A PTSD patient to a writer – my journey

PTSD – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, the demon that ruled my life for about 2 full years. Back in 2012 when all was well, life was at its best and I just had all that I need and want in one go. A lucrative job, a sound bank balance, NRI life, a beautiful family approved relationship, and what not? A wardrobe filled with branded clothes, perfumes, food as per my choice – a queen sized life. What would you do if all this were offered and taken away in one day? That just happened! Things turned upside down and I was standing with my trolley in the road scrolling my contacts to connect with someone who could help at that moment. Thanks to Dubai – the place where a woman can really walk down the street like a tiger would.
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I had no guts to tell my family back in India, but I had to, and I had to connect with my dad when he got to know all that he should (Should Not). “I am sorry dad, I wish I could die,” I said. Crying pathetically, not that I didn’t try to kill myself, I was a coward and I was afraid of pain. “If you kill yourself, I will die the next moment.” Said my dad having my mom and sister next on the Skype call. “Come back to me,” he pleaded and I landed the next morning.
“Don’t care about anything. No-one can take you away from me, you need not work or do anything, I am here to feed you until I die. Just live, please, I want to see you everyday,” My dad said when I plonked on the bed.
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The days rolled and I saw myself crumpled in the corner. Legs hugged to my chest, crying, wondering why am I living, wondering why this happened to me, I had no answers. I was afraid to step out of the room that I lived in, and I didn’t have the guts to face anyone. All my social media profiles were deleted. I would see my mom thrice a day, whenever she knocks the door to give my meal. I used to watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S series for the whole day and laugh, I still remember the day when my mom peeped through the small window to see me laughing and cried pathetically. “Am nothing, am good for nothing,” the only phrase that kept running in my mind. If I could do one thing in life, it is to thank the one who thought of the very concept of the series, I am alive today and you’re the reason behind.
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People around knew what I had to undergo but refrained on my dad’s order. I walked to him and asked him to consult a psychiatrist for me. After a series of tests and counselling, she declared it is PTSD. “Do something you love, that would help you to come out of this,” she said. I laughed because I was good at nothing. Sitting in the corner of my room, I was wondering what am I capable of? What is best for me? How do I prove those who made me this?
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A friend walked by and banged my door, “Come out of that fucking room and face the world,” she yelled. I was afraid. I didn’t say “NO” when I had to and kept compromising a lot to sustain a relationship that I thought would work. Life proved me wrong and that pushed me enough to hate “love” ha! The irony! ”Can you please think of what you were good at? What best you did in college? What you were known well for?” she asked from the other side of the door and I kept chanting “Nothing, I did nothing, am good for nothing,”
In the middle of the night, I hope it probably was because I had no track of the day or month or year or time or AM or PM. I slept for more than 12 hours a day, the only solace. Bloating was another side effect, I weighed 14kgs more than what I was. “We hate to see you like this,” conveyed those pathetic eyes of my friends who banged the doors and walked in. “I don’t want to see any of you, leave me alone,” I turned cold as one of my guy friends touched me wrong calling it an act of calming me down for good.
“I used to help people clear the HR round. I penned the “Tell me about yourself” answer to most of my friends at college final year. I will write the content for ‘just a minute’ programs for friends who lack good communication.” I messaged her at God knows what time it was.
“Start blogging,” she replied the next day.
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Slowly I started writing, my personal blog www.preethinakshatra.wordpress.com happened. It was not read, liked or shared with any but my friend. Stop writing all your cry stories, she used to knock my head, but what topic am I good to write? “Come back to Facebook,” she forced and I did, a few friends were there by my side, not to forget any, I will never.
I was introduced to content writing via Facebook. It was a new term, and I was surprised when I heard that they would pay me if I write on the topics they gave. That was a ray of sunshine, and I started writing like crazy. Spending 5 minutes for lunch and dinner, I was busy writing on topics that I never knew. One such offer was to write an eBook on a concept which would be published on Kindle by another, typical ghost writing. I was angry to see my words published by another author for a few thousand bucks. “I want to publish my own book,” I called my friend, “Phew! I was waiting to hear this all these months,” she replied.
I had no clue what publishing is, I didn’t know what it takes to become a writer, I just took a book on my shelf and checked where I should put a comma in dialogues – before the quotation mark or after. That’s what I was when I started writing.
The journey was indeed very, very painful with a lot of pitfalls and loopholes. But, it worked. When I had my final chance of meeting my ex who was that big snake that bit me when I stood at 99 on my Ludo, I had a book on my name. “Am I the villain?” he asked, skimming my book and I said you’re not worth it. The one I thought my life is, the one I planned living my life with, the one I spent my whole lot of time to understand and mend accordingly – right from the curtain colors to the names of kids that we planned, every little thing vanished along with him in a day. That fucked up pain of losing the first love, which would turn you totally upside down trashing your beliefs.
I was still fighting PTSD with pills and a few counselling sessions which I wanted to get rid of. I abruptly stopped them, not sure if I was right.
In want of fresh air, randomly I planned an unplanned trip to Goa with my crazy friend. A kick-ass trip where I flew in the air, midnight rides, the booze street, casino and what not. I was ME after a real long time. I have been missing this, I thought. To break my chains – I cut all those friends who knew my past, wrong but works. I made new friends – online and offline.
Indulged myself in random groups that were crazy, be it the trekking group – blogging group – foodies group – social service group. When life demands to break down, I did talk to one or two among them sharing my past and that really takes a lot for me to do. Hardly 3 of those whom I talk to in these random social groups know me inside and out, for others, I don’t know what they call me, I let go. I cross hear all the opinions and judgements yet I secure the lock. A friend of mine pinged me saying “I will treat you if you sustain our friendship for more than a year,” because I can’t resist anything odd. In the past year, I have cut down more than 10 friends for reasons that might look silly, but, to restrict oneself from shooing away the other person who is not worth it is like controlling to pee. No matter how hard you try, finally you got to let go rather than any other trials of holding your bladder.
Writing turned my solace, I started improving. I was celebrated for being the writer and it was a sheer pleasure to be one. I will never forget those who were there for me when I was desperate to cling on to a shoulder, but mostly, I kept off from people calling me a rebel and stating “Am my soulmate”
Writing is not a lucrative job, it indeed needs investment of the writer. It is purely passion and love to be heard of, to use words to convey what you want which would resonate with someone out there.
Today, I have taken a step ahead to go with writing for maybe until am forced to work for financial crisis or whatever.
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I kind of felt PTSD walking in again with my binge eating and my disturbed sleeping pattern. Maybe a blog post pouring my heart and washing away my tears which I hope to be my final call to kick out the trauma of the same room would help.
Writing can do wonders, it is capable of a lot things that you would understand during the process. I have lost hope in everything but writing, It brought out the happy minion that I am now. During my process of developing thick skin – I have dropped many a friends who are still there, watching me grow, feeling proud of what I am, quoting me as an example to others. Am sorry that I did that to you guys, thanks for all that you all were. Irreplaceable! I know it takes a dial to get back to you, I just don’t want the past to come back at me.
I know that am sobbing and writing crap, but hey, I will be back with a good post soon!
Lengthiest and worst rant ever! Good bye PTSD – you can never get me.
Kavipriya Moorthy
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11 thoughts on “A PTSD patient to a writer – my journey”

  1. Is this a true story or fiction? If it’s true I’m glad you came out of it and admire you for facing a crisis so boldly. And if it’s fiction, it was very well written. Whatever, keep smiling and keep going

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Aren’t people like you, who have gone through tough times, are capable of shaking the world upside down? I mean over coming inner struggles had been the humanity’s greatest fight all the time. ‘You are inspiring’ or should I say ‘I’m proud’? Anyway, coming to Writing part- aaarghh. I think most writers have born due to the after math of first brake up. ‘Kudos!!!’ for your journey. 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

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