I was diagnosed with PTSD on Wednesday, October 8th, 2008.

Though the doctor believes I have had symptoms for more than ten years, I had remained isolated and untreated during that period of time.

My traumas began when I was very young. I have great difficulty remembering details about much of what happened. I remember bits and pieces, but even these are fleeting when it comes to my younger years.

I remember more of my early teen traumas, but they as well sometimes feel blurry in my mind's eye.

I lived with my mother. She had divorced my father when I was only a year old, so I never really knew what it meant, and to be honest, I took pride in the fact that it never affected me in any significant way. Today I question that some, though I still hold to it firmly enough.

My relationship with my mother seemed very strong. She cared for me, and I for her, and though she was very poor she did everything she could to make sure I had everything I needed, and even some of the things I just wanted.

My father, whom I saw once every two weeks, was like a friend. He would take me to movies, arcades, restaurants. And, even though I only saw him every now and then, I usually enjoyed my time with him.

I also spent much time in the care of my grandmother and her disabled sister. Since my mother worked, I would get on and off of the school bus at grandma's house, to make sure someone was always there when I got home and when I left home. Both my grandmother and her sister were very dear to me, kind and supportive.

And then there is my brother.

My brother is approximately three years older than I am. In nearly all of the activities and relationships I described above, he also took part in. One of the first traumas I suffered at his hands I do not remember at all, and may not be a part of my problems today. I was only told about it. I was just two years old, and my brother decided it was a good idea to push my carrier seat off of a high table, while I was still in it.

My brother led a "difficult" childhood, much of which was never explained to me. Any and all of his problems were kept secret by my mother, and what I know now is what I have collected from quiet conversations overheard as well as what I can only call interrogations I have made on those that know him.

He was diagnosed with Bi-polar at some point during his early teen years. Before that, he had many behavioral problems, including theft and violent outbursts.

Through my preteen years, I was physically attacked by him on an almost daily basis, occasionally to visible damage (cuts, bruises, scrapes). This was largely ignored, and viewed as I was told as "the way all brothers act toward each other".

During my early teen years, I lost my grandmother (passed away). This was devastating for me, as her home was the one place where I felt safe. She had structure and rules, and punishments for his violent outbursts, and they happened rarely there. These rules and the structure were not present at my normal home.

Her disabled sister, my great aunt, moved into my home (as she needed help, and we loved her very dearly) shortly after the death of my grandmother.

At this same time, my father, who was an alcoholic (though I never understood this when I was young) and a womanizer, disappeared from my life without a word. The every-two-weeks visits stopped without a call or a letter, and shortly after that a check paying the full amount of child support owed arrived, and I never saw him again. This was my only other safety net; my brother would not dare to attack me around our father. Dad wore a belt, and wasn't afraid to use it. (Though it was never used on either of us, we were aware of it, as he had four different wives with stepchildren during the twelve years he was a part of my life, and they often recieved punishments.)

So, I was twelve, and stuck in a home where I had no protection from someone who wanted to cause me pain every day. The beatings became worse and more frequent.

I came to find out later that my mother had some mental illnesses of her own, including depression. Though I don't want to blame her for not helping me, or stopping the beatings because she was unable to make the right decisions at the time, I still find myself blaming her. I was very young, and not yet old enough to make decisions for myself.

Once my brother was about 14 or 15, the verbal abuse started. This abuse was not limited to just me; it also included my mother (his mother). It was constant, nearly every day. Cursing, temper tantrums, breaking things that people cared for, and attacking me physically. These were all common occurances.

Then, without warning, my brother was hospitalized. Though I asked, I was never told why. To this day, I still do not know; but I do know that the institution was a behavioral center.

I was free for some time, maybe three months. I felt such a weight lifted from my chest that it was almost euphoric. The house was quiet. There was no fighting, no arguing, no abuse of any kind for three full months. I thought that life had finally changed for the better.

But then he came home.

Not a year later, he became involved with drugs. All of which I am not certain, but I know for sure of several illegal substances, as well as alcohol and marijuana. The beatings continued. He refused to take medication that was prescribed for him at the behavioral center (and still is unmedicated for whatever he was treated for).

During that period, several times he convinced his friends to join him in the beatings. I could tell they were on something, but these traumas were far worse for me.

By the time I was fifteen, I started having problems focusing in school. I was suddenly skittish, and though I had many friends, I started to pull away from most of them. Previously an A student in advanced education classes, my grades plummeted and I was placed on a regular class weight schedule (I was mortified by this, but the teachers were adamant that advanced students didn't get C+ grades.)

Soon, I started to find ways out of going to school. Anything to hide from the others there, to avoid the responsibilities that I simply couldn't handle. I faked several illnesses, and skipped school when I could. This eventually became a school system problem, and I was brought into court over it.

For the next year, my brother was around less often. But still, when he was around, the abuse continued. Now nearly an adult, he was strong, and the beatings had become more severe. I tried to fight back a single time during my teen years; but I ended up with a black eye and large bruises along my ribcage. I never tried again.

My mother during this time still did not acknowledge any of this as abnormal, at least to me. I would call for her to help, but she simply couldn't, or wouldn't, do anything to stop it from happening.

I formally dropped out of high school. From an honors student to a dropout in just two years time. I suppose many others have faced similar situations, but it was very overwhelming for me. Most of the time, I felt as if I was forced to drop out, though I know that it was entirely by my own actions that it happened. Odd.

As I became a young adult, my mind was constantly focused on avoiding the abuse, at all costs. I needed help, and though I didn't know how to get it, I started to plot how to save myself. I threatened suicide several times to wake my mother up, but that never seemed to work. And then my suicidal threats became real thoughts, which scared me more.

As I worked on ways to help myself, since no other would help me, I had finally decided the only way to get help would be to call law enforcement. On one particular occasion, I had built up the courage to call after a short and light beating (strange way to put it, but I categorized them. I thought about little else). As I held the phone, it rang twice before my mother took the phone from me and hung it up.

This happened several more times; she did not want the law involved. I felt betrayed by that. As if she was more worried about my brother's well being than my own. I felt as if I was a hostage in my own home. I had no way out. I couldn't help myself, no matter how hard I tried.

Another beating happened, and my next course of action was to run outside and to a public place. The neighbors was the closest I could think of. I was stopped at my own home's porch by my brother, and punched hard enough in the face to be knocked unconcious. I woke up a few seconds later to hear my brother saying things like "Why do you have to make me do this" and other such statements. I continued to pretend to be out cold until I felt it was safe to wake up.

I was sure by this time that this was not how "all brothers treated each other" and that "all brothers fight like this" was not true. Though more beatings came between my next attempt, and many things changed as the years passed, I kept trying to get help.

My brother had problems holding work, and had started stealing large amounts of money from my mother in various forms. He seemed to have an addiction to sex chat phone services, pay-per-view pornography, alcohol and drugs, which he would steal whatever needed from her to get. He controlled the mail, so that bills would not reach my mother, and stole credit cards. In one extreme case he activated a credit card in her name without her knowledge, and ran up a 5000 dollar bill on it before she caught him. She never phoned the police over any of these matters.

He moved out a few times for short periods, to the extent of a couple months maximum. But he broke his own relationships and friendships by stealing from them in similar ways, getting into physical and verbal fights with them, and so forth. He always ended up back home.

While he was away, as before, my life became much better, though I had already sunk into a place that I did not feel I could crawl back out of by then. I could not get to work, I could not learn to drive, I could not do things that boys my age would normally do. I was afraid of everything. Afraid of public places, afraid of the people in those places, and other things. My personal hygene was very loose, I did not take care of myself in the ways that I should have. I had problems developing and holding on to previous relationships, as well as new ones.

I was constantly depressed, and all of those things caused me incredible stress and anxiety.

I had become twenty one years old, and most of my life felt wasted. And my future seemed very bleak, as I could not find a way to make myself do what I needed to do to be a human being.

After my brother moved back in for the (uncounted) time, the beatings were slightly less. When they happened, they were big, but they didn't happen quite as often. Mostly the verbal abuse was his main attack tool, while the violence was saved for special occasions. On one of those special occasions, my mother was not at home, and I was fast. I made it down the street to a local corner store, ran inside as blood was rushing down the side of my face from one of his attacks, and asked the clerk behind the counter to call the police for me.

My brother showed up seconds later, after the police had been called, pleading for me to come home with him. I refused, and stayed in the store. He rushed back home.

An odd sidebar, the owner of the store chastised me for bringing trouble into his place of work. This always bothered me a lot, and still does. I had found the only way to save myself, and I was being scolded for it. Odd.

Some minutes after the call, the police arrived, and immediately arrested him. Where I live, any physical sign is reasonable enough cause for arrest, and I was bleeding.

He was in jail for some time. I had to testify, which scared me to no end, as I basically had to go to a very public place and be the central focus of attention for a small period of time, in which I had to discuss this thing that happened to me. But, I made it through the process. I wanted all of this to stop.

I had asked the prosecutor if there was a way to get a restraining order, but he dismissed my question without answering it. A few months later, my brother was back home.

His troubles with the law were not confined to just that domestic violence charge shortly after he returned home. He was arrested for driving under the influence and several other minor charges over the next few months.

But, the beatings had stopped. And they did not begin again to any "real" extent. Now he only used psychological abuse.

During all of this, my mother recieved some treatment for her mental illnesses. She seemed to be better much of the time. Neither I or my brother were able to hold jobs, though, and she continued to work hard to support all of us. This lasted for several years.

After my great aunt passed away (during that period of time), I began to feel more and more empty, to extremes that I had never felt before. I stopped feeling like a human being. I felt as if, maybe I deserved most of what happened to me, since I couldn't find a way to stand up for myself. And, my last tie to my safe havens from my younger years was gone. I was very lonely; my connection to my mother had faded as I realised more and more each day that my well being was not as important as my brother's, and that I obviously was not as worthy of her care and protection.

I isolated myself from the rest of the home. I found ways to avoid any contact with my brother, even though he lived not but 20 feet away. I stayed in my room for very long periods of time, waiting for my chances to go to the bathroom or get some food from the kitchen when he was not in or around those rooms. I spent no time with my mother, only seeing her in passing. The friends that I had, had dwindled down to only a handful, none of which understood any of what I was experiencing. I kept a fairly good mask on for them, and I would have been terrified if they knew more about what I had gone through and what I was currently going through.

My health began to decline. My teeth, though very healthy in my teens, started to become very unhealthy. Cavities, chipped teeth, pain. I did not seek treatment. I didn't even brush my teeth. I didn't feel that I could, for some reason. I didn't understand myself why. I stopped bathing regularly, and though I had eczema as a child, it became very severe, and my skin was becoming scarred from this kind of treatment. I stopped getting my hair cut, and stopped every other little thing that normal people do to take care of themselves. I had some medical issues that were left untreated, such as asthma and severe acid reflux. But there was no money to take care of those problems, even had I the strength and courage to see a doctor and have them addressed.

Six years passed. Now I was 27 years old. I hadn't seen a doctor for ten years, and my personal health and hygene habits had continued along that same path. My brother had continued to steal from my mother, more and more every time, and she continued to refuse to seek help from law enforcement. I had stayed alone, in my room, for 90% of that time. I had developed shaky hands, and my legs always wanted to bounce and move on their own. My eyesight was dwindling slowly but surely. My teeth were a source of constant agony. And I had recently started getting chest pains, having trouble breathing, and rapid thumping heartbeats. My suicidal thoughts were at an all time high.

One evening, the chest pains and rapid heartbeat, and the difficulty breathing reached a point that I could not bear. I called a friend, who promptly took me to the emergency room. Expensive tests were done to check my heart and lungs. It appeared that my heart and lungs were fine. I was having panic attacks, and had been for some time. In my mind, I was sure that I was having a problem with my heart, and that I would soon be gone. I was very wrong.

I was referred to a service in my area that provided free mental health and social services care. The trip to the emergency room had been enough to scare me into doing something, anything. No matter how mortified I was of going to these new places and being forced to meet new people, I was ready for some kind of change. So long by myself; something had to give.

After a couple of months of counseling, and though I repeatedly turned down offers to see a psychiatrist to get medication, I finally agreed.

Last wednesday, I met with the doctor. After reviewing all of the documents given to him by my counselor and from the hospital and medical clinic, he diagnosed me with PTSD.

I was, and am, very confused and afraid. This thing that is wrong with me is incredibly scary. My mother is somewhat supportive. The doctor was almost shocked when he found out that my brother still lives with me. He requested to see my mother the next time I come in. That is three weeks from now. I'm not sure what to expect. The medications he has given me also scare me. The side effects seem insane, as if the meds are poison. But I am going to try. Because if I don't try, I won't have a chance. And, after all of this life that I've lived, what do I have to lose?

Sincerely,

The Other One

Good on you for getting your story out and thanks for sharing. Welcome to the forum Other.

Welcome to the forum....


Families can be hell to deal with...This is your time now to do something for yourself. Continue therapy, try the medication and try to get healthy....

Hello Other,

I believe ptsd cannot be any more frightening than what you survived, and you are really doing great to get that out and to the Dr. The real good news is that was the past and your present and future can be a lot better with some resources to help you.

I, too, have been in the pit I cannot crawl out of.
I wish you peace and hope. Welcome.
:)

Welcome to the forum.

I was also physically abused by my brother, which caused my PTSD. In fact, there are others on the forum whose PTSD is related to abuse by a sibling.

I am sure much is confusing to you right now. Read the forum and learn about this condition. Go to all your treatment appointments. There is much hope, and things can get better. You are not alone.

I have started my medication (finally - four days of procrastination). Seroquel and Pristiq.

Two hours since I took them, and I am feeling fairly stoned. I assume it is the seroquel that is making me feel that way. Currently I feel more removed from myself, kind of like I'm just watching the things I do instead of it being me doing it. I've felt that way before, but being extremely drowsy and almost loopy has increased my awareness (lack of?) to it.

Thank you for the supportive and hopeful replies.

Dear Other.
That was very courageous to tell us the story of your hard life. I am so glad that you are getting help and are starting on some medication. There is so much hope for you. Old patterns of dealing with the pain and trauma may be hard for you to change but then you've already have begun to change them by seeking therapy. Keep going. To quote Winston Churchill:
NEVER,
NEVER,
NEVER,
GIVE UP.

I haven't experienced any serious side effects besides being very out of it for most of the day. I don't have any experience with these kinds of drugs, though, so I'm unsure if more side effects tend to show up after some time instead of right away.

The medication has given me some fairly heavy anxiety, from fear of taking it and the effects of taking it. But, so far, so good.

I find myself wondering what and how much I should tell my doctor on my next visit. I also have a regular doctor now, so I will have to tell her about the diagnosis and the medication so that she can adjust the things I'm taking for physical problems.

My regular doctor also was adamant that I seek financial/insurance help from a social worker at the place that I get counseling. But I don't know what, or if, I can get any benefits, since I have not worked for any considerable amount of time (two failed attempts to work, lasting less than a few days). And, since I don't own anything except the clothes on my back and a few books. But I have no support system outside of my mother, and that is limited to a roof over my head. It is difficult for me to strike up a conversation about the fact that I need such help. I'm not sure why.

The counselor I'm seeing brought it up once, a couple of months ago. She told me that she thought I should talk to one of their case workers about SSI and a medical card. But I refused to see the worker; I was just too afraid of meeting someone else, especially after I had been exposed to this new place and several new people that I was already afraid of.

Fear seems to be ruling my life right now. I hope I can push hard enough on myself to move past it and get what I need.

Woke up at about 1:30 A.M. with an intense, rapid heartbeat and a the feeling that I didn't know where I was or why I was here. The feeling did not last long, and the heartbeat slowed down after sitting up for a minute. It was a little disconcerting.

I remember dreaming, which is odd, as I haven't had any memory of dreams for several years. Though I can't remember any details or if the dream was good, bad, or strange.

The meds are definately doing -something- to me.

Today has been difficult. I continue to replay one event in my head, and no matter what activity I try to distract myself, I'm unable to escape it.

My brother was angry about something. I don't remember what it was, I just remember he was angry about something other than me. He was stomping through the house, shouting at nothing and everything at the same time.

I had methods to hide from him at the time. Not physically, since the house was fairly small. But I knew that if I was engaged in doing something, anything, there was less chance he would choose to attack me. So, I started to clean up my bedroom.

Several minutes later, he stomped into my room and started verbally assaulting me. Everything from the fact that I was lazy and worthless, to the fact that my friends were losers and nerds. I ignored it, and continued to clean.

My back was turned for a minute to dump some things in a trash can, when he kicked me at the base of my spine. I fell over, and he shouted some more curses at me. He would intermittantly(spelling?) kick me or punch me between verbal assaults.

As soon as he had lost interest and stomped out, I went into the living room and grabbed the phone. My mother held the hang-up button down, and wouldn't let me call the police. I begged her to let it go, but she just told me that it wasn't going to help anything to call the police.

I'm not sure why this one in particular keeps running through my mind. It has before, many times, but now I'm experiencing it slowly, instead of my thoughts and memories being rapid.

All day my chest has felt a little tight, and I feel very anxious.