When PTSD Develops a Voice of its Own

When I was younger, I had such a great capacity for daydreaming.

I would journey in my mind through far off lands, live out complex situations in alternate universes, or simply see the fantastic develop out of everyday events.

I would while away countless hours lost to the world and those around me, as I allowed my mind to drift, just staring into space, aware of nothing but the fantasies created by my own imagination.

No matter where I was, being within my own mind was my favourite place to dwell, as I created whole worlds with people to inhabit them. I created monsters and tragedies, I created great evils and mighty heroes, gods and demons, star crossed lovers and deadly foes...

... As the world rushed ever onward about me, I dreamed away huge chunks of time, blocking out the outside world, escaping my problems and my stresses.

This time within my own mind was, for me, as others would find meditation. It was a period of calm, a chance to unwind, to release all of my troubles, to escape all of the drama surrounding me, and to breathe without anxiety.

Suddenly, the imagination that I had loved so much that had been my escape and protector throughout all of life's hardest trials had turned against me, filling me with dread and paranoia.

In every scenario I saw violence and disaster, around every corner I predicted tragic misfortune and treachery, and every person, both known and unknown to me, had become in my mind an unrevealed enemy that secretly conspired and colluded against me.

I heard negativity in every tone of voice, slights in every word, and every action seemed, to me, to be intended as an act against me personally.

Every glance in my direction was a judgement, and every sound within my hearing an indication that, this time, they... the feared all encompassing they... Were coming for me.

I retreated behind closed doors, and then closed curtains.

I further retreated to the upstairs of my home, attempting to maintain the constant appearance that no one was home... I avoided venturing near an uncovered window or door for fear of being seen.

Then she came along.

That spiteful bitch that dwells within me, that feeds my self-doubts and insecurities.

Gradually, slowly, my imagination developed a voice of its own that was independent of my control.

At first she, for it spoke in a female tone, an often spiteful and nasty hiss of a female tone, spoke to me only in infrequent whispers when I was at my weakest, lowest, or it forced to venture outside of the safety of my four walls by the necessity of provisions.

Yet over time, she grew in strength until she could drown out all of my rational thoughts with her accusations, insults, threats, and warnings of disaster.

Over time, her chatter grew to be a constant, yet it was always strongest, loudest, the most persistent at night at that point between wakefulness and sleep when I had to let go of the tight grip I tried to maintain on my thoughts, and allow my mind the freedom to relax into sleep.

At night as I began to drift into sleep this malicious construct of my psyche would take every detail of my past or present, no matter how pure or pleasant, and twist it into something abhorrent and horrific.

This monster within me, that my ever declining mental health had created out of something that had once been a gift, and had kept me going, kept me balanced and sane, left me filled with a soul crushing sense of worthlessness and uselessness, made me feel ill adjusted, abnormal and an overwhelming sense of inferiority.

This spiteful bitch within my head convinced me of how I was, rightly, justly, and deservedly, hated by all, and how at any time damage would be done to my home or me.

This voice, which constantly hounded me, told me how all were talking about me, plotting against me, and would do all that they could to make me suffer.

Throughout it all, I knew and understood that this voice was the voice of my mental illness, a product of my own damaged mind, yet its persistence and persuasion was impossible to resist or ignore.

This monster inside me, this malicious construct of my mental illness, of my PTSD affected my mind, led to me developing somniphobia (the fear of sleep), and now, long after the voice has been silenced (killed off by the right meds that i now take nightly), I still suffer from insomnia as a result.

Now years later, I still suffer from many of the mental health effects of PTSD but she, the spiteful voice who once taunted and tortured me, is not one of them. I now have a new voice, a more positive voice... my own rational thoughts.

Slowly, the imagination that I fought so hard to shut down, as I was healing from my descent into my own personal hell is returning to me, I am beginning to learn to allow it to unfurl once more and to drift upon its waves to those foreign lands, and not into my own misconceptions of a tormented past. Now my imagination is producing books and the strangest (and often hottest) of dreams, and not the vivid nightmares of my troubled days and months when I shared my head with her.