After my father's suicide, I fell into despair. I now know it was PTSD
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Version 0 of 1. In 2005, my father killed himself. A high-profile figure, his suicide adorned the front page of newspapers, a private moment retrofitted for public consumption. He had always been my hero, larger than life, and I adored him. But when I heard the news, I was struck by my detachment, my inability to cry. We had been exceptionally close, so my seemingly indifferent response to his death both perplexed and perturbed me. Was it stoicism? Courage? Neither made sense. If anything, I had always erred on the side of sentimentality and cowardice. At his funeral, media scrum in tow, I comforted others. I took only a day or two off work, more as a mark of respect than an opportunity to mourn. And all the while, I marveled at my strength in the face of adversity. I continued with my life as if nothing had happened. I set about keeping the family business going, and making sure my mum and sister were okay. I even aced my university exams a month or so after his death. I felt invincible, and so it was for just over two years. Then in late 2007, something irrevocable shifted in me. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something wasn’t quite right. I was consumed by acute hypochondria, and saw several doctors in an effort to identify my ailment. I was sure some neurological disorder was the culprit, and even insisted upon a brain MRI, which revealed nothing untoward. Not long after, everything fell apart. I had no idea why, but my best guess was that either I was going crazy or dying. I quit work. I withdrew from university. And I retreated to bed, gripped by fear. You know that harrowing heroin withdrawal scene from the movie Trainspotting? That was me, writhing around the bed that had become my prison in paroxysms of anxious agony. This incarceration lasted the better part of six months. Simple tasks like grocery shopping were only made possible thanks to my good friends Valium and Xanax. Socialising was out of the question without liberal amounts of alcohol. All the while, the world looked different. It didn’t seem as real as it once had, and my head felt lost in a fog, like I wasn’t part of my surroundings. I felt like I was slipping away, and thought of death often during that time. I welcomed danger, and recall riding my bike and wishing a truck would hit me and put an end to my misery. Sleep was a brief respite, but even then I managed only a few hours before waking with a start and falling down a hole of unrelenting fear and despair. I soon took to falling asleep wishing I wouldn’t wake. I wasn’t actively suicidal, though a lengthy coma would have suited me just fine. How had I become this spectre of my former self? This question plagued me, and not knowing compounded my anxiety immeasurably. One day I happened upon a book some concerned friends had given me in the months following my father’s death. It was about complicated grief and living in the wake of suicide. At the time I scoffed at their concern, and abandoned the book to some inconspicuous corner of my bookshelf. But as I read it, I at once recognised my pain in those pages. Those living in the shadow of suicide are suffering not only from grief, but they are also reacting to a traumatic event. The pain, the fear, the disorientation – these are some of the hallmarks of PTSD. It seems ludicrous now as I write this, but back then, I hadn’t even an inkling that my suffering might be related to my father’s suicide. I had been fine, and anyway, that was years ago. But post-traumatic stress symptoms can show up months, years or even decades later. My feelings about my father’s death were complicated. I was relieved he was no longer suffering. I was angry with him for choosing to leave. I was saddened by his absence. But mostly I felt nothing, like an automaton who still tells the story as though it weren’t his own. I had failed to grieve, or even fully acknowledge the reality that he was gone. It took me over a year to delete his number from my phone. I kept the leftovers of our last dinner together, only a few nights before his death, in the freezer for over five years. I just couldn’t bring myself to part with little reminders of him. And the dreams. Some would call them nightmares, of course. Even now, several nights a week, he visits me in my sleep, often replaying various macabre scenes. His wanting to die. His asking my permission to die. His death. His lifeless body. But in some way, these dreams bring me comfort. In my dreams, he is still with me. Along with therapy and antidepressants, understanding my trauma related symptoms was my path out of the darkness. I still struggle, but not like back then. All too often, PTSD is thought of as the product of war or natural disaster, but that is far too narrow a view. Trauma comes in many forms, and many who have lost someone to suicide need to know that they too have suffered a trauma. This is the first, and most important, step towards healing. Australia:Lifeline: 13 11 14Suicide Call Back Service: 1300 659 467 UK:Samaritans: 08457 90 90 90 US:National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255 |