I went to get my license today.
I had some parking tickets so I was required to sit a 2 hour seminar. It’s my own fault. I admit that.
When I got there, because of my injuries (not from SHE), I asked an officer if it would be possible to sit instead of wait in line. He told me to step out and wait while he consults someone.
He came back and moved me through to a different location, helped me fill out the forms in Japanese, and got me processed fast.
Had my eye exam, paid the fees, then got taken to a test area. He told me once I was finished there to go straight to the document submission window for processing. I shouldn’t wait in line.
At the test area the kind lady officer asked me about my physical condition and I explained, then asked me if I could hold a bike. Apparently my license allows me to ride a scooter, and if I couldn’t hold it upright, they would have to change my license type. That’s fair. But I passed anyway.
After processing I had my picture taken and it was off to the seminar.
I’ve recently had that dream of my daughter being dead and I can never see her again. If you know people with PTSD, we are a bowl full of water. Meaning: we are at max stress level capacity by default. You know how you can fill a bowl til there is a curved layer of water above the bowl line? That is us. One more drop and there is a big mess.
Panic Round One
First I freaked out because there were two people in the seminar room close to me without masks. COVID-19 people! Care about others please.
The presenter led me to a glass room at the back of the seminar room. I could sit there in peace and watch and hear everything from there.
Panic Round Two
They played a video. Photos of kids who dies in car accidents, people receiving CPR, people horribly crippled and in wheelchairs. Cue the tears and hyperventilation. I started getting blurred vision and my chest was feeling compressed. Suddenly it is hard to breathe.
I stepped out of the room and told the presenter I can’t handle this. my eyes were like Niagara Falls and I was breathing way too fast.
He sat me down. He went to call an officer. They are in charge of the rules here.
The officer came over.
“You can’t leave the room. You have to go back in,” he said irritated.
“Sir, please I can’t. It’s too traumatic for me.” I said nearly out of breath.
“If you do not go back in there you will not get your license,” he said coldly.
“Sir, I have PTSD, I can’t stand the images.”
“Then shut your eyes,” came the cold reply.
“Sir, it’s not just the video it’s the sound.”
“Other people are sleeping in there. Look. You can do the same.”
“I want to do this properly, not like them. Is there not another way?”
“YOU will not get your license and you will have to watch it again anyway if you do not go in there now. It doesn’t matter what you do but you must be in that room.” he said sternly.
I mustered up some strength and bit back “I will suffer through this, but if I collapse, make sure you call an ambulance.”
Panic Round Three
I sat back down in my little torture chamber. By now I could feel some of the eyes of the other people looking at me, and others deliberately ignoring me.
The presenter came in and told me he can turn off the screen but the audio can’t be turned off. I moved the chair sideways, so I couldn’t see the screen or the people and sat down. Tears came with greater force. Flashes of SHE brutality and Police indifference came screaming at me. I breathed fast, I shut my eyes.
“SHE’s so tiny and you’re such a big thing. You can’t stop HER? What’s wrong with you?”
The sound came through my hands, and the pain intensified. I was close to passing out. The tears would not stop. The I started shaking.
The presenter came in and got me out of the room. I apologized that I couldn’t take it, and I told him I have to get back in there. He told me that the officer was gone and that he would keep me out of the room while the video was on. Then he asked me if I would be OK after the video. I said I would do my best.
Panic Round Four
After the video ended I hobbled feebly back into my chamber. I sat in my chair and watched the screen for a bit. It was just too much. I couldn’t take it. My mind was screaming at me so intensely the tears would just not quit. I calmed my breathing but I felt so broken and defeated I slipped to the floor and buried my head in my knees. Then we were given a 30 minute toilet break. I didn’t move.
You know that feeling when you feel so embarrassed that you know people are looking at you, and then there are people that purposefully ignore you? If you have, multiply it by infinity and still you will not be close to how I felt. I really wished I had a change of shirt so I could camouflage myself and sneak out when all of this ended.
The presenter came in to tell me that when they distribute the licenses he would give me mine last after everyone had gone. A small kindness.
The nightmare raged on. I was still being attacked from all sides. It’s like a war raging in your head. And you’re both watching it happen to you like a by-stander and experiencing the full force of it at the same time.
When the seminar ended, the presenter asked me for my birth date. I barely had the strength to speak. After everyone had left, I received my license, nodded confirmation that it was mine, and coldly asked to leave.
The side exit was just 5 steps from that back of the seminar room door. I walked out with my head hung low and tears dripping from my face. There was a cold “Are you OK?” from one of the staff. You know the kind that is required but not meaningful? The kind that must be said because it is protocol and the person saying it hopes to God that there will be no response? You could visibly see I was in distress, but no one made a move to help. I pushed the exit door open, took a few steps outside and there was a loud audible “CLICK” of the door being locked.
I lost all strength. I sat down not 1 meter from the door to rest my head on the wall. The tears came roaring.
Panic Round Five
I sat there, tears raining in my lap. I am in a crevice. People can just walk casually by without seeing me. Few did look but kept walking. One pair of ladies did stop to ask if I was OK. I feebly raised my head. She realized I was not Japanese.
“Are you OK?” she asked.
I could no longer speak, so I shook my head.
“I have PTSD,” I wrote on my phone.
The lady understood it was serious.
Burning through my head were the images of the video, sounds of the video, the Police officer’s harshness, and my shame at falling apart, not being able to get back to the station and causing everyone a lot of pain and trouble because of me.
Some time later, one of the staff came with a wheelchair, and I managed to get into it. The staff didn’t care to ask any questions. But the lady was concerned. She asked.
I typed on my phone “The video was traumatic.”
She translated to the staff. He seemed like he wanted to ignore it.
I wrote again “The police officer’S attitude was too strong.”
“No, sir you must be wrong, he was not too strong,” she said but told the staff anyway.
POINT: Never tell a PTSD sufferer that they are mistaken. You will fuel the fear, insecurity and panic. Imagine a tiny fire and then pouring 10 gallons of Nitro Glycerin on it.
I exploded into a nightmare of tears, fast breathing and panic. Being overwhelmed to this level, the lady kind of panicked at seeing me like this.
The staff said, “Let’s just get him into the air-conditioned area. We have an ambulance standing by. Thank you for your help,” and dismissed the ladies.
As he wheeled me down the corridor, I called LOVE’s mom. No answer. At the ambulance the staff handed me over and left quickly. The paramedics started asking me questions. I couldn’t answer. They gave me a pad. I scribbled some stuff in Romaji that even I couldn’t read.
I reached for my phone and called LOVE. She answered and I immediately handed the phone to one of them. The panic kept coming in waves. Silent hysteric crying and fast breathing followed by calmer breathing but no end to the tears.
LOVE explained quickly what my situation was. The paramedics also quickly realized that even though I could not speak, I could communicate with my Android tablet. Thank goodness I brought it with me.
I explained what I went through to one person while LOVE explained my delicacy. There was a bit of confusion what to do about me. I didn’t have my anti-anxiety meds on me. Nothing physical was wrong, so a hospital would not help.
I wrote, “I want to see LOVE. She will help.”
Ahh, the paramedic understood. LOVE would be the only thing that would calm me down.
The paramedics decided to break protocol and drive me home. Waiting at a hospital would not help. LOVE would take an hour to come get me and I be suffering at the hospital on my own. A taxi would be too expensive. and I would not be able to go on my own. Traveling on the train home in my condition would be hell also. This was a huge kindness.
They strapped me in and started on their way. The paramedic who sat next to me did me a wonderful thing. He distracted me with questions about who I was and who LOVE is. It focused my mind away from my living nightmare. My hands were shaking and I had great difficulty typing, but the paramedic understood perfectly what I was trying to say. It made the 30 minute drive seem like 30 seconds. I was home before I knew it.
By the time we got home my voice came back, if only weakly. I so desperately wanted to hug the paramedic for understanding my condition. I managed a “thank you” and a hand shake to the driver and the paramedic next to me. When I saw LOVE, part of my power came back. I hobbled over to hug her as the ambulance left. I was home, safe and protected from the outside world.