PTSD: The Monstrous Conductor

“Once again I feel the beginnings of the tell-tale tremble. My insides quiver like a recently struck cymbal. I am unable to remain focused. Physically I am where I’m supposed to be, but mentally I’m in a whole other world. A world which, even after many years of trying, I am unable to escape from. I try to claw my way out whilst remaining completely silent and still. I am a prisoner of my own mind. Sweat drips down my back as tears roll down my face. No one has noticed me, and I pray that they don’t because I have no response to give them, I can’t reach them from where I am, and I know the plague in my mind won’t allow them to reach me. Fear has taken over my body and I am paralyzed by an imaginary vice. I feel it crush my lungs as its relentless grip shows me no mercy. I look for every possible way out, but there’s no hope, no release button, no door to run through or light to guide me. I am trapped.

If I was writing a fictional story, this is the point where the protagonist would wake up. Possibly dripping in sweat, with a lingering sense of unease, but with a steadying breath and a realisation that it was simply a nightmare. Perhaps they would get up, tiptoe through their home, warm themselves some milk, and sooth their soul with a comfy seat, snuggly blanket and familiar movie. As they felt themselves nodding off, they would return to bed, the memory of the monster that had shortly before occupied their head – dissipated.

My monster is real.

It doesn’t wait for sleep. Its memory doesn’t drift into nothingness. It doesn’t give me warning and it doesn’t let me rest. It watches over my shoulder, ever present, reminding me it’s the one in control, and that even when it allows me to be “ok”, it will decide when I’m not. I can feel it. It crawls along my skin and into its favourite spot in my head. It takes its place, and, like the conductor of a well-rehearsed orchestra, it begins its frantic symphony. It’s a consonance I know too well. The drummer keeps a relentless beat in my head while cymbals crash in my ears and the bow of the bass screeches across my nerves – the vibrations shaking me to my very core. I can’t turn down the volume, and I’m forced to listen as the cacophony reaches a crescendo no one but me can hear, and as the music dies, I am alone, and my monster crawls back to its lair to wait for its next performance.

It usually doesn’t need to wait long. I can be taking my place at the table, standing in a queue, or dancing in a room full of people. I can be anywhere. A room packed full of people of all different shapes and sizes. A sea of people from all walks of life. I find myself scanning the crowd for that one particular face, I’m tuning in and out of conversations to hear that one voice and I’m trying to identify that one scent. They could be here. I could be in danger. My family could be in danger.

After some thorough investigation I find a potential suspect. The sirens in my head begin wailing and I map out every possible escape route in case anything were to go wrong. For years I have tried to equip myself with the right skills for this mission, but now that it’s time, I don’t feel ready. I begin to examine their every move, looking for any possible fault. Do they walk the same, do they talk the same, do they smell the same? I begin to tick off each box, and my heart starts pounding. They match the description. As they make their way towards me, the sweat in my hands begins to puddle and my throat begins to close. I try to keep up my facade of bravery but it slowly comes crumbling down, and my vulnerability is on show to everyone. My mind and body begins to shut down and I am not allowed to respond to what’s going on around me. Once again, I am trapped. Somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain I know that danger has passed, that it wasn’t even there in the first place. That a stranger, despite fitting the description, is just a stranger, they’ve gone, out of sight, carrying on with their life completely unaware of the monster they have woken in my mind. But still, I am forced to listen, to
sit through its live performance, no volume button to turn down or needle to lift. It plays solely for me and it demands a captive audience.

My therapist has introduced me to the Tapping Method. It’s my own melody, my Diss Track. I play it when my monster strikes up its band, and I try fervently to find my rhythm, to outshine my monster’s talent with a strident beat of my own. I don’t do it with finesse or talent, I am not hoping for a standing ovation or recognition, I only want to play the loudest – To drown out my monster’s creation with my own. It’s not composed to soothe, it isn’t a tune to relax to – it’s a battle. I need to hear only myself. I need to outplay my monster and send it backstage to wait in the wings. I haven’t perfected it yet, but I have faith.

Peace.

It is my Holy Grail, my last concerto. Like the missing piece of the Bayeux Tapestry, it is the end to my story. Lost, but much sought after. I hope that it still exists somewhere for me to find. I search for it daily, my life’s mission to seek it out, and, with help, I feel like I am slowly digging it out of its hidden grave. And so, dear reader, I can’t leave you with a happy ever after, or any ending for that matter. But what I can leave you with is a story of hope. And some, yet to be written, chapters…”

By Emma, aged 16`