sometimes those times turn into months. My disability ebbs and flows. How can that be explained without sounding like whining? The world has been made aware of PTSD (in fairness, PSS is new and rare). The world has been told that it takes time but it can be fixed. The world expects me to be me again.
What has happened is that I am deeply and profoundly changed by hidden disabilities, a brokenness that won’t heal. I am willing but not always capable. I am strong but must mete out that strength carefully. I am an emotional rock for those in real need but not an island for all. I am available but the balance of time that I can give and time I need to myself is weighted towards me. I need patience but not pity. I am broken but still a whole. I am a new me.
PTSD or, in my case, C-PTSD is labeled a disorder. It’s right there in the name - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Usually associated with the military it does also happen to non-military. I’m one of the non-military. The C in my diagnosis stands for Complex because there are aspects that began in childhood. That was a surprise as I really thought that living through bombings, dead bodies in the streets, lack of water, living in houses wired for 24/7 audio and visual surveillance, and other assorted oddities would have been enough to cause the disorder. What happens with a disorder is that you are expected to recover. There are drugs to bring your chemicals back into balance, therapy to work through the issues, and coping mechanisms learned for, well, coping. What happens when you don’t fully recover? What happens when the years of therapy, the drugs that keep you stable, and the coping mechanisms only bring you so far? What happens when you’re broken and being put back together has made you something different than what you were?
There are aspects of me that remain the same. I’m still not afraid to speak my mind. I’m still a confident woman when facing the world. I still have the driving need to take care of others, to create comfortable spaces where others can find respite from the world. I’m still intelligent. But there are things I no longer am. I am no longer tireless. No longer is it possible to cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner, clean the house, do the laundry, grocery shop, work in the yard, keep track of doctor appointments for myself, hubby, and kids and go to all of them, go to work, take the kids to activities, go to church and participate in several church activities, give parties, go to parties, plan day trips and vacations, decorate for and celebrate every holiday in the year including birthdays, cope with parents and in-laws, support friends, and take care of animals without missing a step. The very thought is enough to induce a panic attack. Now my time and energy has to be deliberately meted out. Shopping? That’s the event for the day. Well, the morning or afternoon. Too much time and too many people leave me overwhelmed. Household chores? There has to be some order to begin with or it’s overwhelming and stops me cold. Holidays? The idea is still exciting and enticing. The reality is stressful and I may not be able to follow through. Grandkids? I wear out so fast that I can’t be the grandmother I want to be. Friends who need respite, advice, a sounding board? I am no longer the rock from whom others can continually draw strength. My emotional strength is sapped as quickly as water runs down the drain. I crave order when I once thrived on chaos but am unable to create that order on my own. I love the loud mess and love of family but can’t function when surrounded by it. I love going out and doing things but can’t contend with the press of people.
I also live with the fact that my body has failed me. A serious illness damaged parts of me beyond repair and left me with PSS (Post Sepsis Syndrome). This includes PTSD-like symptoms along with a vulnerability to illness. I pick up illnesses from others at a single sniffle. Sneeze in my direction and, if I’m lucky, I’ll only end up with a sinus infection. None of this is visible to the casual observer but nonetheless impacts my daily life.
There are times, sometimes months, when I am up and about and busy and capable. There are also times when just getting out of bed is a major struggle. Sometimes those times turn into months. My disability ebbs and flows. How can that be explained without sounding like whining? The world has been made aware of PTSD (in fairness, PSS is new and rare). The world has been told that it takes time but it can be fixed. The world expects me to be me again.
What has happened is that I am deeply and profoundly changed by hidden disabilities, a brokenness that won’t heal. I am willing but not always capable. I am strong but must mete out that strength carefully. I am an emotional rock for those in real need but not an island for all. I am available but the balance of time that I can give and time I need to myself is weighted towards me. I need patience but not pity. I am broken but still a whole. I am a new me.
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