PTSD support group shares stories of anguish, fear, resilience

Veteran Don Hookey pauses for a moment, blinking rapidly and shifting his gaze from side to side. He takes a deep breath and fixes his stare on the man in front of him.

"I tried to OD on my pain meds," he says.

To his left, two more voices speak up.

"So did I."

"And so did I. Multiple times."

Hookey lives with post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The condition affects about eight per cent of the population, with figures much higher in those who have survived war or sexual assault. The effects are life-altering and chronic, with an ability to strike at any moment.

To learn more about coping with trauma, Here and Now's Jonathan Crowe sat down with four people who deal with the disorder in their daily lives.

Don Hookey

A 16-year veteran of the Canadian Forces, Hookey's struggles with PTSD began with a recovery mission in the waters off Nova Scotia in September 1998.

Aboard HMCS Preserver, he was dispatched to the recovery mission of Swiss Air Flight 111. The plane crashed into St. Margaret's Bay, killing all 229 passengers and crew. Many of the passengers were children, and only one was identifiable by sight.

"We were what they called the floating morgue," Hookey said. "All the debris from the plane came on board and we sorted through it. It was pretty gruesome."

Coupled with a 2006 tour of duty in Afghanistan, the experiences left Hookey riddled with trauma. He drank too much, angered too easily and struggled to control his emotions.

After conversations with his wife, he sought help.

"I still have the nightmares," Hookey said. "I still have the panic attacks. But not as regularly as I used to … I would love to have a full night's sleep."

PTSD drove Hookey to the point of an overdose, but the people around him have kept him alive.

"Hope is something you try to look for through this," he said before letting out a quivering sigh. "I got a real strong family with me. If it wasn't for my family I wouldn't be here now."

Jamie MacWhirter

​Another veteran, MacWhirter was on the same tour as Hookey.

He said the defining moment of his Afghan experience came while speaking to his wife, Vanessa, on the phone one night.

It was 2 a.m., under the cloak of darkness, when Taliban fighters fired a rocket over the top of his head. He told Vanessa he was watching a movie and quickly hung up. Rockets continued to rush over his head. Unable to spot the enemy, MacWhirter couldn't defend himself.

"I thought I was going to die," he said. "So what do you do when you think you are going to die? I picked up the satellite phone and called my mother back in Newfoundland."

He told her he didn't want to talk. He just wanted to hear her voice.

He asked her to pass along one last message: "Tell everyone I did my best over here, and tell everyone I love them."

MacWhirter said he then hung up the phone and waited to die — waited for one final rocket that never came.

Once back in Newfoundland, sleep deprived and riddled with anxiety, MacWhirter said it was a visit to the dentist that convinced him it was time to finally seek help for his anxiety.

While under anesthesia for a wisdom tooth extraction, the flashbacks hit. He screamed and struggled. Eventually, he was strapped to the chair by the dentist.

Since then, his disorder has been a major part of his life. MacWhirter has written two books on his experiences and founded PTSD Buddies, a local support group.

He said the best way he can describe the disorder is the same way he explains it to his children.

"I said, 'Dad has PTSD. That means he can't control his emotions anymore. So he's going to get angry for no reason. He's going to get sad for no reason.' And I let them know it's not their fault."

Amanda Murphy

Since age 12, Amanda Murphy displayed signs of mental trauma.

She was often sad, and always withdrawn. She pushed away her friends and family for their own good — or so she thought.

"I thought I was toxic," she said. "I thought anyone that cared about me only did so because it was something they felt like they had to do, and that I was actually really, really hurting them."

Fourteen years later, Murphy was diagnosed with PTSD related to childhood sexual abuse.

She became addicted to painkillers. She lost her job. A relationship fell to ruins. She lost all independence.

She said the nightmares came on heavy, whether she was asleep or awake.

"I'm not here anymore," she said of the flashbacks. "I'm right back to there. I can see, I can hear, I can smell … You get trapped in the past and sometimes you can't bring yourself back out of it."

But despite suicide attempts and painful flashbacks, she is still here.

"What keeps me going every single day is that if someone can see where I've been and see how far I've come, then maybe they'll find the strength to hold on too."

Vanessa MacWhirter

Vanessa MacWhirter knows all about the difficulties of living with PTSD, despite not having the disorder herself — that's because she's married to Jamie MacWhirter.

"It's a roller-coaster," she said. "Some days are better than others … You're flexible, you're compassionate and you try to deal with it the best you can when it comes around."

At his darkest times, Jamie said he's thought that his wife and children would be better off without him.

To combat the darkness, Vanessa has developed techniques. She tries to use humour as much as possible to diffuse situations. When an episode is coming, the family has a safe word: turnip.

"We all know [then] to back off. We all know they need some space, and then we can come back and address it," she said. "You have to be forgiving when it comes to these situations."