Time heals all wounds is one of the most deceptive sentences in existence. Back in 1997 when my PTSD developed, I had hoped that time would heal my wounds, but as days went by, I quickly realized the pain remained. As a result, my early twenties were less about spending time having fun and more about watching Game Show Network while curled up in my black leather bean bag chair. Though I remained highly functioning by not missing any college classes or assignments while holding down a part time job, which became an easy way to convince myself that I was doing better than I really was, the comfort I craved from the noise that randomly popped up in my head determined what I did with the rest of my time. During that time, there was no healing happening.
That time was spent napping for hours, watching old episodes of Press Your Luck, eating microwaved macaroni and cheese, staring off into space and hearing laughter outside my window as groups of fellow students passed by. It was not spent bar hopping, partying, going to music festivals, staying up late into the night having deep conversations with friends, going out on dates or having fun and living life.
Even though I had spent that time searching for comfort from the anxiety, flashbacks and anger that were not a part of me before my trauma and caused me to wonder who I was and what my life would become, that time did not heal my wounds.
Thank goodness I learned early on that this phrase was a great big myth. My pattern of waiting for my symptoms to go away was derailed when I signed up for a college course that, unbeknownst to me, included yoga. I had done yoga before my traumatic experience, but I hadn’t practiced it since. Those first few yoga poses took the edge off the noise in my head within minutes. By the end of the session, my breath was deeper, I stood taller and the weight I had carried with me from my trauma felt a lot lighter. I knew I needed to do yoga every day.
Years later, I experienced the same thing after receiving my first therapeutic massage. Then again after acupuncture. Then after writing. Running. Hiking. Cooking. Nearly every new activity that I learned to love came with the benefit of making me feel better. The more I did these things, the better I felt. Now over twenty years later, I have a lot of tools that I rely on to help keep my mind in as peaceful a state as possible. All of these things I learned over time, but time wasn’t what healed my wounds. My effort did.
Effort is everything. In 2011 I had my biggest relapse of symptoms. It was the first time I sought out a therapist, which I had avoided for years. I had many excuses: I didn’t want to spend the money, I didn’t think I needed it, I didn’t want to be diagnosed with a mental disorder, etc. My therapist noted that the effort I had put into the activities are what helped me live a good life with PTSD up to that point. Since that session with that therapist, I’ve been symptom free. I’ve also lived happily knowing that if my symptoms should return I know the steps I need to take to find my way out of them. I also understand that making an effort to go to a therapist is more valuable that I first acknowledged.
I can totally appreciate that depending on where you are with your PTSD that it may be hard to hear that making an effort matters. If someone had said to me while I was sitting in my black leather bean bag chair that I needed to make an effort in order to start living my life again, I would have told that person they didn’t understand and to leave me alone. I’ve been there, so you can’t tell me I don’t understand. I do.
Time does not heal wounds. Effort does. If you’re waiting for the clock to magically make you feel better, you’re going to be waiting a long time. I missed out on a lot of fun because I wasn’t making an effort. I’m grateful that I turned things around for myself.
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