Audrey S.
Photography by Hannah Facenda
Please note: In this letter, I write about my personal experience with parental death and grief-related post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). If you think you may find this content triggering, I encourage you to read one of the other letters on IfYoureReadingThis.org, or prepare to access any resources that will support you in taking care of yourself.
If you’re reading this, do not let the “What If’s” dictate your life.
For as long as I can remember, death has been something I have known. It traces back to age four, when I was just a little girl who found that her father had passed away in his sleep. From that point forward, I became a child who knew that one day someone could be in my life and the next day they could be gone. Hearts could stop working and cancer could murder. Stepping into a car could be deadly and going to bed angry was dangerous. “I love you” were three precious words whose utterances were not to be forgotten. I knew very well the reality that I, or someone close to me, could die– and that things could quickly change forever. But I grew up blind to how much I repressed this trauma– until one day my brain and body began screaming at me to stop ignoring it.
Summer 2024 was marked by nightmares, sleepless nights, and doctor's visits. It was a time when I could not be home alone because I feared what would happen when no one was beside me. It involved worrying about what would happen when I got behind the wheel and speeding home whenever I did. Going out to eat meant leaving before my meal got there. Hours were spent wondering whether I could survive my next semester of college or if I should withdraw.
The panic attacks came in the most unassuming moments. My fingers would start tingling while my heartbeat echoed throughout my body. It felt like a roaring river was rushing through my veins. Breaths became difficult and my brain convinced me that I was dying. Once the panic attack passed, I feared when it would happen again. This resulted in me being in a constant state of panic– hyper-fixated on my health.
My brain became split into two. Half of me was constantly telling myself that there was something wrong with me. I would over-analyze every bodily sensation I had. What if my heart is racing because I have a serious heart condition? What if that headache is actually the sign of a brain tumor? What if I have a seizure and have to be rushed to the hospital? The other half of my brain would get so mad at myself, beating myself up for having such illogical thoughts.
I spent so much time trying to stop the thoughts I was having instead of examining the trauma that was provoking those thoughts. It took me months of therapy to discover that I was not just experiencing panic disorder or health anxiety, I was experiencing delayed expression post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).
I cannot take away the trauma I have surrounding death. I cannot prevent the nightmares, flashbacks, or panic attacks. I cannot command the uncontrollable thoughts I have about my health or change the way I get triggered in certain situations. However, I can choose to respond to these symptoms with self-compassion, ration, and patience. I have discovered that negative self-talk only fuels the fire of my PTSD. Directing my thoughts with grace and empathy instead of anger has helped me make progress.
Since my diagnosis, I have been working on living with my PTSD by embracing the “What Ifs” instead of fearing them. My heart could stop beating. I could go to sleep and not wake up tomorrow. I could have a tumor growing within me. I could have a panic attack while I am in class. But the key word is “could.” Why spend energy on the potentials when I have the opportunity to focus on the present reality? Life is not worth living if I am so fixated on what could happen that I forget to look at what is right in front of me.
Each day I do my best to meet my PTSD with eyes open to the beauty of the present. To admire the wonderful things that my healthy body allows me to do. To be grateful for the opportunity I have to get an education at Boston College. To appreciate my friends who support me everyday and my family that helps me push forward with faith. To be proud of the courage I had to finish my third semester of college while carrying the weight of my mental illness.
I know how paralyzing and powerless PTSD can make you feel. But I also know the freedom that is possible through giving yourself compassion and making a constant effort to shift your attention to the here-and-now.
If you’re reading this, I invite you to give more power to the present than the potentials.
Audrey S., Boston College
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