Making The World A Little More Compassionate

I finally feel like I'm on the other side of what has been one of the most stressful times in my life; the strike/lockout of BC teachers, stalled negotiations, and the absolute financial uncertainty that goes along with it. As a result of it, and other situations I've experienced in my nearly 43 years on this planet, perhaps I've become a little hyper-aware of when people are going through emotional difficulties. Either that, or it's happening way more than before.

Of late, I've been noticing an alarming number of friends on my Facebook newsfeed sharing their troubles online. Let me clarify; I am not alarmed that they are sharing their troubles, but I *am* alarmed by just how many people seem to be facing hardship right now. And it's not just money. These beloved friends are laying themselves open and sharing their feelings of anxiety and depression. And it breaks my heart to see them going through that. I want to help, and I feel like I'm in a unique position to do so. I should explain...



In April 1999, I was assaulted in the workplace and developed PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), though I didn't realise that at the time. It was a very isolating experience. My first husband didn't understand what I was going through and hadn't the first clue how to be supportive; he figured that telling me to just snap out of it was the answer. But you can't just snap out of feeling like you're going to die if you answer the phone, or check the mail, or go to the store. Or that if you drive over the Port Mann bridge, you will have a heart attack on the middle of the bridge deck and die. It doesn't stop the vomiting, or the insomnia. When you are surrounded with people who are well-meaning, but not equipped to deal with what you're experiencing, you stop telling them how you feel. And it just ends up feeling worse - the panic attacks worsen and get more frequent, you talk about it even less, and this horrible cycle swirls out of control.

I spent about three months holding those feelings inside, or flat-out lying when someone asked how I was. I struggled to understand why I was feeling the way I was, and how to move beyond the assault, and the nightmares about the assault. And the waking nightmares about the assault. I finally went to the doctor to talk about it. It was actually a resident I first spoke to, and it ended up being an hour-long appointment, most of it spent waiting while the resident consulted with my doctor on how to handle the woman falling apart in exam room #2. We discussed options, and it was agreed that since my work duties were changing, and I would have less contact with both the man who assaulted me and the manager who exacerbated my anxiety, that we'd give it a good three weeks and revisit the matter.

By August of that year, I knew that things were not getting better; the panic attacks were increasing, I was throwing up on arrival at work, and eventually, my body made me so sick that I couldn't go in to work at all. So, I went back to the doctor. He was wonderful; he immediately put me on medical leave from my job, and suggested therapy and meds, which I vociferously resisted. So, he backed off and we started by trying to treat the insomnia.When it got to the point that this wasn't enough, he referred me to a psychiatrist for a solid diagnosis, to better treat me. The psychiatrist asked me a number of questions, and had me fill out a questionnaire; when we went over the results, he said that I presented with all but one of the criteria for PTSD - ideation of suicide. He asked me about it, and I explained that I have never felt that suicide was a way out of one's troubles; that it only creates new problems for the people left behind to grieve. He was the only person I really opened up to. He recommended a mild anti-anxiety med, and I agreed that it was needed for recovering my health; I started - and stayed - on the lowest dosage for the duration of my treatment. I saw him once a month for 8 months, and being able to speak frankly about the nightmares and the lack of understanding from those around me was what really helped. I knew I was starting to feel better when I was able to pick up my crafts again, and, after 8 months of the anti-anxiety meds, we agreed that it was time to wean off of them. I was ready to fly under my own power, and perhaps most importantly, I needed to be off the meds to get pregnant.

I still had panic attacks periodically for a few years, mostly while approaching or driving over the Port Mann bridge (the route I took to the place I was assaulted), but they got milder in intensity and further apart, and I'm happy to say that I can't remember when I had my last one. But you don't ever forget how it feels, and you don't ever forget how terrifying the nightmares were. And I think that gives me a certain level of empathy for others going through similar difficulties.

So, dear friends, if you're struggling with something, please know that there are others that have been through it, or something like it, and we are here to listen, and to help. Perhaps, if more people took the time to just listen, this world would be a little bit more compassionate.