In the small midwestern town where I grew up during the 1960s, the words cancer, pregnant, divorce, sex, and mental illness were always spoken in whispers, accompanied by dark looks,  furtive glances, and the covering of children’s ears.

Yes, I am that old.

So much has changed since those days–some for the good and some for the bad. But this post isn’t about what has changed. It’s about what hasn’t changed. And what hasn’t changed is this. Far too many of us continue to whisper the words mental illness.

Some days I wish mental illness was a whisper in our family.

But it isn’t. Instead a particularly nasty mental disease called post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a reality of life for so many people I love.

For my son, who endured major surgery at birth without pain medication, only paralytic drugs.
For my son-in-law who witnessed his younger brother’s death, an event that also killed his parents’ marriage.
For my mother whose dementia, we suspect, was induced by years of trauma-related anxiety.

They are some of the reasons I don’t whisper about mental illness and PTSD anymore.

They are why I am shouting PTSD awareness from the mountaintops this June, which is PTSD Awareness Month. I have observed their valiant struggles to cope with this disease. I have cheered them on as they persevere day after day to remain whole and integrated. I pray for their healing every single day. I cry when they succumb, and I cheer when they pick themselves up and try again.

I am shouting for today’s children, too.

The rest of this post can be read at Not Alone’s website for parents of kids with special needs.

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