I have PTSD

This post took a few days to write, and I second, and third-guessed myself posting it. But I want people to know. This is my truth, right here, right in this moment. 

I used to just think I had crippling anxiety. And I do. Sometimes I cry. I cry a lot. Usually it's because of fear of the unknown, or fear of the known: my mind replays terrible things that have happened to myself or loved ones, or I picture, vividly, terrible things happening. Over and over again. My mind spirals from one bad event to the next, and then the potential perceived outcome of said imaginary event. This happens every day, beyond my control, until I am left with thoughts of utter despair. Moments of my days are blocked out by these thoughts. These thoughts take me away from the present. 

You probably know I have anxiety and depression. I've written about it for years. But you probably didn't know it was like this.

I thought this was normal anxiety. I thought I was just "stuck" with my treatments. I thought I'm just still in the thick of it. But I was wrong. Well, not wrong completely. I do have depression and I do have generalized anxiety disorder, both of which I have been treating since 2011 with therapy (talk and CBT) and medication. 

But I also have something more. I have PTSD. 

As if anxiety and depression weren't enough. As if chronic pain wasn't enough. But they all go together. And maybe understanding this piece of the puzzle will help us put back together the puzzle. Because sometimes I feel like so many pieces are lost. My most amazing attributes feel buried by my fear and anxiety. I want to bring them back. I am better than this. I am not this disease. I didn't choose this. 

I'm not going to go into detail about what my PTSD stems from. In my case it doesn't seem to be a particular life event. Some PTSD is caused by a particular traumatic moment. Some is caused by repeated exposure to traumatic moments. Some is a combination of the two. 

We could say it was the childhood Leukemia - because I have vivid memories of my treatment and being sick, even today, when that was 19 years ago. When I'm lying in bed at night I have random, sporadic memories of being sick. I can remember full conversations, my emotions during a particular moment, how I felt physically, all of it. 

We could say I have PTSD from being sick as a child. But then I got sick again at 26, with breast cancer. We could say my unresolved PTSD was only magnified by another cancer - numerous tests and surgeries, and again facing my own mortality. 

Then that was compounded by my diagnosis of Li Fraumeni Syndrome, knowing I have a genetic mutation that significantly increases my chances of getting cancer. So while the LFS explains the Leukemia and breast cancer, it adds another layer: a lifetime of screening and tests, and again, facing my own mortality. Something no 12, or 26, or 32-year-old should have to do. On the regular. Every day. 

And listen, just being in the cancer community is a trauma in itself. As a child I watched fellow child cancer patients die, and today, I watch my friends - friends I meet at Tour de Pink or YSC Summit - women my age, die. 

I have PTSD.

I hope to begin seeing a new specialist soon, one my psychiatrist is going to recommend. I've been functioning with PTSD, probably six or more years. When I really think back, I have had some of these symptoms for more than 10 years. Nothing is new. Nothing has changed. Just a diagnosis. A more pinpointed diagnosis. Maybe now, my vivid and disturbing memories, and the vivid and disturbing scenarios I invent in my mind, and constant fears, and being alert and on edge and hyper focused, and irritable, especially in the car and in large crowds, and my heightened reactions to the news can be better explained, or can be better managed. I hope we can put this puzzle back together. I want to be more than this. 

So much makes sense now.

I thought it was a variation of normal to shake uncontrollably whenever I go to my oncologist or breast surgeon's office. I thought it was a variation of normal to not sleep for a week following the Las Vegas shootings. I thought it was a variation of normal to feel heightened anxiety and constantly be on alert when traveling. I thought it was a variation of normal to not want to hear any TV shows with disturbing content, not even when I'm in the next room. While some of those things MAY be variations of normal when it comes to anxiety, these things were/are affecting my life. 

Listen, we all have worries. We all have fears. We all have anxieties. Many of us have faced unfathomable trauma. 

Did I flourish in the face of diversity? Yes. Did I make "Lemons out of lemonade"? Yes. Did I continue to live and thrive after cancer? Yes. I built a life for myself. A life of many rewards.
But the residual damage. Let's acknowledge it, and its role in my current mental health. THE RESIDUAL DAMAGE. The anxiety, the depression, the PTSD and the chronic pain. And that's just now. I can't even begin to know what late effects I'll have later on. We are just now learning about my memory loss from chemotherapy as a child. 

The anxiety, the depression, the PTSD and the chronic pain, which are all intertwined, affect how I live and breathe each second of each day. The choices I make. And the guilt. The survivors guilt from watching my friends die from the exact same diseases I had. And just the plain guilt. That despite being physically healthy and cancer-free and able-bodied, I'm not HAPPIER. Not enjoying life MORE. What is the right amount of happy and joy after cancer? Should it be more than before since now I've faced mortality twice? Or should it be less because now I've faced mortality twice?

I think for a while I found great strength in the knowledge of LFS, and that diagnosis forced me to live my life in a certain way: fearless and healthy. I carried on. I carried on hard and I carried on tough. But underneath my advocacy and running and bike rides there was residual damage. Maybe I ignored it? Or maybe I was happier then. Or maybe I'm still happy now but more aware of the residual damage.

I didn't ask for any of this. I didn't ask to become a hero or an inspiration. Don't get me wrong: when people tell me I'm strong, I believe them. I am strong. I know I have love in the world and a network of support. And I know people are listening to my story. But I didn't want this and I didn't have a choice. Sometimes I don't want to be strong. Sometimes it's exhausting. Actually, all the time it's exhausting. 

My leukemia from 19 years ago LIVES in my everyday, as does the breast cancer. My LFS affects everything, from what I eat and put on my body to the X-rays I have or don't have. 

Yes, I am able-bodied. I work out. I lift. I chase around a toddler and an energetic dog. But I'm in pain every day. And the pain is + appointments at the pain management clinic + physical therapy + chiropractic + missing work + anxiety over missing work + fear of inadequacy + not enough energy to work and also take care of the pain + be a mom + keep house + endless appointments with my psychiatrist + testing for memory problems and ADHD ..... It's all intertwined. It's all residual damage. All of this is a result of cancer. Both cancers. Or either cancer. 

It's pain. It's guilt. It's fear. It's feeling guilty that I'm fearful. It's feeling guilty that I'm not happier. It's endless appointments to manage the anxiety, depression, PTSD and LFS. It's endless. It's my life. I make the best of it. And I'm not faking it - I truly am happiest with my friends and family and making plans. But there's a layer of damage underneath. There has been damage done. I didn't come out unscathed. And that's the truth. I live, every day, with the residual damage. 

Today, this is my admission. I just found out I have PTSD, and as shocking as it is, so much makes sense to me now. I want to start putting the pieces back. I'm more than this. 

Thank you, as always, for your love and support. And as always, I carry on and continue to heal, whatever that looks like.