For 48 years, I have lived with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), shaped by a terrorist bombing that altered my world. From the outside, I appear functional—capable, present, engaged—but that surface-level normalcy hides the reality of an ongoing battle within.
PTSD isn’t just the memory of a traumatic event, it’s the way trauma lingers in the body and mind, long after the danger has passed. Over the years, my symptoms have evolved, but they remain a daily presence.
For many years, I felt emotionally numb. I knew how I should feel in a given situation, so I performed the expected emotions, even when internally I felt nothing at all. This disassociation wasn’t a choice; it was a survival mechanism.
At other times, emotions flooded in all at once overpowering and unpredictable, making it difficult to regulate how I responded. The pendulum between numbness and overwhelming feelings was exhausting, leaving me searching for balance I rarely found.
Depression and anxiety walked hand in hand with my trauma. Sleep was restless, punctuated by nightmares or the chronic feeling of being on edge. Even after decades, startling easily remains part of my existence—my body has not stopped reacting to perceived threats, even when none are there.
Flashbacks brought the past into the present with terrifying clarity. I wasn’t merely remembering I was there again, feeling the pressure of the room, smelling gunpowder, seeing blood on the walls. These moments stole time from me, trapping me in a space where trauma replayed on an unending loop.
Avoidance became another survival tactic. I dodged anything that could trigger those memories—stairs, media coverage, crowds, umbrellas, public transportation. The world was full of invisible landmines, and I adjusted my life to sidestep them.
I suffered from post-traumatic amnesia, which essentially wiped out my memory of significant events such as weddings, family events and personal experiences. I cannot reminisce about the past because I have no memory of it. I grieve for the loss of those memories, especially those of my mother. It feels like I never existed, but I know I did because of photographs and reminders from other people. I did not know what happened from one day to the next. Within the past ten years, my memory of day-to-day events has returned. My long-term memory is permanently gone. What I know of my life is from my handwritten journals and photographs.
PTSD doesn’t just affect emotions and memories—it burrows into behaviors, into coping mechanisms formed out of necessity. Hyperfocus became a way to keep my mind occupied, a method to drown out intrusive thoughts. Long-distance running was my initial focus, which later was replaced by my passion for dog breeding and training. Obsessive-compulsive tendencies offered an illusion of control, allowing me to find order where my mind felt chaotic.
I wish I could say that PTSD no longer affects me—but that wouldn’t be true. What has changed is the intensity and frequency of symptoms. They are less overwhelming than they once were. I have learned coping strategies, I have seen improvement, but there are still days when PTSD makes its presence known. Trauma lingers, and so does the need for understanding, support, and accommodation.
If there’s one thing I hope people take from this, it’s that PTSD is complex. Those living with it may look fine on the outside, but inside, they are managing battles no one else sees. Support and awareness make a difference, and compassion matters more than words can express.