I spent over 10 years with my first psychiatrist. She thought my biggest issue was depression, and medicated me for it. Then, I spent almost 10 years with my second. He felt depression was still present, but there was anxiety as well, which meant more meds. And now I was with my third. We’d only been together about a year. She agreed with all prior diagnoses and prescriptions, but felt there were mood issues too. She added even more meds. 

If the reason I switched doctors was that I felt like my diagnosis was wrong and the medication was wrong, why did they just keep adding a new diagnosis and more pills? Isn’t that wrong? In my high school years, I was a science nerd, so I’m familiar with the scientific method. Mrs. Martone would have certainly failed us if we designed an experiment like that! As a doctor, how can you ever know whether you’ve fixed the original problem with the first pill, if you just keep adding more pills?

By the time the third psychiatrist wrote another prescription, I was fed up with the bad science. I finally said to her, “You can’t possibly know what’s wrong with me. What are we even treating anymore? I’m on like six different pills! My side effects have side effects.” 

And here’s what she replied, “But you need the pills to be happy.”

I laughed. Snarfed. Probably scoffed. And then, the hysterics. Once I could take a breath, I offered this, “I adamantly believe that I don’t need your pills. They make me miserable. I need to understand who I am and what my issues are without taking any meds.” 

“But Denise, you can’t just stop taking your meds.” 

And she was right. I had already done my research and designed a week-by-week plan to step down off everything safely. And I wasn’t going to go it alone. I was going to step down with my psychologist by my side. The one who I actually trusted. The one who actually knew how to listen. The one who eventually diagnosed me correctly: I had PTSD.

Because in all those years of seeing psychiatrists and getting medicated for things like depression, anxiety, and mood issues what they all missed was the problem wasn’t me, but my marriage. No one gets PTSD—particularly not chronic PTSD—from a happy marriage.

As my brain started to heal from all the over-medicated madness and my mind was becoming my own again, I noticed strange things about my marital memories. 

First, after the PTSD diagnosis—as I was doing intensive work with my psychologist—I’d bring up newly surfacing memories. She’d respond: “You never told me that.” It was as though certain marital memories had gotten lost in my brain somewhere. As though the memory storage got messed up–and now they were all coming back.

Now, I hear what you’re thinking. Perhaps I have a wild imagination. Maybe I’m lying. But my experience matches what the research says: some patients report memory issues after long-term use of antidepressants. We are also starting to see more memoirs about reclaiming ourselves and our memories after long-term psychiatric drug use. Obviously, I’m not alone. 

Also notable about my newly remembered memories—they were the kind you really don’t want to remember. Blocking out bad memories is just a run-of-the-mill psychological defense mechanism. Those symptoms of depression, anxiety, and mood issues that I’d presented to psychiatrists over the years are all common signs of emotional abuse. I was grateful to have my psychologist to help me handle my difficult past that I hadn’t even realized was derailing my present.

Sadly, when memory storage and processing are messed up by medication, we can’t even react properly to the events we’re experiencing. Recently, I’ve been recounting some tough memories with my mom ranging from: 

• Small things like I was never allowed to buy a new bike even though I’ve been an avid cyclist my whole life
• To larger things like I did not spend my daughter’s first birthday with her because “someone” and his mother took my daughter away on an unnecessary trip
• To completely life-altering stuff–like I wasn’t allowed to move anywhere in pursuit of my academic career.

Now that my mom and I can be truly honest about my marriage, she says, “I never understood why you just let those things happen, and didn’t consider leaving him.” 

Honestly, I blame the meds.

Thanks to those meds, I spent my marriage blissfully unaware of what I was enduring. On the day my psychologist diagnosed me with PTSD from just one marital memory, I thought I was in a loving marriage to a loving man and that I had a beautiful life. But my newly resurfaced memories reveal that I was with someone who did not know how to listen, support my career, or acknowledge and address my emotional needs. I’m sorry, but that’s not true love.

My psychologist even believes I was dissociated most of my marriage. According to Mental Health America, dissociation is when a person loses connection to their thoughts, their memories, and their sense of identity. It’s a coping mechanism for chronic stress. That would explain how I developed chronic posttraumatic stress disorder while thinking I was in a loving marriage. 

In terms of healing from my symptoms of C-PTSD, I’ve taken a non-prescription approach. My supplements include:

• ashwagandha to reduce stress
• magnesium to aid sleep and ease anxiety
• Omega 3 to increase blood flow to my brain and expedite healing
• and L-Theanine to calm my mind at night and promote sleep.

Sure, some days are hard and I feel “down.” But as my close friends now know, I have my own way of powering through. Maybe I’ll write an angry poem. Maybe I stomp around my kitchen to an angry song. But I’ll never again take a med that numbs me to my own emotions, memories, or reactions. That’s dangerous. I’d rather use my own resilience. That’s my superpower.

My chronic PTSD diagnosis forced me to wake up from my manufactured reality like Neo in The Matrix. The “reality” of my marriage was a medicated illusion. And when I woke up from my Matrix—it wasn’t pretty. 

At the time of my diagnosis, I was blissfully unaware of many things about my life. So just like Neo, I took an arduous journey of personal transformation. Now, I’m blissfully aware and ready for whatever the future may hold—provided it’s prescription-free. 

Photo Credit: Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer

Just the other night, I arrived at the edge of the driveway to pick up my 16-year-old son from his dad’s house. Now mind you, I say “dad’s house,” but we are not yet divorced so it’s technically the marital home because I’m on the deed and mortgage. It was exactly 7pm because that’s what the court order defined as my pickup time and I’m a girl who knows how to follow the rules. 

I waited. No sign of my son.

I adjusted my weathered grey bucket hat and smoothed out my custom designed t-shirt that my daughter created for me several years back when we were all still pretending to be a happy family: navy blue with a light blue heart over my chest and a Leigh Hunt quote on the back saying “The groundwork for all happiness is good health.”

After the longest five minutes of my life, my son marched down the front walk of the house I can’t get into followed by my daughter who is in college now. As the parent who left, they’ve come to perceive me as the bad parent even though I’ve been operating in the shadows to protect them: most recently, I prevented an unnecessary knee surgery that my ex was pushing on my son.

Yet, all I saw were deadened faces. Solemn shuffles. The essence of their personalities absent. As they approached, my daughter had her phone up videoing the whole event. 

A year ago, I hired a bankruptcy lawyer. Five months ago, the court ordered appropriate support payments and confirmed our 50-50 parenting plan. Then, the dam broke: It felt as though my estranged spouse claimed my son didn’t want to see me and stopped allowing pickups. More court battles began. That night, I sat at the driveway’s edge with another order defining pickup times, drop-off times, and my extra weeknight dinner on off weeks. 

Those ghost-like versions of my children curdled my stomach.

I rolled down the window to greet them. The cool breeze reminded me to take a deep breath. 

You’re okay. You got this.

Ever since I filed a police report against my spouse and left the marital home, I struggled with picking up my son. The bodily sensations that arose when I was anywhere near that home were almost too much. I’d been through numerous EMDR sessions and desensitization trainings with my therapist to execute what I politely called the “extraction.”

Now, not only did I have to deal with my potential dysregulation, but the forms approaching my car were not the children I’d raised to be loving and warm, compassionate and caring, absolutely extraordinary human beings. 

My handsome, athletic, strong of heart and strong of mind son stood back from my window, crossed his arms, and stated for the camera that I was “manipulative” and he was “scared.”

After I left my marriage, and started healing from my symptoms of C-PTSD, my dad said to me, “I didn’t know where you went, but I’m glad to have you back.” At the time, that sentence struck me: I hadn’t gone anywhere. What did he mean?

Over the past few years, I’ve realized that when you are undergoing subtle emotional abuse, you don’t know it’s happening. You are ever so slowly changing to the outside world, but only the people closest to you who have known you your whole life can perceive the change.  

I can tell you now that I felt my true self drifting away throughout my marriage and some other self replacing it. There was a darkness taking over my thoughts that I didn’t understand. I couldn’t share that darkness with the world, so my whole life became an act. 

I understand now that emotional manipulation rewires the brain. For me, it felt like white turned into black. Happy into sad. Good into bad. It even turned a happy, optimistic person determined to do good work in the world into someone suicidal. But that wasn’t the real me. That was an irrational thought. That was my rewired brain talking and I had to undo the rewiring.

C-PTSD deeply impacts your ability to interact with people since it often results from an extremely close relationship, someone you trusted. As you heal, your behavior is strange and you’re processing a lot of anger. You need people in your life who will still love you, even when they don’t understand why this happy-go-lucky person is now so embittered.

Luckily …

• I had a few close childhood friends ready to help me heal. I needed to reboot my real self, and they had the original source code.
• My parents came to my aid as well in the greatest display of unconditional love I’ve ever known.
• And my therapist, the woman who put the right label on my mental malaise, we’ve done critical work together to bring my psyche from a place of believing I was bad, broken, and unlovable, all the way back to better. 

My healing journey also included trauma-focused yoga, hyperbaric oxygen therapy, and a lot of natural supplements, journaling, reading and reflecting. My brain doctor was thrilled with my last set of SPECT scans. She’d seen thousands and she described the healing I’d achieved in only one year, “incredible.”

Now, I know I’ve rewired my brain back.

A loving marriage would never cause C-PTSD.

I’ve made peace with that. I am also proud of the work I’ve done to bring myself back. If you can believe it, I am grateful for what I have been through. The sun shines brighter. The air smells sweeter. Every moment is more precious than ever.

I have a dedicated therapist who promised me we’d discover the root cause of my mental health mess, and we did. I have the best relationship I’ve ever had with my parents: a deeper, more meaningful connection than ever before. And, I know who my real friends are because they did not judge the person I appeared to be on the outside when I was suffering the most, they remembered who I was on the inside, and they helped me find her again.

Now it’s my turn to help.

Seeing my kids that way the other night meant that I am now healed enough to see C-PTSD in other people, but it also means that my children need to heal now too. I’m ready to be a therapist, a parent, and a good friend all wrapped into one.

I am the only one who has loved them unconditionally through spilled milk, temper tantrums, car accidents, and more. I am the only one who has observed them closely—with empathy and curiosity—and quietly questioned and actively listened to understand how they think, who they are, and where they want to go in life.

I am the only hope my children have of reclaiming their real selves and it’s time to turn the tide. 

Photo Credit: Pixabay

Guest Post Disclaimer: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer