At a family affair recently, two relatives asked bluntly what it was like to have been diagnosed with PTSD. The lame answer I gave had to do with the flooding in Louisiana. I said something like, “Those people in Baton Rouge are suffering badly. How dare I feel depressed?” I don’t know whether I made my point, or even if I have a point.
I don’t see much of an upside to having PTSD, but if there is one it is the gift of empathy. I feel for people in pain. I recognize that there are trauma and suffering all over the world. When it comes down to it, I am the lucky one; I am being treated. And yet, “how dare I …” lingers.
A friend posted an article on Facebook the other day, an article that also taunted my “how dare I …” thoughts. I was unable to copy and paste it into this blog, so there is no picture. Imagine a smiling teen-aged boy decked out in light blue shirt, striped tie, and navy blue blazer poised for his high school yearbook picture. Superimposed are these words:
My Name Is Brock
I’m a Rapist
The article reads:
This is Brock. Brock raped a girl behind a dumpster. He was caught by two amazing young men who chased and tackled him. The scene horrified them so much one man cried as he described what Brock was doing to the unconscious woman. Brock was found guilty and given a 6 month sentence because according to the judge he’s a really good swimmer and a longer sentence might have a “severe I’m pact on him.” Brock’s dad wants you to stop talking about his son being a rapist because he shouldn’t be remembered for getting “20 minutes of action.” Brock’s swimming times were posted in a story about the rape to show you how amazing an athlete he is. If you have sons make sure they are not a Brock. Let Brock go viral #Share This Political Nation.
How dare I?
May the victim find peace.