PTSD and Me

Evidently doctors hate it.  Our ability to self-diagnose and the like, all thanks to WebMD and more has them collectively annoyed.  "I think I have..." is at the top of their list of dislikes.  Do I do this, too?  Yes.  Watch me.  I'm going to right here.

I temper my self-diagnosis lest my doctor reads this.  Let's say I perhaps, I maybe show signs and symptoms.  I might be a candidate for treatment.  When insomnia lies next to me in bed poking me in the ribs just as I start to doze, the nights when I truly can't sleep are when I wonder.  Do I have PTSD?

I've been on vacation for a week.  I don't relax well, something to discuss and review on another day.  My husband and I have talked for the entire duration of my time off how we should go to Emma's Pizza.  We are the couple that always orders a half 16, half 17.  We've done so for years.  The servers know us by what we eat.  There's comfort in this routine.

Except I discovered the Canadian ham and carmelized onions concoction that has my name all over it, so there goes our routine.  In with the new.  It's delicious.

It took us a week to get here, to Emma's.  We made it tonight and shocked the server when we ordered a half five, half 19.  There was a bit of delight in this, the shocking of our server.  We smiled to ourselves as she walked away in amazement, quite the mysterious couple.  Alas.

My husband and I chat.  We look at the other customers.  I tell him why I didn't like the film we watched last night.  We remember what we had scheduled for Thursday.  Then I hear it.  My head jerks towards the big window.  My breath catches and only when I realize what just happened do I release.

A man on a Harley Davidson rides by.  The low rumble was his motorcycle.  I know that now.  Several seconds ago I knew that in some corner of my mind, the intellectual side of me realizing the low rumble was not the precursor announcing an earthquake, the warning many in northern Japan have gotten accustomed to.  Isn't it nice that the earth warns us when an earthquake is about to hit?  To be warned?  So we can prepare?

No.  There's nothing comforting knowing an earthquake is coming.  We can't stop it.  The rumbling, how loud it is or how long it lasts in no way determines how big the quake will be or how badly we will shake.  We sit, clutch the arms of our chairs and wait.

I've also found myself freezing as the walk-up apartment my husband now lives in shakes when our third floor neighbors begin their exercise routine.  Somewhere in the back of my mind I know this is not an earthquake.  My body, however, does not operate with the same speed.  I cringe.  I begin to shake.  I walk through airports with the same discomfort.  The floor of the terminal bounces only slightly with the passing of a jumbo jet and in my mind this is an earthquake.

Surely these symptoms do not reflect comfort with my surroundings.  The man on his Harley tonight did not bring warnings of an earthquake.  My mind, however, did not register safety.  Quite the opposite.  I braced myself for the impending earthquake.

Is this PTSD?  I'm in no position to diagnose but that doesn't stop me from wondering.  Three years of aftershocks, some mild and others severe has my response system on edge.  I'm a taut wire ready to snap or so it feels when I assume I might be facing danger.

I have no practical solution to appease myself, to tell my mind the rumblings in our favorite pizza restaurant will cause me no concern.  Is there a solution?  Will I grow out of this?  Move on?  Get over it?  I don't know.

I live with this ambiguity because I see no other alternative.  So it is.

Why manners still matter

In a country where rules exist on how deep one bows, when, and for whom, and where protocol is clear on when to give gifts, how, and why one would think tradition rules.  Saying it doesn't is misleading.  Truly, manners matter in Japan.  Rather, manners have mattered in Japan.  Change is in the air.

When the earthquake hit on March 11th, Tokyoites walked home hours on end.  I am blessed for having heard story after story of random acts of kindness during the seven or eight hours some people spent walking.  This side of Japan always impresses me.  This side of Japan I love.  This is what I want people to know about Japan.

I will not, however, sacrifice the whole truth for the sake of a good story.  Day after day, I see more and more cases of what I can only call obnoxious behavior in Tokyo.  Evidently, the Japanese are just as capable of being rude and horribly behaved as they are of having impeccable manners.  What's going on?  Has Japan always been like this and I'm just now noticing?  I think not.  The Japan of my childhood is slowly disappearing.  Certainly Japan has always had its share of rude people.  To say otherwise is naive and irresponsible.  As a society however, en masse, I have been blessed with seeing incredibly generous people with manners a society can be proud of.  Which is why when I see such flagrant changes in Japanese behavior, I can only stand back and take notice and cringe.

In the past several years in Japan I have seen every emergency vehicle have to ask for cars to move.  There is no automatic pull-over-to-the-side here.  I don't quite see how this can be but I saw it again today.  Three bright red fire trucks had to wait for people to cross the street in order to move through an intersection.  A fire fighter in full gear is in the front passenger seat saying into the microphone, "Excuse us.  We're coming through."  Pedestrians trump firetrucks?  Really?

I feel quite entitled to point out how selfish those are who will not move out of the way for vehicles on their way to save people.  Why?  I drive in Massachusetts.  Massachusetts drivers are ranked 49th out of 50 in terms of the country's worst drivers.  We (and I must add myself to this list) are affectionately referred to as "Massholes."  I know bad driving.  I really do.  Then there is our wicked neighbor.  Immediately south of Massachusetts is Rhode Island where the worst drivers in the US move to/live/breed/congregate.  Survey after survey ranks those from Rhode Island as the worst drivers in the country.  I couldn't agree more.    Which is why when there is never a question for terrible American drivers to always and consistently move out of the way of ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks, and yet the generally-known-as-incredibly-polite Japanese can't seem to make way for these same vehicles, I cry foul.

What's going on here?  Where has this general acceptance of bad manners come from?  Come on, Japan.  You can do better.