It’s Another Day
For the past couple weeks when I wake up, I still marvel that the dreaded doom and gloom doesn’t attack all my senses. If I’m to say it bluntly, for so long I’ve been so mentally sick and I’ve been miserable. It is really hard to admit that having Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) makes one mentally ill because there is SUCH a stigma around any sickness of the mind, but truth is truth. PTSD is classified as a mental illness because it is a sickness of the mind. PTSD of the mind is kind of like Necrotizing Fasciitis, flesh-eating bacteria of the body. I say that because PTSD feels like it eats away your brain, personality, intelligence, hope, happiness and soul.
There is also an ignorance and mean-spirit in some people when they associate with sick people – mind or body. There is no allowance given or hand extended to help when the going gets rough. These mean people see it as an opportunity to get ahead by stepping on you. Having experienced this first hand and now recognizing it, I’m a bit disappointed and angry. However, after all I’ve been through the last three years, nothing, and I repeat, NOTHING is going to dampen my happy spirit.
I have healed considerably and am still healing.
I have hope again.
Best of all, I feel happiness growing within me.
The old me, an even better version, has been born.
So I’m going to share with you a poem that has been around for a long time, but holds so much truth. Whatever your life condition is now, especially if you suffer with PTSD, please believe me, the pain can end and life can get better if you don’t quit.
When the road you’re trudging seems all up hill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest, if you must—but don’t you quit.
Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out;
Don’t give up, though the pace seems slow—
You might succeed with another blow.
Often the goal is nearer than
It seems to a faint and faltering man,
Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victor’s cup,
And he learned too late, when the night slipped down,
How close he was to the golden crown.
Success is failure turned inside out—
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems afar;
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit—
It’s when things seem worst that you mustn’t quit.