If PTSD were a tree, the symptoms would be the leaves that flitter in the wind, drawing the attention of the cruel and insensitive looky-loos passing by, leaves that convert sunlight into food that feeds the tree, just as trees are supposed to do.
The problem is that PTSD isn't the tree. The tree is me. I am the tree. These roots of trauma are MY roots. These leaves of symptoms are MY leaves. The PTSD is like an acrid poison that's been absorbed from the dark soil because the tree didn't know any better, and is now fed by a sun that doesn't even know that her radiant, beautiful energy has been used to kill the tree. . . slowly. . . .invisibly. Not because the tree wants to die, but because the roots of the tree and the leaves of the tree are only doing what a tree is supposed to do.
So the tree learns to despise and mistrust the harshly judgmental looky-loos, because they don't understand the tree. They don't understand why the tree looks the way she does. They don't understand why she behaves the way she does. And they don't even try to understand. So they rain on the tree with harsh judgment that seeps through the dark soil to mix and mingle with the acrid poison absorbed by the roots of trauma.
Over time, the tree begins to hate her roots and loathe her leaves. She tries to cut the roots out from beneath her, but they only grow back, deeper, stronger. And the leaves that she sloughs off, they grow back too, only they're bigger and stronger than the leaves she has tried to destroy. But she doesn't understand why, so she feels ugly and alone, wondering why God would create a tree with roots that absorb poison and leaves that convert radiant beauty into food that only feeds the dark poison's purpose. So she turns her face away from the sun, waiting for the death she hopes will release her quickly from this life of endless pain and suffering.
Then one day the tree happens upon other trees that look just like her. Trees that also have roots of trauma and leaves of symptoms that flutter in the wind. Trees that are misshapen, too, just like her. And not just a few trees, but an entire grove of trees, all with their faces turned toward the sun, dancing and singing stories of hope. The trees tell stories of how the roots and the leaves are what make the tree strong and vibrant and were never the problem in the first place (because the roots and leaves really were only doing what they are supposed to do), that the PTSD poison was the problem all along.
They also tell stories of how they're all learning from each other, learning how to absorb the nutrients they need from the dark soil, even from soil that is saturated with the PTSD poison, because they're learning how to transform the poison into less toxic poisons and develop immunity to the poisons they can't transform. And they tell stories of how they are now free to receive the radiant beauty from the sun without fear of feeding the PTSD poison that they may never be able to completely stop from being absorbed from the dark soil.
The hopeless, despondent tree is shocked and stunned by these stories that seem surreal and impossible. Yet she sees with her own eyes how beautiful these trees are while they're dancing in the sun and singing stories of hope. So she sits with the trees in the sun-filled grove, and she listens to the stories these trees have to share. And while she can't yet imagine that she, too, will one day be dancing in the sun and singing stories of hope and freedom to other hopeless, despondent trees yet to find their way to the grove, she slowly starts to feel the warmth of hope wrapping itself gently around her weary roots and leaves.