Dealing with PTSD
More funerals than birthday parties...
Warning: Today’s topic is heavy and may not be suited for those who deal with PTSD/anxiety
Here’s a GIF summary of today’s blog ^.
Diagnosed
About a year into our marriage, my wife openly said to me that she thinks that I may have PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder). It was shocking to hear this said out loud.
Shocking because I had ever only associated PTSD with folks who’ve been in the military and seen war, people who’ve seen people die in front of them, people who’ve been kidnapped, or part of a horrific accident.
I thought to myself, “what the fuck are you talking about? I don’t have PTSD! I’m fine. I’m a normal human with normal experiences.” Turns out, I was a million miles from the truth. And in reality, folks dealing with PTSD are indeed “normal” people. The experiences that make up their psyche, however, are very very different.
Long story short and a of couple doctor/pyschiatrist visits later…turns out I had PTSD. Or better yet, I was diagnosed with PTSD.
There was even a moment where I forgot to breathe.
The reality of my experiences
If I’m being completely honest with you, and I am, I really don’t care what the diagnosis said… I’m hyper-aware of the fucked up situations I’ve been in, put myself in, and have experienced that have pushed me to where I am today.
Unfortunately, being a young black boy in America, this is part of the experience for a lot of us.
If I have PTSD, then I can 100% guarantee all 5 of my closest friends from my childhood also have PTSD or have had it.
I learned this to be true during my bachelor party weekend in 2018. My groomsmen represented each stage of my life. From my brother, to my first friend, to my most recent friend. 7 guys all reflecting the various experiences and stages of my boyhood and my newly found manhood.
They are an almagamation of my being. After having a brutally honest conversation about the thread of how we’re all connected in some way, here are some of the things that were revealed about myself.
The summary of that conversation, for me, came out to be: I’ve been to more funerals than birthday parties.
Experiences make the person
Saturday, July 3, 1999: Long Beach, CA, USA
I hadn’t even reached the age of 10. It was the perfect day at Grandma’s house in Long Beach — on the West Side. All my cousins were there. It was the day before the 4th of July and we were excited. Doing the holidays at Grandma’s house in Long Beach meant my parents would give my brother and I a little bit more freedom since they knew we were protected by our older cousins.
It was 6 of us. Razor Scooters, bicycles, and rollerblades. Ice cream stains on our shirts and our hands were still sticky from the residue. With everything going so well, we had somehow ended up in the wrong part of the neighborhood.
We were only 6, 10, 10, 12, 13, and 14 years old.
5 cars pull up in front of a house we had no business being near.
4 men in each car.
Bats, crowbars, knives, and fists abound seemingly prepared for a war we knew nothing of.
All of this for one man coming out of his house to a crowd of East Side Longos.
It was the first time I had seen a gun in real life. It was also the first time I had bullets flying in the direction of my existence. The sound of an Ak-47 on a neighborhood street, in that moment, made my life spin.
Thunder. It sounded like thunder hitting the cars, the trashcans, and anything that threatened to live in that moment.
My cousins and I made it out safely — some abandoning our scooters. Those of us on the bikes and blades made it back to Grandma’s house the fastest. I’ll never forget the look on my father’s face when we had to lie and tell him someone stole our scooters.
All for the fear of telling the truth of what really happened.
8 people were shot that day. 2 died.
December 2005: Bakersfield, CA, USA
Home has always been a weird place for me. That city, that town, Bakersfield knows too much about me and it scares me.
Valley Plaza Mall was my epicenter growing up. It was the only real mall we had in town. Every kid hung out there on the weekends and it had everything. Cool food court, movie theater, bus station, baseball card store, and there used to be monthly performances there for up-and-coming music acts.
It eventually became too cool. Too crowded. The town was changing and quickly taking on the affects of growing into a metropolis.
With all of this came more crime. More crime usually leads to more murders.
In December of 2005, my cousin was murdered at the Valley Plaza Mall in Bakersfield California. The place we all hung out on the weekends, our sacred place, was no longer safe.
Neither were no longer ours.
Oct 2009: Bakersfield, CA, USA
My friends and I had branded ourselves FRESHEEZ during the first year of high school. Years later this name and moniker had stuck around and we threw parties at the end of every quarter in my friend’s basement.
This wasn’t your typical high school party. We had adults patting kids down at the door. The stench of weed, alcohol, and anything else you wanted were definitely in the air—how it got there is still a mystery. Also, we somehow managed to book our older brothers’ friend, DJ John Lock, on occasion.
This night was a little bit different though. We had too many people come to the party. In a basement that could probably fit 100 people, comfortabaly, we had 317 people. I remember the specific number because I was working the door and handling the money.
Where we went wrong was not understanding the dynamics of rival gangs in a closed, mildly claustrophobic space with 1 real exit. There were two emergency windows, but no one in their right mind would smash those to get out of the basement, right?
Wrong.
A fight breaks out. But this time, someone had a gun.
The ceiling of the basement took the first bullet. It also took the second bullet.
Warning shots. Music stops.
I’ve never seen 317 people evacuate a space in such a short amount of time. Oh, and yes they broke the emergency windows and crawled out of the basement exits. Others hit the stairway and fled through the garage. Fences were jumped etc. Teenagers were literally everywhere in this cul-de-sac block.
But it didn’t end there. The fight continued outside.
The taste and burn of pepper spray is something I never want to experience again. One of the suspects sisters had starting spraying anyone and everyone who didn’t look like someone from her “hood.”
Car spins a U-Turn at the end of the block and makes its way back towards the front of the house where my friends and I were standing guard as we had to ensure no one went inside the main parts of his house.
7 shots were fired directly at us. As I did nearly a decade earlier, I ran. I made it out, again.
Within 90 seconds of that happening, helicopters were flying above the house and police were everywhere.
Somehow, someway I made it all the way home. No bullets, no arrests, no deaths.
Everyone made it home safely that night…
What started as a fun, overcrowded party night ended with my friends house and car being littered with bullet holes and casings in the street.
Oct. 21, 2010: Bakersfield, CA, USA
We had went to high school together. We were in drama together. We had most of the same mutual friends. We hung out pretty regularly. But, as the story seems to go… A good friend and kindred spirit was murdered at the local university in my hometown.
Bianca Jackson was only 18 years old when she died. It was definitely the saddest funeral I’ve ever been to in my life. I was 17 and distraught.
Nearly a decade later, it is still a cold case. Unsolved. No killer has come forward or has been found.
The question that still remains…Who Killed Bianca Jackson?
I can’t write much on this as the story still pains me to talk about.
August 6th, 2014: Bakersfield, CA, USA
My good friend, Daniel Watkins, was the victim of a triple murder. Military style killing with automatic weapons. The funeral was closed casket.
Daniel was a musician and entrepreneur who had finally started to get his big break. I personally believe that whoever killed him, was jealous of his success.
Daniel and I went to middle school and high school together. Top 10 nicest people you’ll ever meet. A kid who loved his family and all his friends were treated as such. We played football together. We hung out together. We grew up together.
He was killed the day after his 22nd birthday. Leaving behind a son and his loving partner. His son was born after his death.
December 14th, 2014: Bakersfield, CA, USA
Another friend dead. Point blank range.
Same story…we went to school together. We hung out, frequently. He had been to my house. Met my parents. He ate our food. We communed together.
Ingram Hammond, was a loving, caring, and extremely funny guy. Murdered at the age of 23. In our hometown.
July 9th, 2015: Bakersfield, CA, USA
Brian Bernard Anderson was shot dead in our hometown. Who was he? Well, he was honestly a big brother of mine. He was my older brother’s best friend since middle school. He was also the older brother of my best friend, from the house party story above.
Leaving behind his son and loving partner and a large family of siblings.
This one hit the most and at the worst time for me personally.
Dealing with all of those deaths over that 1 year period took a huge toll on my health—mentally and physically. In the span of 11 months I had 3 very close friends all die in the same way.
Reconciling
The question I had asked every single time was, “how did I make it out?”
But truly, how have I not died already?
There came a point where I told my Dad to stop calling me with the latest news on folks dying that I grew up with.
My freshmen year college roommate died from an overdose and to this day I still regret not accepting his last apology.
My freshman dorms resident advisor committed suicide in his dorm—which was next to mine. I still regret not following up to his texts asking to hang out.
Again, how am I still alive?
The only answer I have for now is…it’s not my turn, yet.
After all of these bouts with death, I’ve fully come to terms with the fact that death is inevitable and it’s like the surprise party you never wanted, but always knew was coming some day.
These days, I try not to think about my PTSD, or all of the cold cases from my deceased friends, or all of my unanswered questions to God and I just take it all in stride.
Because tomorrow, tomorrow could be that fatal day.
And that’s okay.
With Love,
Corey