I've never been diagnosed with PTSD. I first took the notion seriously about six years ago when I suffered excruciating pain during a break-up, psychoanalyzed the heck out of it, and landed in some books about domestic violence and sexual abuse (this on behalf of my ex-partner). But I saw glimpses of my own behaviors in those books, adventure-seeking, some minor cutting, difficulties with emotional intimacy. I've never suffered sexual abuse. My PTSD, if I have or had it, was the result of a surprise accident at the age of 10. I'm not really sure how to work it out, if at all, at this point. But I've landed here as the result of yet another surprise break-up that devastated me way beyond anything that people would describe as "normal" given that it was a fairly rocky relationship in the first place. For the curious, I've written my childhood event out rather thoroughly, in five parts--I'll past the first part in below.
I'd be curious to hear if this sounds like the stuff of PTSD. And, I'd be curious to hear if people think that my present-day break-ups (when I'm the dumpee and the person vanishes from my life) really could elicit similar behaviors, reactions and anxieties to the ones I experienced at the age of 10, a full 29 years ago.
---begin story---
When I knew that all the power in time and space couldn’t stop it, it happened. There was nothing I could do. In a fraction of a second, danger was detected and horror lived—and not lived.
Heavy snows entombed Appalachia that winter, and rains drenched the snow before temperatures plummeted. The saturated snowflakes froze solid icing a world still small with the naiveté of youth. It was a world not yet lived, not yet felt.
The end-of-the-school-day buzzer sounded, and we hurried along a well-trod path to Clayton’s home as we had many times during those snowy winter days. Sometimes we played Atari video games; sometimes we tossed a ball. But with the abundance of icy snow there was little question about what we would do that frozen Friday afternoon. We snatched a sled and raced on to my home only several blocks from an expanse of open field surrounded by pine trees—the neighborhood sledding hill.
We walked up the middle of the plowed street, dragging our sleds on the asphalt to wear rust off the runners. When we arrived at a place where the street intersected with an alley, we wrestled on an embankment. We rolled in the snow and laughed through toothy grins, smearing snow in each others’ faces. When we were done, leaving the anima of our play on the banks, we continued our march over crusted snow. Light in stature, we didn’t break through the cortex of ice, a feat akin to walking on water for two boys who marveled at our luck. As every young daredevil knows, sleds move faster on ice than snow.
We flew that afternoon. Wings spread, two young souls shared the subtle joys of life, things often taken for granted: wind bitten cheeks, speed, exhilaration, laughs. The iced-over town far below, we soared above common lives, mavericks for the moment.
The streetlights flickered to life. Night was crawling over the winter world, and it was near time for us to return home. We turned to the south-facing hill, a moderate pitch not usually navigable with sleds, and discovered the narrow runners didn’t break the icy surface. The long walk down the hill would not be a walk at all that day.
Kneeling at first and then crouching even more the sleds were fully weighted, moving. The ice-covered snow afforded great speed, and the swiftness we achieved surprised us.
As the trees at the edge of the clearing neared, we turned toward the alley whose upper extremity grasped for the open fields of the sledding hill above. In a flash we passed the trees and entered the narrow confines lined by garages and the accouterments of comfortable homes on either side. The runners ran smoothly, silent as we blazed into the heart of the city block. The alley steeped; we accelerated.
At the alley’s intersection where we played only hours before we flashed by the imprints we made on the bank. Where the street folded into the alley, the snowplows left a mound of crusty snow. One after the other, we hit the pile and were airborne. I watched as my friend launched into the air, landing in the middle of the street with a flash of sparks before scooting onto the snow of the continuing alley. When I hit the ramp, my heart jumped; my gut wrenched; I flew over man’s folly; passing man’s furrows, I freed from the earth; weightless, I sailed on the wind and climbed on the sky’s invisible rungs.
The alley eventually flattened, and the sleds slowed and finally stopped. We were beaming. We had to do it again.
When we regained the clearing, the skies were dark and the temperature dropping. It was past time to go home; our parents would be worried. After arguing about who would have the honor of leading—important in the world of boys—we set off in the same order. I watched as he lay on his sled and slipped into the night. When we approached the edge of the clearing and the alley’s upper extremity, the trees, coal against the slate sky, grew before us, twisted creatures with contorted arms. We flashed through the outstretched pine bough fingers and accelerated into the cold darkness below.
I watched the ride develop. The wind bit my cheeks as the garages, sheds and fences ticked by. I could see my friend not far in front, and I lowered my head to try to catch up or pass him. As we neared the alley’s intersection with the street, the glow from an orange streetlight filled our eyes. I couldn’t see my friend’s face when he hit the snowplowed ramp at the edge of the street, but I like to think our smiles were equally broad at that moment.
In mid air, heart jumping, gut wrenching, flying on the wings of adventure, weightless, sailing through the winter wind with an ear-to-ear grin, he was plucked from the world and cast to the cold, hard asphalt by a passing car. He was broken and snarled in a tangle of twisted steel and splintered wood.
A woman emerged from behind the steering wheel.
“Did I hit your dog?” she asked.
“No. You hit my friend,” I returned and ran to the front of the idling vehicle where I knelt on the asphalt to look into the jaws of a terrible monster.
My memory is mixed with the smell of leaking antifreeze, chirps from the steering wheel woman and visions I wish I could forget. But one image is emblazoned on my brain above others, a vision I’ll be able to call on my life long: a trickle of thick green snot seeped from the dead boy’s nose, which split the space between two big, unblinking brown eyes. There was cold and snow all around, crushing me, filling me, inside me, outside me. I was cowed by the force of a blizzard in my gut, a gale-force storm that would shell my heart in an icy armor for twenty years to come.
I didn’t know it, but making friends would never again be so simple. The world had changed for a smart but naive and adventurous ten-year-old who learned very early that what’s pure can be tainted, that opening up can close you down and—another lesson I would twenty-four years later forget and relearn—that best friends always die. ©
I'd be curious to hear if this sounds like the stuff of PTSD. And, I'd be curious to hear if people think that my present-day break-ups (when I'm the dumpee and the person vanishes from my life) really could elicit similar behaviors, reactions and anxieties to the ones I experienced at the age of 10, a full 29 years ago.
---begin story---
When I knew that all the power in time and space couldn’t stop it, it happened. There was nothing I could do. In a fraction of a second, danger was detected and horror lived—and not lived.
Heavy snows entombed Appalachia that winter, and rains drenched the snow before temperatures plummeted. The saturated snowflakes froze solid icing a world still small with the naiveté of youth. It was a world not yet lived, not yet felt.
The end-of-the-school-day buzzer sounded, and we hurried along a well-trod path to Clayton’s home as we had many times during those snowy winter days. Sometimes we played Atari video games; sometimes we tossed a ball. But with the abundance of icy snow there was little question about what we would do that frozen Friday afternoon. We snatched a sled and raced on to my home only several blocks from an expanse of open field surrounded by pine trees—the neighborhood sledding hill.
We walked up the middle of the plowed street, dragging our sleds on the asphalt to wear rust off the runners. When we arrived at a place where the street intersected with an alley, we wrestled on an embankment. We rolled in the snow and laughed through toothy grins, smearing snow in each others’ faces. When we were done, leaving the anima of our play on the banks, we continued our march over crusted snow. Light in stature, we didn’t break through the cortex of ice, a feat akin to walking on water for two boys who marveled at our luck. As every young daredevil knows, sleds move faster on ice than snow.
We flew that afternoon. Wings spread, two young souls shared the subtle joys of life, things often taken for granted: wind bitten cheeks, speed, exhilaration, laughs. The iced-over town far below, we soared above common lives, mavericks for the moment.
The streetlights flickered to life. Night was crawling over the winter world, and it was near time for us to return home. We turned to the south-facing hill, a moderate pitch not usually navigable with sleds, and discovered the narrow runners didn’t break the icy surface. The long walk down the hill would not be a walk at all that day.
Kneeling at first and then crouching even more the sleds were fully weighted, moving. The ice-covered snow afforded great speed, and the swiftness we achieved surprised us.
As the trees at the edge of the clearing neared, we turned toward the alley whose upper extremity grasped for the open fields of the sledding hill above. In a flash we passed the trees and entered the narrow confines lined by garages and the accouterments of comfortable homes on either side. The runners ran smoothly, silent as we blazed into the heart of the city block. The alley steeped; we accelerated.
At the alley’s intersection where we played only hours before we flashed by the imprints we made on the bank. Where the street folded into the alley, the snowplows left a mound of crusty snow. One after the other, we hit the pile and were airborne. I watched as my friend launched into the air, landing in the middle of the street with a flash of sparks before scooting onto the snow of the continuing alley. When I hit the ramp, my heart jumped; my gut wrenched; I flew over man’s folly; passing man’s furrows, I freed from the earth; weightless, I sailed on the wind and climbed on the sky’s invisible rungs.
The alley eventually flattened, and the sleds slowed and finally stopped. We were beaming. We had to do it again.
When we regained the clearing, the skies were dark and the temperature dropping. It was past time to go home; our parents would be worried. After arguing about who would have the honor of leading—important in the world of boys—we set off in the same order. I watched as he lay on his sled and slipped into the night. When we approached the edge of the clearing and the alley’s upper extremity, the trees, coal against the slate sky, grew before us, twisted creatures with contorted arms. We flashed through the outstretched pine bough fingers and accelerated into the cold darkness below.
I watched the ride develop. The wind bit my cheeks as the garages, sheds and fences ticked by. I could see my friend not far in front, and I lowered my head to try to catch up or pass him. As we neared the alley’s intersection with the street, the glow from an orange streetlight filled our eyes. I couldn’t see my friend’s face when he hit the snowplowed ramp at the edge of the street, but I like to think our smiles were equally broad at that moment.
In mid air, heart jumping, gut wrenching, flying on the wings of adventure, weightless, sailing through the winter wind with an ear-to-ear grin, he was plucked from the world and cast to the cold, hard asphalt by a passing car. He was broken and snarled in a tangle of twisted steel and splintered wood.
A woman emerged from behind the steering wheel.
“Did I hit your dog?” she asked.
“No. You hit my friend,” I returned and ran to the front of the idling vehicle where I knelt on the asphalt to look into the jaws of a terrible monster.
My memory is mixed with the smell of leaking antifreeze, chirps from the steering wheel woman and visions I wish I could forget. But one image is emblazoned on my brain above others, a vision I’ll be able to call on my life long: a trickle of thick green snot seeped from the dead boy’s nose, which split the space between two big, unblinking brown eyes. There was cold and snow all around, crushing me, filling me, inside me, outside me. I was cowed by the force of a blizzard in my gut, a gale-force storm that would shell my heart in an icy armor for twenty years to come.
I didn’t know it, but making friends would never again be so simple. The world had changed for a smart but naive and adventurous ten-year-old who learned very early that what’s pure can be tainted, that opening up can close you down and—another lesson I would twenty-four years later forget and relearn—that best friends always die. ©
