They call me mellow yellow . . .that's right

Actually that's completely wrong but it sounds good. Folks who don't really know me think I'm very mellow. I look mellow. Almost buddhaesque sans belly or boobs. I do a mean lotus position. That may be why I'm able to achieve a look of perfect serenity when my gut is churning with anxiety.

I'm a survivor. Survivors wear a face to hide what's going on beneath the surface. Folks who've worn the face for double-digit years even have the eyes of normalcy. The eyes are a dead giveaway until you've perfected the art of deception.

The deception is not intentional—it's a coping mechanism. Sadly, the one who's most completely deceived is the one wearing the face. None of us believe we have PTSD. It's a cop-out diagnosis.

I held onto that belief for well over 2 years into working with a trauma specialist. Over time and with great effort, together we undertook to dismantle the walls of denial brick by brick. Each painful extraction left a gaping hole exposing raw emotions. Over the next several years, we worked together to lower the walls, patch the open sores, and rebuild healthy boundaries.

The walls have been breached but not entirely removed. Exposure to the elements of my personal terrors can still cause my body to seamlessly—reflexively—shift into fight or flight mode. My body chose flight and my mind followed. This happens less frequently than in years past.

I've been extraordinarily fortunate to have someone nearby who specializes in treating trauma survivors. I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to the woman who first recognized the signs and suggested I get in touch with J. If her path hadn't crossed mine, I might still be living in the dark embrace of never-ending terror not knowing there was a way out into the light.

The woman I was would never have . . .

. . . tolerated the noise these cars make;

. . . been able to stand in the midst of this sea of humanity;

. . . stood shoulder-to-shoulder with others to take this cherished photo; or

. . . asked this man straight-up and eye-to-eye if she could take his photo.

Most importantly, the woman I was would never have dreamed of writing this post. She'd have been far too embarrassed and ashamed to admit that she lived in constant terror. She'd have been far too afraid to let anyone know that the sound of a siren sent her mind drifting so far away she felt as though she was watching the world from high up above.

Each day brings new challenges. Each day brings another chance to live 24 hours without terror.

To those of you who've been told you've got PTSD and you're not buyin' it, please reconsider and talk to someone in your mental health community. Life does get better when your body isn't calling all the shots by going into fight or flight mode and completely immobilizing your brain.

Linking up to Jenny's today in hopes of spreading the word.