I
Island Jim
Hi. I’m Jetty Island Jim. I’m 54. Married. Two sons. Two grandsons, and caregiver for one live-in mother-in-law.
In Kindergarten I obsessively colored pictures of cars on fire until my teacher got so mad at me she called Mom and demanded I stop drawing them. When I was 5 I was put into Catholic school where I started having blackouts in class. Attention became a problem. Grades were bad but passing. I lived so deep in my imagination I was almost not even in my body. When I was 10 my best friend there tried to tell me about being raped in the woods behind his house. But it was 1970. I was 10. I didn’t know what to do with it. He also tried giving me a ring. I didn’t understand that at all. When I didn't accept it he turned into a raging enemy and convinced my entire school that I was gay, (Bad thing to be called in 1970--especially since I didn't even know what it meant) and had me completely ostracized for the rest of my entire childhood. (That technique of group bullying is called Mobbing. It's designed to isolate and destroy a peer. It works, really, really well.)
At 12 I started trying to design the perfect suicide so that my death wouldn’t shame my family. But I had a little sister that I loved and couldn't do that to her. I ended up on tranquilizers because of sleep disorders and stomach problems. I begged Mom to let me go to public school with my friends but she vowed whatever they were doing to me at Catholic school would be worse anywhere else. When I turned 15 I got to go to public high school where I learned Mom was dead wrong. I made so many friends my head spun, but the damage had begun to alter me. I became skittish, nervous, distrusting and uptight. I also became funny and made friends quickly. I had my first flashback. I suddenly remembered witnessing the fiery car crash and the dead driver that I had apparently been trying to draw in Kindergarten. I loved my new public high school friends but was absolutely certain that every one of them was about to turn on me. To prove I was not gay, so that my life wouldn't go where it did in Catholic school, I dated so many girls I couldn’t keep track of them all. When I turned 16 I got a job and became a workaholic. (I’m still a workaholic). When I was 19 I had a second bizarre flashback. This one was during a medical exam. It was of being raped and photographed at 6 years old by a mysterious dark-haired man in a basement and an older, neighbor boy.
When I was 20 I tried to commit suicide twice. I didn’t know why. That same year two of the boys who went to school with me as a child DID commit suicide. When I was 21 my employer sent me to the company shrink because of my slipping attendance and unpredictable mood swings. I didn't know what was wrong, except that I was weak and couldn't handle life. When I was 22 I got married and started having more flashbacks of the mystery dark haired man and older boy. I started seeing a therapist regularly. It was 1982. I was diagnosed as “manic depressant” and hyperactive and had sleep disorders and stomach problems and high blood pressure and was chronically suicidal and had headaches and back issues and…and a whole lot of “unrelated” symptoms. When I was 40—and STILL in therapy—my new therapist introduced me to the term “PTSD” and said I had it. It explained all the “unrelated” issues as being part of an overarching problem. I believed him.
My dissociative trances are getting better now because of my amazing therapist, but they were a serious problem for most of my life. I am high-functioning in that I have accomplished a ton of things that I can’t believe I’ve done. Boredom scares me to death. While being a chronic workaholic, I’ve also worked as a volunteer sexual assault victim’s advocate and a professional standup comedian. I’m that guy who is both funny and tormented. When I turned 42 I began trying to drink my depression away. I was a happy drunk, so alcohol made me feel better. When I was 48 my beautiful little sister committed suicide. 9 months later Mom died. At 50 I tried to commit suicide again. Then my narcissistic sister ostracized me from the family so she could secure the inheritance. Then Dad died...I'm told. By 52 my drinking had become a serious problem and I had to go into rehab. I’m sober 20 months now. Being cut off from the family has been a huge blessing and my healing has taken all new strides. (It's hard to heal when the abuse is still happening).
Since I was 19, I have always suffered with severe, unexplained depressions every November, December and February. I know C-PTSD is not diagnosable in the DSM V, but I am certain it’s real. Puppy dogs and butterflies aren’t in the DSM V either, and they are also real. My entire life has been lived ashamed of myself for being too weak to handle stress even though I’ve carried more long-term daily burden than most people can for short bursts. I’ve made tons of wonderful friends that I don’t trust will stay with me if they find out I'm worthless or if I make even the slightest mistake in my relationships. I’m high-functioning C-PTSD and hyper-vigilant. My stomach is a mess and my sleep disorders are chronic.
The reason I believe in C-PTSD is because I’ve never been able to pinpoint what caused my PTSD. I was not a soldier. Never in a plane crash. Never in a car accident or house fire. Even my flashbacks have never made sense. So how could I have PTSD? In an oversimplified comparison: A boy almost dies in a serious car accident at 10. He gets PTSD. When he grows up, he’s skittish in cars. Any sudden movement, squealing tires, or near misses in a car is an obvious trigger that puts him back into that original fear. It’s easy to make the connection. Complex-PTSD is the same disorder but the causes and the reactions are more complex. I am not able to identify a single explosion: Because I've always had it, I have never known a time without it, so I didn't know I had it at all. I was the victim of a long, slow, torturous childhood, made up of a series of hidden memories and unfortunate events that layered on top of each other to become a huge mountain. I barely survived it and some of my friends did NOT survive it. I was betrayed by best friends and a narcissistic older sister who eventually caused my little sister to commit suicide and tried to get me to do the same. My dad was a WWII Vet, missing an arm from being a lone survivor of the bloodiest single battle of the entire war. He was the “stoic quiet type” who was a volcano of anger always looming beneath a thin, fragile shell. Today my triggers are not easy to explain. They’re not a “loud bang” or “squealing tires.” They’re complex things like when a friend begins to look suspiciously like they might be about to turn on me the way my friends all did when I was 10. I can’t pinpoint the exact day I got this. I can’t predict exactly what will trigger it, or how I’ll behave, but confrontation will send me catatonic, and every November, December and February, I’ll move quickly through unexplained depression and toward suicide. That much is clear.
To me, Complex PTSD is called Complex because it is not created by a simple explanation, (a crash, a battle, an illness) but a complex buildup of multiple events, (most of which weren't that big a deal by themselves, but when added together made a complex mountain) which the victim had probably believed they very possibly wouldn’t survive. The triggers are not obvious. The layering of issues interact with each other in unpredictable, complex ways. Other people don’t see the triggers…which leaves me horribly alone with my version of PTSD. I can't explain it to people. They don't get it. Coworkers who have it from battle are unsympathetic because, as one peer puts it "You didn't kill anybody." He says people like me (civilian sufferers) annoy him. We didn't "earn" the diagnosis. My triggers are not obvious like fireworks. They’re subtle feelings that I pick up on when I believe a friend or a group starts to look like one or more of the friends or groups that caused the damage originally.
Almost all resources for PTSD are only for soldiers or for women who suffered child abuse. It’s extremely difficult for me to find resources for men who didn’t go to war. Last summer I attended a lunch time PTSD presentation at work. I got there early. The woman presenting was wearing a military uniform. I quietly took a seat and waited for more people to show up. She came out and started asking those of us who were early who we were. When she found out I wasn’t military she asked me to leave. The group leader later called me to apologize for the "mistake" but it was too late. Being asked to leave triggered a ton of responses in me that make it so I can never go to one of their events again.
It’s shameful to have a disorder other people don't see, but that makes me cower inside myself. I’m a strong man with a long list of serious accomplishments. I’ve taken amazing care of my family, and helped raise some of my kids’ friends when their own families fell short. I’ve won awards as a community volunteer, I’ve stepped up and taken on local law enforcement and fire department situations that needed fixing and I've won. I now care for my own family AND my aging mother-in-law AND my grandsons. I am not a weak man. But I feel like one. I always, ALWAYS feel weak and insignificant. When people challenge me on my perceptions, it only makes me feel worse because it makes me feel like I’m too stupid to see my own value.
I’m joining MyPTSD in hopes that as the world begins to understand PTSD in non-military men, that I can find that I’m not alone and I’m not weak. My 32 years in therapy have helped me through many suicide attempts, but I am pretty sure, by now, that I’ll never be “cured as if none of it has ever happened." I just need to know I’m not alone. I’m not a freak with C-PTSD in a disorder that's only allowed for women or soldiers.
In Kindergarten I obsessively colored pictures of cars on fire until my teacher got so mad at me she called Mom and demanded I stop drawing them. When I was 5 I was put into Catholic school where I started having blackouts in class. Attention became a problem. Grades were bad but passing. I lived so deep in my imagination I was almost not even in my body. When I was 10 my best friend there tried to tell me about being raped in the woods behind his house. But it was 1970. I was 10. I didn’t know what to do with it. He also tried giving me a ring. I didn’t understand that at all. When I didn't accept it he turned into a raging enemy and convinced my entire school that I was gay, (Bad thing to be called in 1970--especially since I didn't even know what it meant) and had me completely ostracized for the rest of my entire childhood. (That technique of group bullying is called Mobbing. It's designed to isolate and destroy a peer. It works, really, really well.)
At 12 I started trying to design the perfect suicide so that my death wouldn’t shame my family. But I had a little sister that I loved and couldn't do that to her. I ended up on tranquilizers because of sleep disorders and stomach problems. I begged Mom to let me go to public school with my friends but she vowed whatever they were doing to me at Catholic school would be worse anywhere else. When I turned 15 I got to go to public high school where I learned Mom was dead wrong. I made so many friends my head spun, but the damage had begun to alter me. I became skittish, nervous, distrusting and uptight. I also became funny and made friends quickly. I had my first flashback. I suddenly remembered witnessing the fiery car crash and the dead driver that I had apparently been trying to draw in Kindergarten. I loved my new public high school friends but was absolutely certain that every one of them was about to turn on me. To prove I was not gay, so that my life wouldn't go where it did in Catholic school, I dated so many girls I couldn’t keep track of them all. When I turned 16 I got a job and became a workaholic. (I’m still a workaholic). When I was 19 I had a second bizarre flashback. This one was during a medical exam. It was of being raped and photographed at 6 years old by a mysterious dark-haired man in a basement and an older, neighbor boy.
When I was 20 I tried to commit suicide twice. I didn’t know why. That same year two of the boys who went to school with me as a child DID commit suicide. When I was 21 my employer sent me to the company shrink because of my slipping attendance and unpredictable mood swings. I didn't know what was wrong, except that I was weak and couldn't handle life. When I was 22 I got married and started having more flashbacks of the mystery dark haired man and older boy. I started seeing a therapist regularly. It was 1982. I was diagnosed as “manic depressant” and hyperactive and had sleep disorders and stomach problems and high blood pressure and was chronically suicidal and had headaches and back issues and…and a whole lot of “unrelated” symptoms. When I was 40—and STILL in therapy—my new therapist introduced me to the term “PTSD” and said I had it. It explained all the “unrelated” issues as being part of an overarching problem. I believed him.
My dissociative trances are getting better now because of my amazing therapist, but they were a serious problem for most of my life. I am high-functioning in that I have accomplished a ton of things that I can’t believe I’ve done. Boredom scares me to death. While being a chronic workaholic, I’ve also worked as a volunteer sexual assault victim’s advocate and a professional standup comedian. I’m that guy who is both funny and tormented. When I turned 42 I began trying to drink my depression away. I was a happy drunk, so alcohol made me feel better. When I was 48 my beautiful little sister committed suicide. 9 months later Mom died. At 50 I tried to commit suicide again. Then my narcissistic sister ostracized me from the family so she could secure the inheritance. Then Dad died...I'm told. By 52 my drinking had become a serious problem and I had to go into rehab. I’m sober 20 months now. Being cut off from the family has been a huge blessing and my healing has taken all new strides. (It's hard to heal when the abuse is still happening).
Since I was 19, I have always suffered with severe, unexplained depressions every November, December and February. I know C-PTSD is not diagnosable in the DSM V, but I am certain it’s real. Puppy dogs and butterflies aren’t in the DSM V either, and they are also real. My entire life has been lived ashamed of myself for being too weak to handle stress even though I’ve carried more long-term daily burden than most people can for short bursts. I’ve made tons of wonderful friends that I don’t trust will stay with me if they find out I'm worthless or if I make even the slightest mistake in my relationships. I’m high-functioning C-PTSD and hyper-vigilant. My stomach is a mess and my sleep disorders are chronic.
The reason I believe in C-PTSD is because I’ve never been able to pinpoint what caused my PTSD. I was not a soldier. Never in a plane crash. Never in a car accident or house fire. Even my flashbacks have never made sense. So how could I have PTSD? In an oversimplified comparison: A boy almost dies in a serious car accident at 10. He gets PTSD. When he grows up, he’s skittish in cars. Any sudden movement, squealing tires, or near misses in a car is an obvious trigger that puts him back into that original fear. It’s easy to make the connection. Complex-PTSD is the same disorder but the causes and the reactions are more complex. I am not able to identify a single explosion: Because I've always had it, I have never known a time without it, so I didn't know I had it at all. I was the victim of a long, slow, torturous childhood, made up of a series of hidden memories and unfortunate events that layered on top of each other to become a huge mountain. I barely survived it and some of my friends did NOT survive it. I was betrayed by best friends and a narcissistic older sister who eventually caused my little sister to commit suicide and tried to get me to do the same. My dad was a WWII Vet, missing an arm from being a lone survivor of the bloodiest single battle of the entire war. He was the “stoic quiet type” who was a volcano of anger always looming beneath a thin, fragile shell. Today my triggers are not easy to explain. They’re not a “loud bang” or “squealing tires.” They’re complex things like when a friend begins to look suspiciously like they might be about to turn on me the way my friends all did when I was 10. I can’t pinpoint the exact day I got this. I can’t predict exactly what will trigger it, or how I’ll behave, but confrontation will send me catatonic, and every November, December and February, I’ll move quickly through unexplained depression and toward suicide. That much is clear.
To me, Complex PTSD is called Complex because it is not created by a simple explanation, (a crash, a battle, an illness) but a complex buildup of multiple events, (most of which weren't that big a deal by themselves, but when added together made a complex mountain) which the victim had probably believed they very possibly wouldn’t survive. The triggers are not obvious. The layering of issues interact with each other in unpredictable, complex ways. Other people don’t see the triggers…which leaves me horribly alone with my version of PTSD. I can't explain it to people. They don't get it. Coworkers who have it from battle are unsympathetic because, as one peer puts it "You didn't kill anybody." He says people like me (civilian sufferers) annoy him. We didn't "earn" the diagnosis. My triggers are not obvious like fireworks. They’re subtle feelings that I pick up on when I believe a friend or a group starts to look like one or more of the friends or groups that caused the damage originally.
Almost all resources for PTSD are only for soldiers or for women who suffered child abuse. It’s extremely difficult for me to find resources for men who didn’t go to war. Last summer I attended a lunch time PTSD presentation at work. I got there early. The woman presenting was wearing a military uniform. I quietly took a seat and waited for more people to show up. She came out and started asking those of us who were early who we were. When she found out I wasn’t military she asked me to leave. The group leader later called me to apologize for the "mistake" but it was too late. Being asked to leave triggered a ton of responses in me that make it so I can never go to one of their events again.
It’s shameful to have a disorder other people don't see, but that makes me cower inside myself. I’m a strong man with a long list of serious accomplishments. I’ve taken amazing care of my family, and helped raise some of my kids’ friends when their own families fell short. I’ve won awards as a community volunteer, I’ve stepped up and taken on local law enforcement and fire department situations that needed fixing and I've won. I now care for my own family AND my aging mother-in-law AND my grandsons. I am not a weak man. But I feel like one. I always, ALWAYS feel weak and insignificant. When people challenge me on my perceptions, it only makes me feel worse because it makes me feel like I’m too stupid to see my own value.
I’m joining MyPTSD in hopes that as the world begins to understand PTSD in non-military men, that I can find that I’m not alone and I’m not weak. My 32 years in therapy have helped me through many suicide attempts, but I am pretty sure, by now, that I’ll never be “cured as if none of it has ever happened." I just need to know I’m not alone. I’m not a freak with C-PTSD in a disorder that's only allowed for women or soldiers.
