I see you

For weeks, I’ve been picking my way through a post that I can’t seem to pin down. It’s an important one so I’ve been whittling away at it a little bit at a time. Well, maybe not whittling – more like taking an axe to the dang thing every few days and then starting over. It happens like this sometimes. When it does, breaking away is my best solution. What can I say? It’s my process.

Yesterday I realized that I don’t have to finish it until I’m ready and, in the meantime, I could write a whole new post. Like magic, an idea popped into my head. I love it when that happens.

Today, we’re going to talk about one of the stranger symptoms of my PTSD. This is something I didn’t grasp until recently, but when I recognized what I was doing, I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Here goes…

I made myself invisible – on purpose – for more than two-and-a-half years because it felt safer that way.

Damn.

But then it got worse – I started noticing how many people I encounter on a daily basis who are doing the exact same thing. You’ve seen these people before. Hell, you’ve probably seen these people today. They are quiet and do everything possible to avoid attention. They don’t make eye contact, smile, or engage in meaningless chitchat with the cashier or the people right next to them in line. Maybe their hair covers their eyes and their bland clothing doesn’t fit. They do everything they can to take up the smallest possible spot on earth so no one sees them.

They are broken.

And now I see them.

Yes, I do understand that not all of these people are struggling with a mental health issue. There are many reasons people avoid eye contact or skip the joys and pitfalls of talking to strangers at Target. Not everyone who wears baggy sweatpants is trying to make themselves disappear. It’s possible they simply ran out of laundry detergent at the exact moment every other piece of clothing they own happens to be dirty. But I’m willing to bet that the number of people who fit my description because of a mental health issue is a lot higher than you think.

The first time I picked out a fellow PTSD alumnus was earlier this year when I was hiking in the mountains east of San Diego with my brother and his family. From time to time we encountered other hikers. We even talked to some of them. None of them were memorable – except for one guy I can still picture eight months later. The kids were climbing on some giant rocks and he passed us with a brief nod. That’s it. But in that moment, I knew he was just like me. I can still see the haunting look in his eyes and the way he loped along the trail – he felt hunted.

I saw him. I can see you too.

If you want to be invisible for the rest of your life, that’s your right. But here’s the thing – I see you so, technically, you aren’t invisible.

Once I acknowledged my need to hide, I vowed to put an end to it. I started slowly. I made an effort to look people in the eye – including myself, to walk like the old me – with a confident stride, to smile at strangers – letting the light reach my eyes. I started focusing not just on my mental health, but also on my physical health, something I hadn’t done since May of 2016. At first it was hard. I was out of practice. But it’s working. I’ve finally stopped trying to make myself disappear.

I am no longer invisible.

I feel amazing.

When I left for work this morning, it was a winter wonderland of frosty goodness outside. It made me miss New York State and some of the more memorable bone-chilling adventures we had there. Today’s photos all come from a frigid day at Niagara Falls during a particularly long cold snap that rendered a big chunk of the falls motionless.