Five years ago, I published No Comfort Zone: Notes on Living with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, a personal narrative of my experience with PTSD. In doing so, I gave up any pretension of finally fitting in, of self-growing so well that I would achieve a blank slate that I could then fill with peace, loving kindness, and that exercise program I keep meaning to establish.

I admitted to myself and the world that my self-growing was being done in a field of rocks and weeds, that I would spend at least as much of my life repetitively clearing psychic space for new experiences as I would seeking those experiences. And I admitted that I was pissed that the need for such clearing wasn’t acknowledged and respected.

Writing No Comfort Zone changed my experience of PTSD in two ways. First, it altered my internal world. Second, it diminished my sense of isolation. The first change has been unequivocally positive. The second has been both positive and challenging.

But I’ll get to that in a moment.

The actual process of writing the book was extremely helpful for me. I’ve described it as organizing my mind much as one might defragment a computer’s hard drive. I used to randomly trip over triggers in my day-to-day life. They were scattered throughout my consciousness and, when I accessed parts of my mind to deal with daily occurrences, I would find these emotional bombs. I sometimes envisioned these chunks of my “messiness” as items I had quickly slammed into an already full psychic closet, safely closed away and mostly forgotten -- until I again needed to access that mental space. When I would next open such a closet, they would explode.

All the therapy and “work” I had done over the years helped me manage aspects of those bombs, but their appearances still felt random and created internal chaos for me.

Writing pushed me to think about all my messiness in a much more methodical manor. In creating my narrative, I sorted my crap. I don’t think I reduced it, but I organized and compressed it. And some was defused. It’s no longer spread throughout my mind like booby-traps. For the most part, I know where it is. I can access those memories and the accompanying emotions when I choose (again, for the most part), but they surprise me less often.

I didn’t realize for several months that this defragmentation process had taken place. I guess I hadn’t expected the shaping of my story to shape my life. But it did. Once I was able to think and talk about my story as a whole, my life as I experienced it seemed more whole.

I now know that there are therapies based on writing and narrative and that the process of moving memories from the emotional part of the brain to the verbal part helps in their management. I understand that intellectually, but the explanation doesn’t resonate with me emotionally. In my gut and in my heart, it seems less complicated than that. It’s simply the power of speaking up, of finding one’s voice.

So I have encouraged others to write their stories, even if they never expect anyone else to read them. It’s important to form the words, to speak, even if our only audience is ourselves. Transforming experiences into words moves them into the realm of conversation, which creates the potential to connect. And that decreases isolation.

Well, that worked for me. This is the second change I’ve experienced in my world since publishing my book. I am no longer isolated with my feelings. I didn’t know what to expect when I put my guts on the page as I did. I knew intellectually that I wasn’t alone, that there were others like me. But I had no idea that my words would touch as many readers as they did, or that readers would reach out to me, offering the intimacy of their reaction to the book as well as their own stories. That sharing, that intimacy, has been a gift – a gift that has been hard to hold at times, but a precious one none-the-less.

Many have told me that, despite the title, my words have actually brought them comfort, that my book sits on their nightstands and is read when they need reassurance that they are not alone, not crazy. One woman told me she sleeps with it under her pillow.

These notes usually make me cry. I’m both deeply saddened by the pain and confusion so many of us live with, but I am also deeply relieved. They are affirmation that there is a truth at the heart of my messiness and that truth is shared with others. I am comforted by that. When one reviewer wrote me a personal note to tell me that she felt I had been holding her hand as she read my book, I was struck by how her words felt like someone squeezing my hand. And that was comforting.

I have become a repository of others’ experiences and each is a thread that I weave into the meaning of my own. I feel honored to be in this position, grateful for the affirmation, and challenged to expand this intimacy to dilute others’ felt isolation. It feeds my wholeness.

And so, half a decade later, I am more whole. I still live with PTSD, but the symptoms continue to fade and are not frequent enough for me to currently qualify for the diagnosis.

My past does not intrude on my present as it once did. Instead of living on a split-screen television, my past on one side of the divide, my present on the other, with the divide randomly shifting, I now have two “televisions.” My present now plays out on a large HD set with vivid color and good sound. My past plays continually on a smaller black-and-white set in the room next door. I hear it and it’s distracting, but it’s not intrusive. It takes effort to stay focused on my present life, but doing so is more of a habit now.

I still feel that my past could overtake my present at any moment but I’ve now had enough experiences of it not doing so that I consider it a risk to be managed, rather than an inevitability. At one point, the prospect of such a takeover was as disruptive as an actual one. That’s not currently true.

I’m not as hypervigilant. I’m still more comfortable sitting with my back to a wall in a restaurant but, if that’s not possible, my anxiety is fleeting. I still startle but not as dramatically, unless I am generally stressed. I sleep better and I wake better.

I haven’t achieved that blank slate, that fresh start, that I so dreamed of. I continue to live with the reality of my traumatic experiences and with the impact of having lived with PTSD for most of my life. I can’t erase that, but it has faded and I have written over it, using my words, my reality. Doing so has brought me more peace and allowed me to experience, and share, loving kindness from others who have lived what I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

And, half a decade later, I’m happy with that.

Marla Handy