Before I plunge deeper into the darkness of that drive to Emerson Hospital and the surreal days that followed, I realize that the gravity of that moment cannot be fully appreciated without a glimpse into the shadows that preceded it. The events of September 6, 2024, were not mere flashes of misfortune—they were the climax of a long, torturous journey marked by silent battles, misdiagnoses, and the relentless grip of c-PTSD that has suffocated so many years of my life.
To truly understand the weight of that night, we must rewind—back to the origins of this struggle, the defining moments, and the people who both lifted me up and tore me down along the way. Only then can the full picture come into focus, and the significance of what happened on that September evening be grasped with the clarity it demands. So, let’s start where the veil first lifted: near the end of the summer of 2020 at Butler Hospital in Providence, RI, when the diagnosis of c-PTSD finally emerged from the fog.
But the road to that diagnosis wasn’t paved with any sort of understanding or compassion. No, it was a bumpy, potholed mess that began much earlier—back in the mid-90s when I was first branded with the labels of major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety disorder. I was just a teenager, missing an entire semester of my sophomore year at Marysville High School in the industrial town of Marysville, MI. Even before that, I had sensed something was amiss, but the pieces hadn’t yet fallen into place.
Then one night, toward the end of my freshman year, it all came crashing down. I was lying in bed, wrestling with sleep, when a sudden wave of terror seized me—a panic attack, though I didn’t know it at the time. Hell, I thought I was dying. I shot out of bed and bolted into my parents’ room, hoping to find some shred of comfort, some reassurance that everything would be okay. But all I found were two parents more interested in their sleep than in their terrified child.
With no one to turn to, I did what any desperate 15-year-old might do—I grabbed my pillow and blanket and curled up on their floor, too scared to face the night alone. That panic attack was a turning point, the moment when my melancholic mood turned into a full-blown depressive episode. Of course, I didn’t know that then. How could I? I didn’t have the language or the understanding to even begin to explain what was happening to me.
The summer between freshman and sophomore years was a blur—a fog of confusion, depression, and desperate searching for answers. Then came the headaches. They were relentless, gnawing at my skull from the moment I woke up to the moment I went to bed. I saw every specialist you could imagine, each one more baffled than the last. My pediatrician, bless his misguided heart, was convinced it was a reactivated Epstein-Barr virus. He couldn’t have been more wrong.
It wasn’t until I saw a second neurologist that someone finally had the guts to tell my mom the truth. I was given a prescription for Elavil—a tricyclic antidepressant, though they didn’t tell me that. They just said it would help with the headaches. And miraculously, it did. If only my parents had been more attentive, more caring, maybe I wouldn’t have had to suffer in silence for so long.
I was then referred to a psychiatrist, someone who actually seemed to know what they were doing. They diagnosed me with major depressive disorder and generalized anxiety disorder, switching me from Elavil to Paxil—a newer antidepressant, supposedly better for treating anxiety. By then, my sophomore year was a wash, but thanks to some compassionate school counselors, I still managed to graduate with my class. Returning to school after being absent for an entire semester and explaining the situation to my friends was a task in itself. Thankfully, my friends were solid—they welcomed me back without needing to dive into the messy details.
And this, my friends, is where I’ll leave you for now. In the next entry, I’ll pick up where I left off, and the story will continue to unravel. As always, given my current predicament, if this blog resonated with you, please share it with anyone you think might benefit. And if you’re inclined, donations are welcome, though absolutely not required.
