Scars That Shine: Charlotte Mckissick Shares Her Journey of Living with PTSD

This morning, I woke up to the familiar sound of Sylvester Stallone in Rambo, a movie that, for many, was one of the first to bring attention to PTSD and its connection to veterans. It underscored the vital role of the VA in raising awareness, especially through Mental Health Awareness Month each June. While I’ve never been to war, I have spent the better part of my life battling a war within.

My struggle has always been with mental illness, with PTSD, and with the deep, pervasive weight of depression. Over the years, it manifested in ways I didn’t fully understand. I knew something was wrong, but like so many others, I buried it, hoping it would disappear. I turned to alcohol, overmedication, and any distraction I could find, yet nothing worked. The more I suppressed it, the more it grew, bursting to the surface in the most painful ways—often through rage and uncontrollable anger.

I wore my struggles as masks, each one created by compulsive behaviours—shopping, working, seeking affection—all attempts to avoid facing what was truly happening inside. I knew something was driving me, but I couldn’t pinpoint it until I allowed myself to face the truth. The truth wasn’t that I was crazy—it was that I was unwell. And it wasn’t until I accepted that reality that I began to heal.

Every time I built a life I thought I wanted—loving relationships, a successful career, a beautiful home—I would destroy it. I would walk away from my marriage, my job, and my dreams, always starting over from scratch. But it wasn’t until much later that I realized I wasn’t running from external things—I was running from myself. I couldn’t accept happiness because deep down, I felt unworthy, like an imposter, afraid that someone would uncover my secrets. I chased what I thought was happiness, but it always left me empty. No matter how much I tried to fill the void, nothing worked.

By the time I turned 55, I had everything I thought I wanted—a life that many would envy, a fulfilling job, respect from my family and peers, and all the material comforts I had dreamed of. But inside, I was consumed by despair. I was trapped in a façade that I couldn’t maintain, so I began drinking more heavily. What started as a single glass of wine quickly escalated to two bottles, and before I knew it, I had lost control. I’d like to say the alcohol was the problem, but it wasn’t. It was merely a symptom of something much deeper.

I entered rehab and began a 12-step program, but even then, depression would still wash over me so intensely that I began to wonder if death might be the only way out. I didn’t even know how to die right. After several attempts, I realized something had to change. I had to find a way to live.

The final years before my awakening were incredibly difficult, but there was a survival instinct within me that I didn’t even know existed. I lost everything, and though it was painful, it turned out to be a blessing in disguise. The turning point came when I finally recognized the patterns that had governed my life. It wasn’t an easy realization, but it was a necessary one.

It wasn’t until I entered the 12-step process, began intensive therapy, and surrounded myself with people who truly cared—friends, and at first, my husband—that I began to see the truth. Therapy replaced my destructive habits. Quiet replaced the noise, and in that stillness, I began to hear both my heart and my mind.

I started journaling, recording my thoughts and feelings, and as I worked through each step, I found a peace and self-awareness I had never known before. Step one taught me that I am powerless over people, places, and things—and that insanity is repeating the same actions and expecting different results. Step two reminded me that only something greater than myself could guide me through this. And the most pivotal moment came when I wrote down every person who had wronged me throughout my life. I repeated that step, over and over, because if I left even one person out, I would be back at square one.

I did the work. I attended meetings, went to group sessions, and slowly began to clear out the clutter in my life. In time, I found love—a love that seemed impossible to find, especially when I felt so broken. But this love didn’t heal me; it created a safe space for healing to begin. I structured my days, sought discipline, and embraced the hope I had long been denied.

As I worked through my resentments, I examined my role in each situation. This was the hardest part—facing the jealousy, the anger, and the fear that fueled my reactions. I realized that the trauma from childhood abuse had created a pattern that I carried into adulthood. The child inside me—the one who had never been heard—was still driving much of my life.

I wanted to be heard. I wanted someone to acknowledge the wrongs done to me. I wanted validation, and above all, I wanted love. It was difficult to accept that the people who had harmed me might never apologize. So I had to learn to forgive them—for my own sake.

Then, on top of everything else, I was diagnosed with lupus. One moment, I was living my best life; the next, I wasn’t. It’s been a journey of hope, recovery, realignment, and overcoming. I may never be the woman who ran marathons on Sundays and went back to work at 6 a.m. on Mondays, but I’ve come to terms with that, and it’s okay.

I love this version of me. It took time to get here, but I never want to go back. Through it all, I found love, happiness, and peace. My recovery has been a result of a complete overhaul of my diet. Where I once ate to appease my appetite, I now eat to nourish my body on a cellular level. I wish I could say I was always health-conscious, but I was anything but. Raised on meat and gravy, learning new habits and understanding the components that make my body function at its best has been a challenge.

It’s been a gradual process of trial and error, but ultimately, it came down to finding a way to satisfy my love of food while meeting my health needs. With an inflammatory disease, I can feel it immediately when I’ve veered off track, but I realign quickly. When I look at photos from the past, I never imagined I’d be healthy enough to truly enjoy life again. Just being able to vacuum my floors brings me joy. I walked my dogs without needing to sit down once, and we even took a vacation together.

My journey is far from over. I still face triggers, memories, and moments that send me back to those dark places. But now, I can identify them for what they are—post-traumatic stress, a reaction, not my identity. And when someone tells me to just “get over it” because I’m a grown woman, I smile and quietly agree. Yes, I am grown. Yes, I am strong. But I am also human. And I am healing.