The nightmare of July 4th

I'm writing this a bit late, as you've probably noticed it's not July 4th anymore. But I have a very good reason for this. You see I have PTSD and no I'm not a veteran. There's this stigma that PTSD is a veteran's illness and that others don't have the right to claim it. At least that has been my experience. People seem to try and either downplay mental illness or gatekeep it as though it's meant only for a select few. Forgive my french but that's hogwash.

Now, please understand I am not trying to belittle what veterans go through. I don't know what PTSD is like for them, just like I don't know what pain feels like for you or anyone else. I only know what it feels like for me. I can only imagine that their PTSD leaves very deep scars that require unique professional help. I am writing about what my life is like after living through trauma. Which basically is what Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is. Living after trauma or at least trying to.

Now that the disclaimer is out of the way, let me get back to the reason why I'm late in writing about said holiday. So pull up a chair. Get a cup of coffee or tea and have a seat as I tell you a story. A story about how I found out that fireworks are bad mmkay?

So I am very much a nerd. I love computer games, DnD, Starwars, Star Trek and so on. If it's nerdy I probably love it. Which brings me to mine and my partner's normal Friday night activity. We normally head over to a friend's house on Friday nights to play DnD. This week was no different other than we had decided to play cards instead. Uno, rummy, Mille Bourne (not coup-fourré as my partner insists it's called), and so on. I won most of the games by the way. Anyway, we were headlong into a nice game of Mille Bourne (not coup-fourré) when it was time for the fireworks.

Now given that there's this whole plague thing going on we had decided it best to just stay around friends and away from crowds. Because you know, germs and all that. So the plan was to go down to a field and just, "Blow up $120 worth of stuff!" as my friend put it. Don't worry he was talking about fireworks. Now here is where things got interesting.

As I said before I have PTSD but it's not from war or some horrible traumatic event, like a car crash. It's from a rather abusive parent. Now I won't go into detail as I have no desire to bring back emotions or memories of painful events for potential readers or myself. All you need to know is that people yelling or being loud cause me to panic and shutdown. I call it turtling. Like a turtle pulls into their shell, I emotionally pull back into a state where I feel safe.

There's no point in unpacking that as well I haven't figured it all out "my own self" (points if you know what I'm quoting, brown coats for life). The point is I know my reaction is to emotionally and mentally shut down. I go into automatic mode and if it's bad enough I stop talking or interacting with anyone. This normally only lasts for as long as the loudness is going on plus a few hours after. What I didn't know is that it isn't just people being loud that will cause me to react like that. Lucky me!

As you've probably already guessed. I learned that fireworks, if I'm close enough to them, will trigger that reaction as well. Remember when I said we were just going down to a field to blow stuff up? Yeah, these weren't bottle rockets, though they had those too. These were the kind of boom you find in the picture above. Nice big wonderful fireworks. Nice big loud fireworks. Did I mention they were loud? Like, rattle your soul kind of loud. They were seriously loud okay?

Now I don't fault my friends for this. I've seen fireworks before and they never bothered me. I just thought it was loud humanish noises that would set me off. I was wrong. We were only about 20 to 50 feet from where they were lighting these. Close enough that some ash fell in my hair. Close enough that as soon as the first one went off I knew I was in trouble.

Now right here is where there are probably some questions coming up. Let me see if I can read your mind:

• "Krysta! Why didn't you just leave?"
• "Krysta! Why didn't you ask them to stop?"
• "Krysta! Why wouldn't you have been prepared and brought headphones just in case?"
• "Krysta's friends! Why didn't you notice she wasn't alright?"
• "Krysta! Why the hell are you writing this drivel?"

How'd I do? Did I get most of your questions? Well considering you can't answer me. I'll make an ass of you and me and do my best to answer these imaginary questions. Hopefully giving a point to this "drivel" at the same time. The simple answer to these questions is that we're human. There done case closed! We can all just go home now! Yay! Roll the credits, Bob!

What you need more info than that? Well if you insist. The answer, and honestly the point of this little story, is that we're not perfect and we messed up. I messed up by not taking precautions or removing myself when I realized what was happening. They messed up by believing me when I said I was fine. We're human. Screwing up is what we do best after all. They're my friends and I love them all the same.

This whole story has been lighthearted and a bit tongue and cheek because sometimes things are easier to swallow when they're sweet. The ugly truth is that each time another loud bang happened I flinched. I didn't jump. I wasn't surprised. I flinched. I had the reaction of a dog that's been hit and has come to expect it. Fear forced me to stare at the glowing ember they used to light the fuse. My whole body tensed as I watched the sparks fly from the fuses. I closed my eyes right after the little rockets of horror took off. I didn't want to see the fist that was about to hit me in the chest. I couldn't cover my ears because my hands wouldn't stop digging my nails into my palms. Physical pain, that I can control, makes it easier to deal with the emotional pain I can't. So I dug my nails into my skin and waited for the boom, then I flinched. Over and over again, I flinched.

It was probably only a few minutes of actual fireworks. But I lost track of time. It was a nightmare and one that I couldn't wake up from. A nightmare that had only started. As soon as I had enough control of my body to move I started making a bee-line back to their home. I was moving as quickly as I could without it being obvious that something was wrong. You see something else that happens with my PTSD is I don't want attention. I learned, from my abuse, that getting attention is bad. So I tried to act like everything was okay. I always try to act like everything is alright and hide what is going on.

I withdraw. I suffer alone because at least when I'm alone I can't draw attention to myself. I don't draw attention to my problems so someone can't make it worse. Anyway, I got back to my car, got inside, and tried to hide. I tried to compose myself because they were just fireworks. The worst that actually happened was I got a bit of ash in my hair. It didn't work. Well, it did work enough for me to go on faking it which just made things worse.

After that came the rest of the night. More fireworks. More flinching. More crying. More pretending I was alright. Then came the rest of the weekend. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention. This was Friday, July 3rd. I still had Saturday, July 4th, to go.

Here it is now, Sunday, July 5th. At least it is when I'm writing this. I made it through. Saturday wasn't as bad as I just stayed at home. Inside where the fireworks weren't as loud. So it's all over, right? No. It's not. I know it's not. It never is afterward. I'm in what I call the cathartic phase. The flinching is over. My body is relaxing. My defenses are lowering. I'll sleep good tonight. But tomorrow brings with it probably a week or more of very dark days. Depression often follows when I've survived. I honestly don't know why. All I know is that I'm just a human for whom July 4th is a nightmare.

Thank you for reading and I hope that this at least gave some comfort to you reader. Just in case you're wondering. Yes, I am on medication and I am getting help. Yes, I have also tried it without medication. Thus why I'm on medication they work. Now I don't ask for your sympathy as honestly, it doesn't really help. Writing these feelings helps me deal with things. Helps me process what happened. It also gives me a bit of a silver lining, that maybe someone else finds solace in the familiarity of these events. If you'd like to see more of my work. I have written another piece regarding depression here. When I'm not dealing with my broken brain I write fiction. The start of my latest story can be found here. Also, please follow me on Twitter for updates if you're so inclined. For those of you who have made it this far here's a cookie.