All in the Mind

By Cathy Young

Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) can affect anyone. It happens as a result of a traumatic event; when someone either fears for his or her life or for that of a loved one, or perhaps loses someone to violence or disaster. The experience causes feelings of intense fear, horror or helplessness. Not everyone who experiences a traumatic event will develop PTSD, but many people do.

These days, counseling is offered to help people to talk through what has happened to them. This helps them to process memories so that what has happened can be assimilated properly, and take its normal place within the memory. This is extremely important in preventing PTSD from developing. Counselors encourage a person to talk about the event with friends and family, in order to find sense and order and meaning. One very good indicator that trauma has occurred is that a person finds it difficult or impossible to talk about what has happened, and will at times go to great lengths to avoid the subject.

When such memories are not assimilated properly, the result can be depression, nightmares, flashbacks, dissociation, and feelings of being disconnected or alienated from those around. Sometimes these symptoms will eventually go away by themselves. Sometimes they will not. It is estimated that between nine to ten percent of the general population has PTSD. Among victims of specific traumatic experiences the rate is 60 -- 80 percent.

In the worst cases of PTSD, sometimes called complex or chronic PTSD, the person has unprocessed traumatic memories from their childhood, perhaps deriving from child abuse of one kind or another. These have often been buried under layers of denial or repression, but are brought back by experiences in their adult life that echo or mirror the original trauma.

How I Developed PTSD

I thought my childhood was normal. No better than many, and no worse than most. My parents did their best and worked hard to support myself and my two brothers. I certainly had no idea that anything within my childhood could be called abusive.

About ten years ago, following the birth of my daughter, my husband started drinking heavily. He said he was depressed, and I tried to help him. It was a very difficult time, and he became more and more unwell. I was self-employed and trying to establish my own business, and he found that difficult, because he felt under pressure in his own work, and eventually he stopped working due to ill health. It took a year or so to realise that his depression was a result of his drinking, and that the real problem was alcoholism.

This led to many other problems. He stole money from me, was aggressive to me and our daughter, and sometimes passed out drunk at times when he was supposed to take care of her. My family gave up on him and told me to leave him. His family blamed me for his drinking. He was admitted three times to a psychiatric hospital, and spent other times in detox programmes. My daughter was very young, and I was trying to protect her from seeing the worst. But there was no protection for me, from anyone.

I knew I was having problems. It was like walking into the woods: it was very dark all around and I had no idea where I was going. . . in December 1997 I went to my doctor, who said I was depressed. It was more than that. I had PTSD, but this was not diagnosed until five years later.

I knew I was having problems. It was like walking into the woods: it was very dark all around and I had no idea where I was going. I knew I had to keep working, to earn money to keep the house, and to provide for my daughter. My husband was not working, and all his benefits were taken while he was in sheltered accommodation, leaving us with nothing. He left in August 1997. I became more unwell, and in December 1997 I went to my doctor, who said I was depressed. It was more than that. I had PTSD, but this was not diagnosed until five years later.

Now, with much more knowledge, I can understand why I became so unwell, and what the new situations were telling me. They were reinforcing long buried messages about myself, from a childhood of emotional neglect; messages which tell me I am unwanted, unloved and of no use or interest to anyone. Messages which are triggered by experiences of being misunderstood, undervalued, ignored or not noticed.

All PTSD sufferers have their own personal triggers. A war veteran might be triggered by a sound like gunshots. A particularly bad one for me is when I try to explain or communicate with someone, and get repeatedly misunderstood or even laughed at. That is a really horrible one, because it combines humiliation with failure.

The Resistance of the Church

Before I married I was very involved in the church, and I served in deanery and regional capacities as well as my own congregation. The vicar of my parish, in fact, had encouraged me to consider the religious life. When my daughter was about four years old, I was no longer very interested in the political side of church life, but was more drawn to the spiritual and liturgical side. I taught Sunday School and created vestments.

Before marriage I had worked for 15 years in public relations. Now, following the failure of my marriage, I have only had short stints in the workforce, and no work for the past four years. The call to ministry, however, has been a continuing issue. I felt called to the diaconate, to a role of finding other people like myself and helping them to find their path. I did not expect this to be easy, but I thought it was the only way I could see to turn my own situation into a blessing.

I met with our Diocesan Director of Ordinands (DDO) several times, and at first he was very encouraging, and told me about the wounded healer. However, he also said that the Church of England does not ordain people to the diaconate unless they have a job to go to before they are trained. In effect this meant that my own calling was closed to me, as there was no job. He said I should instead consider whether I was being called to the priesthood. While I did not think I was, I said I would consider it. We discussed my management skills from previous work, many of which would be relevant to the priesthood, including: leadership, delegation, time management and cultural awareness. I was at every stage totally honest about the PTSD, and that I saw my role in helping other people as being the most important part of my own healing process.

I spend some months considering the question of priesthood, and talking to close friends about it. Ultimately, I decided that I was asking the church to acknowledge the vocation I already had; if you like, one ordained by my experiences in life. In that way, it was immaterial whether the church saw me as a priest or a deacon. I had no doubts that the path was the right one.

The bishop told me that the church was "not saying 'no'. It was saying 'not yet'." I asked what the difference was, given that they had closed the door, without giving me any criteria by which I could open it again. There were no targets, no definable objectives. There was no medical opinion to back it up. It was all so ephemeral, so intangible. So final.

So I returned to the DDO and said that because this was the right path, I was happy to accept it. However, the DDO then told me he would not recommend me for a selection interview because I was "not sufficiently healed." I asked to see the bishop, and several months later I did. The bishop told me that the church was "not saying 'no'. It was saying 'not yet'." I asked what the difference was, given that they had closed the door, without giving me any criteria by which I could open it again. There were no targets, no definable objectives. There was no medical opinion to back it up. It was all so ephemeral, so intangible. So final.

This answer was not based on medical grounds, nor on measurable or quantifiable criteria. In any other sector of UK employment it would have contravened the Disability Discrimination Act. I wrote to tell the Bishop this, but he did not reply to my letter. The effect on me was immeasurable: my PTSD symptoms increased significantly, and I withdrew more and more to protect myself.

I found it increasingly difficult to attend church after this, and eventually had to stop trying. The following Ascension Day, two years ago, I rang my vicar to ask whether I was entitled to home communion or not. He said of course I was, and I explained that I had been trying and trying to get to church, but had been unable to do so for several months, and had made a determined effort that day, and again failed. I was very upset.

He asked when I wanted communion, and I said not every week, but on the principal Holy Days I would really appreciate it. We agreed that the next Holy Day coming up was Pentecost, then Trinity, and that I would be brought communion then.

On the Saturday before Pentecost I waited for a phone call, but it did not come. I rang the vicar's house and left a message. I received no return call. The following week I rang our new curate and explained that the vicar had forgotten that I had asked for communion for Pentecost. She offered to bring it to me. I said that because I had not seen her or the vicar for quite some time, could she just come to visit and talk about home communion -- it was new to me and new things can be very difficult -- and perhaps come back another day. So she came that week, and we talked, and she left behind a service sheet for home communion, and promised to ask the vicar to ring me when he returned from his holiday.

I have not heard from either of them since then. I have two friends left at that church who have remained faithful to me and my condition, and have twice included my name on the prayer list for the sick, when things have been particularly difficult. When these friends mention me to the vicar he tells them that when I return I will be welcomed with open arms, but that "the ball is in my court."

This is a very personal story, and will probably be quite unusual in its details, but perhaps not in its general message, which is that some parts of the church have forgotten how to listen. They are so wrapped up in providing what they want to provide, that they have forgotten to find out what people actually need, and are crying out for. When people present for ministry the church seems not able to recognise unusual gifts or make use of them, even if it were not within the existing formal ministerial structures.

And in parallel with this is another journey; that of trying to find help from the medical profession. That is another, equally long and difficult journey, with as many dead ends and false dawns, and trying to keep searching and hoping.

The parable of the talents haunts me. When I get to heaven I am afraid that the Lord might ask me why my talents have never been used; why I did not help in the harvest or the vineyard. I will have to tell him, I tried but I was not wanted. And then I tried again, but I was forgotten. And then I did not have the resilience to try again. So I failed.

 

Cathy Young lives in the United Kingdom. She may be reached by email at cathyafy@aol.com

 

For More Information on this Topic:

• Information about PTSD
• Support site for PTSD sufferers