journal | team | miscellany | podcast | home

I Had PTSD Before It “Existed”

A Short Memoir About a Lifelong Condition

Shari Busa Ortiz

There’s something happening here
But what it is ain’t exactly clear
There’s a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware

I think it’s time we stop
Children, what’s that sound?
Everybody look, what’s going down?

“For What It’s Worth”
— Buffalo Springfield

FOREWORD

PTSD is an abbreviation for post-traumatic stress disorder. A brief understanding:

“In 1980, the American Psychiatric Association (APA) added PTSD to the third edition of its Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-III) nosologic classification scheme (2). Although controversial when first introduced, the PTSD diagnosis has filled an important gap in psychiatric theory and practice. From an historical perspective, the significant change ushered in by the PTSD concept was the stipulation that the etiological agent was outside the individual (i.e., a traumatic event) rather than an inherent individual weakness (i.e., a traumatic neurosis). The key to understanding the scientific basis and clinical expression of PTSD is the concept of “trauma.”¹

“Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a real disorder that develops when a person has experienced or witnessed a scary, shocking, terrifying, or dangerous event. These stressful or traumatic events usually involve a situation where someone’s life has been threatened or severe injury has occurred. Children and adults with PTSD may feel anxious or stressed even when they are not in present danger.”²

PREFACE

I apologize in advance if at times I’m slightly unclear about specifics, and I will acknowledge them as needed. Sadly, both of my parents are deceased, so my only points of reference are my memory and what was told to me by others after the fact.

I will not be using anyone’s name in order to protect the privacy of the friends who were involved and the family of the perpetrator. Any locations referenced are factual.

In 1975 I was a victim of a violent crime that almost ended my life. I was a fourteen-year-old high school freshman. Not until many years later did I realize that I suffered from PTSD, as it was not a disorder recognized in the 1970s. I believe the expression was called shell shock and was used to describe a soldier’s trauma from battle. I wasn’t a soldier.

Not only was there no diagnosis for my condition, but there was no help. In other words, one cannot be treated for something that has no psychiatrically recognized name. So I suffered quietly and tried my best to live with it. Undoubtedly, there are many others who can share a very similar story.

This is mine………

▪

APRIL 29, 1975, WAS A BEAUTIFUL, sunny, spring day on JFK Boulevard East in West New York, NJ. There were parks, basketball courts, tennis courts, and benches to sit upon along the wide sidewalk. The boulevard itself was and still is a scenic county road that stretches from Weehawken through WNY and Guttenberg, ending in North Bergen, NJ. It overlooks the Hudson River and the New York skyline. As an aside and a bit of history, if you’ve ever seen the play, Hamilton, or know about the Alexander Hamilton-Aaron Burr duel, then you’ll have heard of Weehawken. On July 11, 1804, the duel spot was adjacent to what is now JFK Boulevard East.

On most weekdays after school and on weekends, my friends and I, like many youths who lived in the area, could be found on or near Boulevard East. This particular Tuesday afternoon was slightly brisk. I remember only because I recall vividly what I was wearing that fateful day. It’s strange the little details that I remember and yet important ones that I don’t.

I never dressed in my mom’s clothes, but she had one maroon, v-neck, cotton knit sweater that I would occasionally borrow, usually unbeknownst to her until laundry day. Over it, I wore my new and distinctive denim jacket. It was a medium to dark blue color and styled similarly to a blazer. My friends loved it and repeatedly complimented me. I confess to being very proud of that jacket. These details may seem insignificant, but they weren’t to a high school freshman, and they play a part in the story.

There were five of us that afternoon, three girls and two boys, sitting and standing around a bench, talking and laughing. Just a group of young innocent teens, happy to be out of school for the day, happy to be together, not a care in the world.

Well, not until we heard a commotion nearby, and one of the boys yelled, “He’s got a gun!”

▪

EVERYONE RAN BUT ME. To this day, I’ve never understood my reaction. All I can say is I don’t think the reality of our situation penetrated my brain. I moved in slow motion. I stood up and began following my rapidly escaping friends as Bang Bang Bang rang in my ears.

What felt like a heavyweight boxer’s punch slammed into my back, but it wasn’t a punch: it was a bullet! I knew it immediately, despite not feeling any pain, not feeling anything at all other than my legs finally moving as fast as they should have to begin with.

The group had already crossed the boulevard, and I ran after them yelling, “I’m shot! I’m shot!” They looked back at me, but I could see in their expressions that they didn’t believe me. I wasn’t grabbing any part of my body. I hadn’t fallen to the ground. And most of all, they couldn’t see the bloody hole in my back.

We ran into the vestibule of my friend’s apartment building, and the parent of another friend who lived there came out to see what everyone was screaming about.

I still wasn’t crying and I still wasn’t in pain. My body was in shock. I felt nothing. I don’t know if I told the mom that I was shot or one of my friends did, but shortly thereafter, a policeman arrived.

My close friend was crying hysterically, and the officer thought she was the injured party and began questioning her. Not able to speak through her tears, she pointed at me. As he turned toward me, the shock, the numbness, the surrealness all dissipated in an instant, and the pain set in. Indescribable, excruciating, take-your-breath-away agony.

I’ll never understand why I was taken to the hospital in the back seat of a police car. No ambulance came. No vitals were taken. I discovered later that the officer thought I had been shot with a BB gun.

My mother had been called at her work, and she met me at the hospital. Only in retrospect, as a parent myself, can I imagine not only the horror of getting that phone call, but then having to drive to the hospital in her angst-ridden state.

▪

WHAT OCCURRED IN THE NEXT twenty-four hours is hazy. Some things I remember quite clearly, but others, not so much, so I’ll do my best. After being placed in the back seat of the police vehicle, I remember only the wail of the siren and being terrified. I assume that I was brought into the hospital on a gurney, but that part is conjecture. Maybe I walked in. I simply don’t know. I vividly picture being in a white room surrounded by doctors, nurses, and my mom, but it wasn’t an ER or an OR. Again, I’m sorry to sound repetitive, I don’t remember where I was.

My clothes were removed, and I sobbed harder at seeing the blood staining my mom’s sweater and my favorite jacket. I screamed and screamed for them to get it (the bullet) out! That’s all I wanted. I wanted it out. In my fourteen-year-old mind, I assumed that removing it would end my suffering. Honestly, I didn’t comprehend the severity of my injury.

There were no CAT Scans or MRIs in 1974, just x-rays. That was the only way to observe where the bullet had lodged in my body and the path that it had taken. I’m not a medical professional, so I can only repeat what I was told. The bullet was a .22 caliber that had entered between the mid to lower right side of my back. It ricocheted, hit a nerve and organs, causing internal bleeding before it came to a halt in my right lung. The puncture collapsed my lung and accelerated my agony.

Dr. C was highly intelligent, caring, attentive, gentle, and a perfect doctor for a young person. I loved and respected him and will forever be in his debt for the way in which he handled my care, emotionally and physically.

With that being said, I continued to plead with Dr. C to take the bullet out. He patiently explained that the bullet was near a main artery and surgery would be very dangerous. He wanted to wait and see if my lung re-inflated, and if my body could heal on its own without life-threatening surgery. I was slowly learning, yet not fully comprehending, that my life was already precariously balanced. (I never learned the full extent of that until weeks later.) Dr. C and my parents did an excellent job of hiding their fears from me, and for that I am eternally grateful. Sometimes not knowing is a good thing, and mental strength and stability are just as important as physical strength.

▪

I WAS HOOKED UP to an IV drip for my medications and nutrients and placed in the Intensive Care Unit in critical condition, which didn’t mean much to me at the time. I spent five insufferable days there. Near mine were six other gurneys situated very close together, and I was by far the youngest occupant. The other patients were elderly, and I don’t think in that five-day period that they ever uttered a word to me. It was a room filled 24/7 with moaning, and screaming for a nurse or doctor. In my teenage brain, that room became almost as torturous as taking a bullet. I could only lie on my back due to the IV that was different from modern IVs. I couldn’t get up to use the bathroom, just the embarrassing and awkward bedpan. Two things carried me through that first night: the pain meds I assume they were giving me, and the arrival of my dad.

My father worked as a freight engineer for a railroad company, so there were times when he wouldn’t be near home all day, and other times not for a few days, which was why he hadn’t arrived until late in the evening. His face mirrored the grief I had seen in my mother’s, but at that point, I was lonely, exhausted, and drugged. His presence was my angel and a ray of sunshine in the dark gloomy room.

We didn’t speak much. What was there to say? He gave me exactly what I needed: fatherly love and comfort. He settled himself on a small metal folding chair, prepared to spend the night. A nurse came in and told him that he had to leave, and I still recall with humor this large overbearing man softly stating, “I’m staying with my daughter, and that’s that!” He tried again on my second night, but she adamantly refused. Hospital rules and equipment were very different in the 1970s.

▪

ONLY MY PARENTS were permitted to visit, and by day five I had had enough of the ICU. I received great one-on-one care, but I was severely sleep-deprived and extremely bored. There was no television to entertain me, and the never-ending nighttime groans from the other beds kept me awake.

Dr. C entered to give me my daily recovery update. I was healing, no surgery was needed, and hopefully, wouldn’t be. The bleeding had ceased, and my lung was inflated. All positive news to me, so I was ready to voice my pleas.

This may sound comical, but the ICU was always cold, and my feet were freezing, so I began my two entreaties with, “Could I please have a pair of socks?” He readily agreed, unprepared for number two. With a woeful face, I implored him to move me to a regular room, dramatically expounding on my inability to truly rest and heal in the ICU. I was weary of the frigid air, sickly environment, and lack of stimulation.

His countenance showed his trepidation, but I was determined, and he caved. Dr. C had his own requests and rules.  I wasn’t allowed a lot of visitors and excitement, and I needed to continue bed rest, but was finally allowed bathroom use. That alone was enough excitement for me. Bye-bye awkward, hard, funky-yellow-colored bedpan, and farewell cold-feet-induced ICU. I felt like a prisoner granted freedom! If he had allowed me, I would have run to my new quarters.

And true to his promise, shortly thereafter, I was rolled to my moving-on-up destination.

▪

ON DAY SIX (but who was counting), my room filled hour by hour with family, friends, and classmates. Poor Dr. C. He never had a chance against all those who had been waiting impatiently to see, hug, kiss me, and verify that yes, I was indeed alive and on the mend. My room overflowed with cards, gifts, balloons, and flowers. I had schoolwork to catch up on, which was fine because it occupied my time during the non-visiting hours.

The first day, the nurses tried their best to curtail the constant stream of visitors, but truth be told, that continuous entourage of smiling, cheer-me-up faces was facilitating a speedy recovery. I think the staff and Dr. C realized it because they gave up. True to my word, I stayed in bed, allowing my body to heal, but in retrospect, I think my upbeat state of mind was a huge part of it.

I also discovered some upsetting information after I left the ICU and was allowed to converse with my friends. They told me that the first days following my incident, the high school had begun the morning announcements with a moment of silence for me. I hadn’t realized the extent to which others thought that I was going to die. But I finally was told by Dr. C and my parents that I had indeed come very close to dying. It was a sobering reality, for in my young mind, I thought I was invincible. I wasn’t. I was, simply put, very lucky. I realized that not knowing and being optimistic played a big part in saving me. Maybe I survived because it never occurred to me that I wouldn’t.

On day ten, Dr. C gave me the great news that I was being released with stipulations. It was almost mid-May of freshman year, and by the time I resumed, I would have missed two weeks of school. I was ready to return and enjoy what up until the shooting had been a great year.

▪

I’D LIKE TO TAKE A MOMENT at this point in my memoir to explain what I know about that terrible April day and the legal process that followed. With the exception of what I’ve already written, most of the rest was told to me by the friends I was with and my family.

The true heroes of the story were the two boys who were with me that day, for they played an integral role in what was to follow the shooting. They had witnessed a lot. I don’t know how, in all that commotion, that they could have, but they did.

I’m leaving out some of the details that happened before the arrival of the shooter on Boulevard East because they’re confusing, and I don’t know how accurate they are. This next part is what I know occurred. There was an altercation between two men and a group of male teenagers who were not with us. I saw the group, but they were about three-quarters of a block away, so I couldn’t positively identify who they were. There was shouting, then the boys involved ran in the opposite direction from where my group was hanging out. For reasons unknown, one of the men turned towards us and fired three shots, one striking me in the back.

My friends were questioned by the police and were able to pick the perpetrator out of a mug book. He subsequently was found and arrested for trying to fill a stolen falsified prescription. They then identified him in a line-up.

I have alluded to the fact that there were two men at the crime scene. The second man had apparently been a victim of criminal mischief committed upon his residence by the boys involved. He’d summoned his friend (the gunman) to chase after them. I don’t know how he was identified, only that he was questioned and used as a witness against the defendant. Since both left the scene, I don’t understand why he wasn’t charged with that offense, but it’s just another part of my tale that will remain a mystery.

All of us, including the second man, were summoned to go before the grand jury, but it was the boys’ testimony that contributed to the indictments. My experience was intimidating, but since I had little evidence to offer other than my injury, it was brief.

The assailant was indicted on seven charges: aggravated assault and battery, aggravated assault and battery while armed, assault with intent to kill, assault with intent to kill without a weapon, possession of a deadly weapon, possession without a permit, and possession with unlawful intent. In August 1975, the defendant pleaded not guilty. There was never a trial, just much judicial plea bargaining until, two years later, he pleaded guilty to aggravated assault and battery. He was sentenced to two to three years in the Trenton State Penitentiary with credit for time served. The shooter was released on three years’ probation with a $500 fine and no court costs.

I never knew anything that was occurring over the course of these two-plus years until it was finalized. I only know that my male friends had given irrefutable testimony, and as far I’m still concerned, that man should have spent many more years in prison for almost killing me. He went to the scene with a gun, took out that gun, and fired it three times, Bang Bang Bang, in our direction. He could have injured or ended the lives of three innocent teens. He may not have killed me, but he forever altered the physical and psychological course of my life.

And I never saw my mom’s sweater and my favorite denim jacket again.

▪

RETURNING TO SCHOOL and normal life turned out to be more of a challenge than expected. I was still in pain, which was natural, and under doctor’s orders to “take it easy.” What I hadn’t anticipated was the degree of interest that my incident had generated. I desperately wanted to put it all behind me and had no desire to be the center of attention. The sympathy and concern from teachers and classmates were appreciated, but I had unerringly earned the title of the girl who got shot. (Acquaintances still referred to me that way at subsequent high school reunions.) Students I barely knew or didn’t know at all would either approach me with questions or glance curiously at me.

Gym class became my greatest mental and physical challenge. I say physical because I loved gym but wasn’t permitted to participate for the rest of the school year. Therefore, I had to sit boringly on a bench watching my friends. We used to spot each other during sit-ups, which meant one person held the other’s ankles while they performed the exercise. One day, I descended from my designated bench seat to hold my close friend’s^* ankles, and my teacher went berserk! She yelled at me to stop because I was going to explode. I looked at her in disbelief. Did she really think my bullet was going to detonate inside me and splatter my classmates and the gymnasium walls? It caused me to wonder what strange things were going through people’s heads.

The mental challenge involved getting changed for gym. For reasons unknown, even though I couldn’t join the activities, my instructor wanted me to wear my gym outfit. Back then it was a one-piece, ugly, blue uniform which meant I had to remove all my clothes in front of my gym mates in order to get dressed. This was the most bothersome problem as my wound was covered with a large bandage that I was self-conscious of. Then when I no longer required a bandage, there was a healing hole for all to see. I could feel the stares boring into my back, although surprisingly, those were the only times that no questions were asked. I supposed they weren’t needed. The bullet puncture spoke for itself.

I had initially been so happily anxious to return to school, and now a different anxiety left me desiring it to end as quickly as possible.

These stressful incidents and my reactions to them were probably the beginning signs of my PTSD developing.

*I only recently was told by this particular friend, who was not with me on April 29^th, that she found out about my injury when our principal announced it the next day on the loudspeaker. She told me that she ran out of the school and straight to the hospital which was about a mile away. My dad told her that she wasn’t allowed to see me, so she sat outside crying on the hospital steps. One of our teachers had gone after her, so he sat and consoled her, then brought her home. Fifty years later, and still, it’s a distinct memory. She described it so clearly that I could visualize the entire scene. My reason for writing this small but significant part is that others may not have been physically hurt, but they, too, suffered their own emotional trauma.

▪

IF MY CHAPTERS HAD TITLES, this one would be called, My Brief Medical Summary.

For the next year, I visited with Dr. C monthly, followed by yearly check-ups until around the age of eighteen. I had chest x-rays to chart the course of my recovery progression and continued to be diagnosed as not needing surgery. My body healed, and the tissue inside my lung became scar tissue thus securing the bullet in its final resting place.

This was all good news. The not-so-good news was and always will be that it remained unknown how much damage had been done to some of my internal organs from the ricochetting effect, and whether there would ever be future problems from said damage.

But the above only addressed my physical health. My mental health was another issue entirely and not considered in the healing diagnosis. I was an overall happy, positive, strong person and undoubtedly, doctors, family (except my mom), and friends thought that I was “cured.” In all honesty, I did too.

Just a short note: my parents were divorced, so my mother was the primary caregiver, and the person who was most aware of my physical and emotional health in relation to the shooting. I give her so much credit now. I can’t imagine the fear that she must have felt every time I walked out the door without her to shield me from whatever dangers I might face.

Trauma from a violent act upon a person does not cure itself and can take time to present. It requires professional help, but as this essay stated in the foreword, PTSD was not a diagnosis at that point, and people who suffered trauma from circumstances other than war probably did not receive the psychological help that they needed. I was one of them.

Lastly, I’ll add that during the 1970s, receiving mental health counseling had a negative stigma attached, so try to imagine being a teenager during that time and seeking help. Even though, in retrospect, I needed it, I doubt that I would have sought it.

▪

THANKFULLY, the school year concluded. The only people who would be surrounding me for the summer were my friends, and they treated me no differently than before the shooting. Even if we talked about it, it was with kinship, love, and no stress. I needed normalcy: to be able to go about my life without the constant bullet-related talking and attention.

I was wrong, though. I would never be normal again. The ordeal had taken its toll, and as the days and years went by, I would be afflicted with expected and unexpected symptoms.

In the beginning, I suppose certain things should have been foreseeable, but I honestly had never considered them. I still hung out with my friends in the area where I had gotten shot, but I found that when I was walking from my house to meet up with them, I would be on high alert for anyone who looked suspicious—someone who might pull out a gun, point it at me, and shoot. Once I arrived to where my companions were, the feeling would dissipate, and I’d feel safe. It didn’t make sense, I know, but I felt secure and protected in their presence. But nonetheless, a new emotion was emerging, one that hadn’t reared its ugly head since I was a child and thought there was a monster in my closet. It was fear, and I loathed it!

There were other events, ones that most people barely notice: sudden loud noises, a firecracker, fireworks, a car backfiring, any boom or pop sound that a gun would make. Absolute terror would overtake me. Pounding heart, body shaking, that feeling of fight or flight. It would last for a few minutes, which might not sound long, but felt like forever when my body was in that state, until the rational part of my mind would kick in and recognize the sound for what it was. These reactions persisted for most of my life, and only now in my later years have they become less stressful, but still…never totally gone.

And guns! I cannot look at them in a policeman’s holster, on a display, not anywhere. I look away. Even though I’ll watch movies where the anticipated gun is drawn and shot, it still startles me and sets my heart pounding. I hate them! I despise violence! And I can’t stand the fact that I was a victim of it.

I’ll speak of one specific incident when I was fifteen and a few months after the shooting that gives a very clear example of my mental state back then. It’s sharply etched in my memory. My mom had taken me school-clothes shopping prior to my sophomore year. We were in her car on our way home when there was a sudden, loud, sharp bang to the window by my temple. My head went numb, and I think my body went into shock. Fear overwhelmed me as I sat motionless and said to my mom, “I’m shot in the head.” This story still brings tears to my eyes. My poor mother. She really thought I had been hit. We were on a highway, and she immediately pulled off to the shoulder to examine me. I started shaking and crying, but to both of our relief, no, I had not been shot. My mind and body had reacted to what was probably a kicked-up road rock hitting the window. I have no idea how that poor woman managed to get back on the highway and drive us home.

My shell shock reactions were the symptoms and evidence of post-traumatic stress disorder.

▪

I’D ALWAYS BEEN HEALTHY besides the occasional cold and the once-a-year virus, but toward the end of my teen years, side effects and disorders began, issues that had never afflicted me before the shooting.

One aftereffect of the nerve damage was hyper-sensitivity in the area where the bullet had entered. I wouldn’t let anyone touch the spot because I would get a weird unexplainable sensation. And when I laughed hard, a charley horse-like cramp would ensue. These are consequences that I’ve learned to live with and have declined in my older years.

Larger, more life-altering, were the onset of anxiety attacks. The first was the day that my grandfather died. I was very close with my maternal grandparents, and his passing was devastating. I suddenly couldn’t breathe, my chest constricted, my body shook, and my heart raced. I had no idea what was happening and thought that I, too, was dying. It subsided as abruptly as it started.

For the next two months, I was fine, until my freshman year of college. I dormed at Rutgers University with a close friend and loved it there, but apparently, some part of my brain didn’t, for weekly, sometimes daily, I would have an anxiety attack. I think I spent as much time in the emergency room as I did in the classroom. It was a nightmare. On weekends, one of my parents or a friend would drive me home, so that I could get some relief from what I thought was homesickness anxiety. But why? I had been away from home before and never had that reaction. Something in my mind had changed, and needless to say, not in a good way.

I somehow made it through the rest of the year, then transferred to John Jay College of Criminal Justice in NYC where I would commute, continue my studies, and earn my degree in Behavioral Science, while also working six days per week to pay for my education. Criminal justice, psychology, and sociology enthralled me, and I’m sure it had to do with my fourteen-year-old experience. I believed that I could make a difference in a society where crime and violence were on the rise. Subsequently, I became a Probation Officer for The Hudson County Probation Department in New Jersey.

Unfortunately, my panic attacks continued interfering with what at that point should have been a contented life. I had my career ahead of me and was dating a man I would eventually marry and have a son with. I give him credit for loving me and accepting that his future wife would jump out of her skin at the slightest loud bang—who could unexpectedly go into a full-blown anxiety attack, gasping for breath, and crying to him that she couldn’t breathe and was dying.

By the age of twenty-six, the PTSD, which had only recently been recently recognized as a psychiatric disorder, triggered what would become a lifelong, unending string of autoimmune disorders. My mother had always alleged that the shooting and the bullet had affected my body in unknown ways, and I never believed her. I truly thought I was cured, but she was 100 percent accurate.

Before moving on, and for validation, is a quote from a study published in the NIH (National Institutes of Health) in 2020:

“Findings from previous studies indicate that there is an association between PTSD and autoimmune diseases. A recent population- and sibling-matched retrospective cohort study of Swedish civilians with stress-related disorders found an elevated risk of autoimmune diseases, and those with PTSD had an additional elevated risk for multiple autoimmune syndromes, especially in younger individuals.”³

The autoimmune issues began in my twenties with Epstein-Barr virus. I was exhausted every day, dragged myself out of bed each morning, and missed a lot of work until I was forced to take a leave of absence. There were no medications for it, so I went regularly for B-12 injections. Overall, I had to wait until it went into remission, which from onset was approximately nine months.

From then on, I developed a new autoimmune disorder every few years: syndromes that there was little information on, and either no treatment or medicines that were relatively new. The remedies that I tried never worked, so I suffered. Some conditions continue to plague me with symptoms on a regular basis, and others flare up, then go into remission.

In 2016, forty-one years after the shooting, I developed a very strange and unidentifiable condition that literally knocked me off my feet for a year. I spent months seeing numerous top-notch doctors in New York City. My husband had a high-level job at New York-Presbyterian Brooklyn Methodist Hospital, so I fortunately had access to their physicians, and if they couldn’t help me, I was referred to others. Between the stress of my ailments, not knowing what was wrong with me, and taking steroids that lowered my immunity, I was constantly sick. It took thirteen months to abate, and the only diagnosis that I received was that it was an unknown autoimmune disorder.

I’m not a hypochondriac, but I confess to worrying when I’m beset with peculiar bodily feelings. The most recent, the 2016 incident, truly wreaked havoc on my mind, and I worry about what will befall me next.

I haven’t slept well in years and can be prone to chaotic, very realistic, and sometimes brutal dreams that can affect my waking life. In the beginning, they often involved guns and shooting. Nowadays, my dreams are a manifestation of my life events. Stress and/or sadness can make them uneasy, even tumultuous, but happiness and stability bring calm to my sleeping world.

▪

I’VE DESCRIBED the psychological and physical triggers and illnesses, but other circumstances also caused me distress. Extreme life traumas and stress that were either my own or my immediate family’s (my husband and son) would affect me.

When my son was young, he, like many boys, wanted to play with toy guns. Just the thought of innocent children pretending to shoot at each other could put me in a hyper-sensitive state. I worried that if he was out with his friends that he might point it at someone (even a police officer) who would mistake the play gun for a real one and shoot or hurt my son.

There was a children’s theme park in New Jersey called Wild West City.  It was a place that resembled an old western town and sold all sorts of related gear, including cap guns which were the most popular. His classmate had a birthday party at the park, and of course, all the kids wanted the fake guns. I put aside my fears while we were there and let him have one. Just watching those children pointing weapons at each other and the crack sound of the cap guns gave me flashbacks to my own non-pretend shooting. When we returned home, the only place he was permitted to play with the gun was in our enclosed backyard and under my supervision.

Then there was the video game phenomenon that had overtaken the world. We bought him Nintendo 64. Some games for younger kids were innocent enough: Mario Bros, Legend of Zelda, but there were also more intense games available, and I wouldn’t allow them to be played in our home. He resented me for it, but I tried my best to limit his exposure to what I deemed unwarrated violence. Children are impressionable, and it scared me to think that he would even remotely consider these games and the fake guns to be entertaining and acceptable.

Now for apparent reasons, this next part of my story affected millions of people—September 11th 2001, 9/11, a day no one in this country who lived through it will ever forget. I would presume the aftereffects of that day had a profound impact on the PTSD diagnosis being given to civilians as much as to the armed forces, law enforcement, firemen, and emergency services.

As already stated, my husband worked in New York City. My son was in school, and my morning routine after he left was to watch the news. In shock, I stared in horror at the planes striking the towers. I vividly remember immediately calling my husband and screaming for him to get out of the city, which fortunately was still early enough for him to do. As the day progressed, it became nearly impossible for people to get to New Jersey or any state in the NYC vicinity. I also called the school because I wanted my nine-year-old son home with me. I needed my family safe and protected.

For maybe a couple of weeks afterward, and no doubt because we lived very close to NYC major airports, there were armed guards stationed just blocks from my home, a house in a small quiet suburban town. I recall driving on one of our local main roads and cringing at the sight of the weapons they held, literally holding my breath until I was past them. This was twenty-six years after my own shooting, but that creepy, jumpy feeling and the apprehension that overtook me at the sight of a gun still had not dissipated, and it never would.

I’ve always loved going to New York City and never feared it, even back when I was younger and 42nd Street was lined with prostitutes, peep shows, and drug dealers. I never cared for the subways though, and with all the vicious attacks that occur nowadays, I won’t enter a subway station. Truthfully, and even though I visit occasionally, I don’t feel safe in NYC anymore. It’s changed. There’s too much random unexpected viciousness. My PTSD has me in a state of high anxiety which detracts from the enjoyment that I used to feel. And quite frankly, I don’t ever want to be a victim again. As much as it saddens me, that’s my reality.

In August 2018, my brother died a violent death. The circumstances surrounding his death and what I personally witnessed at the scene of his demise nearly pushed my PTSD to the breaking point. I lived in a personal hell, my only saving grace and light in the darkness was that my son was getting married in September 2021, three years after what had transpired. I had been drowning, and this wonderful event was the strong hand that reached into the murky waters and tugged me out. But the damage to my mind had been accomplished. I don’t know how else to explain it other than to say it was like reaggravating a preexisting condition that I had been trying so hard, for so long, to overcome.

Brutality, hatred, hostility, and carnage have become a routine part of our daily news reports: mass shootings, bombings, knifings, gang violence and people hurting each other for absolutely no reason. Innocent children being shot and killed! I recognize (but don’t agree) that people believe in the right to bear arms for protection or whatever their reasons. Meanwhile, those who never ever should possess firearms are obtaining them and harming others. I know I’m not the only person who is brokenhearted by these terrible events, but I also know that because I, too, was a victim of senseless violence, I empathize with the sufferers and their loved ones deep within my soul and it hurts. I watch these tragedies, and I cry.

▪

I HAD BEGUN psychological treatment in my twenties for panic attacks and anxiety, but despite years of therapy and decades of seeing doctors for whatever malady was the next to strike, no one ever related my conditions to being shot at the young age of fourteen. The words post-traumatic stress disorder were never used for me until recently, almost fifty years later.

I wish I could conclude this memoir and say that I was cured, but for me, by the time that I realized the disorder for what it was, it was too late. Still, I’m better. I sometimes wait for the next autoimmune disease to strike, but I try not to dwell on it. I still jump at loud sudden noises, but that’s okay. I try to stay positive about life, even when it tries to pull me down and destroy me. I surround myself with loving family and friends, and I try to relish the good in just being. I’m fortunate to have strong bonds and for that I am blessed. Whether or not it’s due to my early-in-life trauma, I have empathy for others who go through trying times. Sometimes, all a person needs is another who understands or who will simply listen.

My strong advice for those who have suffered as I have is to seek professional help and don’t be embarrassed or afraid to be honest with your feelings. Fortunately, there are now behavioral therapies and medicines to help people with PTSD and other traumas.

On that note, I end as I began. “Undoubtedly, there are many others who can share a very similar story. This is mine………”

1.      Matthew J. Friedman, MD, PhD, PTSD, Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders, 3rd ed. (Washington, DC: National Center for PTSD, American Psychiatric Association, 1980). https://www.ptsd.va.gov/professional/treat/essentials/history_ptsd.asp

2.       “Post-Traumatic Disorder – What is PTSD?,” SAMHSA,  https://www.samhsa.gov/mental-health/what-is-mental-health/conditions/ptsd#:~:text=Post%2Dtraumatic%20stress%20disorder%20(PTSD)%20is%20a%20real%20disorder,or%20severe%20injury%20has%20occurred.

3.      “Posttraumatic stress disorder and risk of selected autoimmune diseases among US military personnel,” NIH, PubMed Central^® (PMC), https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC6964079/

▪ ▪ ▪

Shari Busa Ortiz is the author of the novel, The Forever 39ers. An excerpt, “Suitable Decisions,” was published online by The Tower Journal. She worked as a probation officer for The Hudson County Probation Department in Jersey City, NJ, before leaving her career to focus on being a stay-at-home mom and an aspiring writer. She is a lifelong resident of New Jersey and currently lives in Hasbrouck Heights. “I Had PTSD Before It ‘Existed'”  is exactly as described, “A Short Memoir About a Lifelong Condition.”

journal | team | miscellany | podcast | home