Author Matthew Heneghan

Birds chirp. Bees buzz. Flies bother, and mosquitoes bite the shit out of us. That’s just what they do. All they know. The same can be said for people, in a sense — they judge. Particularly the things they know the least about. That’s a true, blue, humanoid move.

The thing I try to remind myself of is that other people’s judgements are not mine to carry. They’re not yours either.

But we do, don’t we — carry them.

In spite of all we know, all the clichés we gift ourselves, and all the stoic wisdom we like to pretend we’ve mastered, we still fall victim to the weight of being judged from time to time.

As someone who lives with PTSD, it can be a little more commonplace than I’d like. I had someone ask me once: “…Hey, how come you have PTSD?” A flippant query tossed at me like a left hook, as though it was something I needed to justify or counter.

If I were missing a leg and complained of pain once in a while, most people would have an immediate understanding of that discomfort. But when it comes to matters of the battered heart and the wounded mind… somehow that becomes something that requires context.
Why?

I think it’s because judging is easy. Understanding takes work. It’s far easier to assume you know how something works than it is to truly sit with someone and learn the intricacies of how something like PTSD operates. And I get it — PTSD is a real son-of-a-bitch. I hate it. Abhor it, actually. Wouldn’t wish it on a soul.

It’s been three days… well, 2 days, 14 hours, 42 minutes, to be more precise. But who’s counting. Essentially three days since my last sanity lapse. That’s what I call triggers. I hate that term. Trigger.
I hate it because it gets overused. Thrown around like a free pass for shitty behavior.

“It wasn’t me… it was my trigger.”

Sure thing, Karen. Or Kevin. Whoever.

Look, triggers exist — I get it. I just prefer my own descriptor, is all.

Anyway…

There I was, volunteering at the town’s annual Halloween event, enjoying a rare moment of peace, when my buddy Drew came to get me from the back room. He was working the maze dressed as Michael Myers, scaring the elastic pants off people. And I guess he did one hell of a job — because some lady got so scared she turned into a human lawn dart and took a header straight onto the cement floor, busting her chin wide open.

I followed Drew back to where the woman was sitting — on the ground, in the dark, Halloween screams echoing around us. Blood dripping down her sweater. A perfect horror vignette, if not for the part where she probably didn’t intend to become set dressing.

I dropped back into medic mode without thinking. Training like mine doesn’t go away. In one sense, that’s a blessing. In another… not at all.

After she was tended to and walked out of the maze, that’s when memory — the unwelcome kind — crept in. Not chosen memory. Not narrative recall. The kind that lives in bone marrow and scar tissue. The back of my throat burned with the metallic tang of blood. Then came the smell — brain. Yes, brains have a smell. One you don’t forget.

My knees buckled. And down I went. Puking in front of my friends — Drew and another brother, Kozy. The kind of moment where pride steps outside for a cigarette and doesn’t come back.

I lost time. But I remember the moment Sheena appeared — the embodiment of relief. I left the venue, passing a crowd waiting to enter the maze, hearing snickers and whispers as I went.

To them — and to that woman — it was just a cut.

To me, it was a portal.

When the adrenaline faded, embarrassment crawled in like a cockroach that refuses to die.

And yeah — part of me knows I have no obligation to explain these things. But when it happens in public, especially in front of people I love, it’s hard not to feel the weight of judgement — even when it’s self-imposed.

I can’t tell you for certain that anyone there was judging me. But I know some people do. And it sucks. Pisses me off. But as I said — it’s what people do. To some, it’s innate. And if it’s innate, then it’s not mine to fix or carry.

Their judgement is not a reflection of a failing within me — it’s a lack within them.

And honestly? I think that’s sadder than anything they could ever whisper about me.

I mean — who doesn’t have a lapse in sanity every now and again, right?

Anyhoo. Onward and upward, folks.