I have been diagnosed with C-TR-PTSD based from early childhood physical and mental abuse at the hands of my father. The vast majority of the violence occurred at night. From age 6 until about the last year (I am 42) I have been terrified of going to bed. However, staring down the barrel of his gun on an all too familiar basis, I began to develop coping techniques. At first, I would arrange my stuffed animals under my sheets as though it were me, and then I would lay silent underneath my bed. When this did not work I moved to the crawl space in the attic.
To be sure the times were not all bad. At times he was a loving, kind father. I suspect he too suffered from PTSD. HE had a tough life and at age 16, his mother sat him on the couch and told him that it was his fault that his father (my grandfather) died at age 42 from heart disease because my father was such a bad child. But the abuse continued and in fact escalated between grades 2 and 6. At one point he removed all the speakers from the telephones so that if we called out, we could hear the person on the other line, but they could not hear us.
Countless times I huddled with my mother and sister in my sister's upstairs bedroom as he paced the wooden floors in his business shoes (A sound that still triggers me to this day) as he screamed threats that the entire house was booby-trapped and if anyone one of us came down stairs the house would blow up. IT was terrifying to be sure, but the worst part was when he would start climbing the stairs and we would see the long barrel of his rifle emerge from behind the door.
At age 8 my sister, three years older, attempted to kill herself by hanging herself in the garage. My parents were pulling out of the garage in their car as I tried to get the noose of my sisters neck. The last thing I remember from this event is my father rolling down his window and and point and laugh before he and my mother drove away. I got the noose off.
We moved 6 times in the 15 years I lived in his house. From Georgia to southern California, to Northern California, back to Georgia, and then to France, and finally New York. This was a pre-internet age, so I had no enduring friendships.
At age 15, I came home to find that he had taken an ax to my room and destroyed every letter I have received from friends, my trophies and awards, all of my clothes all of my furniture, all of my year books -- he erased me. At first I thought we were robbed as you could enter my room from the garage without going through the rest of the house. As I ran for a phone to call my mother, she informed me that we had not been robbed but that my father did that because I had used tacks in the wall to hang up posters.
I responded. I took the same ax to his half of his bed, to his closet, to his TV, Then I left home.
Right before I turned 18, I was living in a tent on Miami beach when I was robbed and stabbed. At that point I was walking through the city without much purpose and I found an Army recruiting station. I waited until I was 18 and signed up. In 8 years in the Army Reserves I spent time at Fort Bliss, TX, Fort JAckson, SC, and Fort Sam Houston, TX. I was honorably discharged in 1997. I want to be clear, I was fortunate to have never seen combat and my PTSD is not a result of my service.
As time went on I could never admit to "going" to sleep. I had flashbacks constantly and I always slept in my clothes on my couch -- when I slept at all. I had night terrors and nightmares frequently. I knew I was sick, and I was in talk therapy for the better part of a decade. I reached out to my father again and we had a nice relationship, but one that was denial. We never spoke about the past, but he had stopped drinking and seemed to be a loving man.
He was diagnosed with terminal melanoma and I began to visit him every other week. One of the last moments we shared he, out of the blue, said: "Remember when you were such a bad kid that I had to ax up your room? Well, I forgive you for that and for ruining my room." I was in stunned silence. A day later my mother called frantically for me as my father, a powerful imposing man in his prime, was unable to get himself out of the bathtub. I hoisted him by my two arms and got him out. It was odd rescuing this man I at one point feared so much but was now so weak that he could not even get himself out of the bathtub.
Two days later, alone with my father he called for me and asked for a hug. I hugged him, we spoke briefly, and he died in my arms.
From that moment my life went into an incredible downward spiral. I dreamed about him every night for over a year. I had night terrors 3-4 times a week. I lost my house, my family (who are all in denial) and this ultimately lead to me sleeping in parks, or, when I could, being barricaded in hotel rooms. Literally pushing the dresser in the room up against the door and staying awake for days on end without eating.
Since then, with the help of my new wife who is relentless in her support of me. I have tried EMDR, I went to a specialist treatment center, and of course CBT. However, I was not seeing much improvement. I had always refused actual medicine. She had me finally see a doctor and in conjunction with my therapist things have begun to turn for me. I am currently taking 200mg of sertraline a day, 14 mg of Prazosin (An absolute miracle drug for night terrors with no side effects), 15 mg of Deplin, up to 10 mg of valium a day as needed, and for when I am triggered, and the flashbacks come, and I cannot contain them I take 10 mg of olanzapine and I am knocked out for 20 hours. I recently made it over 70 days without an episode. My prior record was 20 days. And when they come now, I am comfortable that I have the meds, the support, and the therapy to limit the damage.
Sorry I am long winded, but that is who I am.
Thanks for reading, and thanks for being such a wonderful community.
To be sure the times were not all bad. At times he was a loving, kind father. I suspect he too suffered from PTSD. HE had a tough life and at age 16, his mother sat him on the couch and told him that it was his fault that his father (my grandfather) died at age 42 from heart disease because my father was such a bad child. But the abuse continued and in fact escalated between grades 2 and 6. At one point he removed all the speakers from the telephones so that if we called out, we could hear the person on the other line, but they could not hear us.
Countless times I huddled with my mother and sister in my sister's upstairs bedroom as he paced the wooden floors in his business shoes (A sound that still triggers me to this day) as he screamed threats that the entire house was booby-trapped and if anyone one of us came down stairs the house would blow up. IT was terrifying to be sure, but the worst part was when he would start climbing the stairs and we would see the long barrel of his rifle emerge from behind the door.
At age 8 my sister, three years older, attempted to kill herself by hanging herself in the garage. My parents were pulling out of the garage in their car as I tried to get the noose of my sisters neck. The last thing I remember from this event is my father rolling down his window and and point and laugh before he and my mother drove away. I got the noose off.
We moved 6 times in the 15 years I lived in his house. From Georgia to southern California, to Northern California, back to Georgia, and then to France, and finally New York. This was a pre-internet age, so I had no enduring friendships.
At age 15, I came home to find that he had taken an ax to my room and destroyed every letter I have received from friends, my trophies and awards, all of my clothes all of my furniture, all of my year books -- he erased me. At first I thought we were robbed as you could enter my room from the garage without going through the rest of the house. As I ran for a phone to call my mother, she informed me that we had not been robbed but that my father did that because I had used tacks in the wall to hang up posters.
I responded. I took the same ax to his half of his bed, to his closet, to his TV, Then I left home.
Right before I turned 18, I was living in a tent on Miami beach when I was robbed and stabbed. At that point I was walking through the city without much purpose and I found an Army recruiting station. I waited until I was 18 and signed up. In 8 years in the Army Reserves I spent time at Fort Bliss, TX, Fort JAckson, SC, and Fort Sam Houston, TX. I was honorably discharged in 1997. I want to be clear, I was fortunate to have never seen combat and my PTSD is not a result of my service.
As time went on I could never admit to "going" to sleep. I had flashbacks constantly and I always slept in my clothes on my couch -- when I slept at all. I had night terrors and nightmares frequently. I knew I was sick, and I was in talk therapy for the better part of a decade. I reached out to my father again and we had a nice relationship, but one that was denial. We never spoke about the past, but he had stopped drinking and seemed to be a loving man.
He was diagnosed with terminal melanoma and I began to visit him every other week. One of the last moments we shared he, out of the blue, said: "Remember when you were such a bad kid that I had to ax up your room? Well, I forgive you for that and for ruining my room." I was in stunned silence. A day later my mother called frantically for me as my father, a powerful imposing man in his prime, was unable to get himself out of the bathtub. I hoisted him by my two arms and got him out. It was odd rescuing this man I at one point feared so much but was now so weak that he could not even get himself out of the bathtub.
Two days later, alone with my father he called for me and asked for a hug. I hugged him, we spoke briefly, and he died in my arms.
From that moment my life went into an incredible downward spiral. I dreamed about him every night for over a year. I had night terrors 3-4 times a week. I lost my house, my family (who are all in denial) and this ultimately lead to me sleeping in parks, or, when I could, being barricaded in hotel rooms. Literally pushing the dresser in the room up against the door and staying awake for days on end without eating.
Since then, with the help of my new wife who is relentless in her support of me. I have tried EMDR, I went to a specialist treatment center, and of course CBT. However, I was not seeing much improvement. I had always refused actual medicine. She had me finally see a doctor and in conjunction with my therapist things have begun to turn for me. I am currently taking 200mg of sertraline a day, 14 mg of Prazosin (An absolute miracle drug for night terrors with no side effects), 15 mg of Deplin, up to 10 mg of valium a day as needed, and for when I am triggered, and the flashbacks come, and I cannot contain them I take 10 mg of olanzapine and I am knocked out for 20 hours. I recently made it over 70 days without an episode. My prior record was 20 days. And when they come now, I am comfortable that I have the meds, the support, and the therapy to limit the damage.
Sorry I am long winded, but that is who I am.
Thanks for reading, and thanks for being such a wonderful community.
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