A Tale of Trauma, Loss, and Life’s Unexpected Gifts
Rediscovering myself in the wreckage of PTSD
Note from April: Leon Macfayden is a powerful voice of transcendence. He has overcome daunting diagnoses with authentic humanity. He paves the way for others to recover their own authentic essence. He extends support to those suffering with mental health pain and I strongly encourage you to explore his work, and possibly reach out for in depth guidance and support. I am honored that Leon has provided this guest post on his recovery from PTSD.
I’ve lived two lives. The one before PTSD and the one after. I remember getting accepted into university and dreading it. I’d just started making friends after years of bullying and isolation. I loved the simple things — being at home, playing games, and watching wrestling with my dad. My biggest love was Karate, which is how I got out of being bullied in the first place. I dreaded leaving it behind.
I felt like my life was over—dramatic, but right in a way. I was moving on to a new chapter, and some old patterns and routines had to die in the name of progress.
It turned out I underestimated my ability to adapt. I soon found a much better, more brutal Karate club, joined the gym, and began to make new friends. I even met my first girlfriend.
Some of my old ways accompanied me — I moved rooms twice because people in the corridor were noisy. I felt I didn’t belong. Luckily, I eventually found my ideal place.
I used to stay up late talking with my friends about spirituality. Two of my friends were Hindu, and one was Muslim. I believed in God, but my beliefs didn’t fit into any particular religion.
Despite approaching spirituality from opposing angles, we had more similarities than differences. I learned that love and compassion transcend belief systems. They felt innate and universal.
The common thread was that everything moves according to a Divine Order, and we’re exactly where we need to be. I’ve never felt as calm as I did around those guys.
One of my Hindu friends, Yatin, volunteered to help people in the community, both here and in his native India. He’d frequently return to India to help the poor and disadvantaged. He lived his beliefs, and I respect that more than anything.
There was another guy who sat in on our talks, Tom. He didn’t feel spiritual at all, but we still bonded. He became my best friend. He came to Karate classes with me, and we clicked.
I remember this as the happiest time of my life. I had no idea what I wanted to do after university, but it didn’t matter. I was where I needed to be. I felt whole, calm, and connected.
The “shadow me” emerged.
There was another side of me fighting to come out — the side that wanted vengeance for the bullying. This side wanted to be a tough guy so I could prove to myself and the world that I was no longer a coward.
I felt the inner tension. I knew it made sense to love others, but part of me grew wary of people.
Getting a black belt was a way for me to prove myself. This was no McDojo. It was a tough club where we sparred hard, and my opponents were young men like me. For the first time in my life, I’d earned people’s respect for being tough, which felt intoxicating.
As university ended, I lost contact with my spiritual friends and with that aspect of myself. Now, I was looking for ways to prove myself further. I became a volunteer police officer.
A “Special Constable” has all the powers of the regular police, but they don’t get paid. I’d volunteer on a Friday and Saturday night when violence was at its peak, thanks to alcohol.
I loved it. My first violent encounter was with a group of men who’d been kicked out of a club. They told the bouncer they’d come back with weapons. Hours later, CCTV saw them hiding on the beach. I was one of the officers called to investigate.
The men wouldn’t let us search them, so we started fighting. One of them was so tall I had him in a headlock, but he lifted me off the floor as if he was piggybacking me. He threw me around like a rag doll, but I held on.
We won the fight, and an experienced officer said my conduct was “beyond reproach.” Most volunteers would have stayed back, so a buzz of excitement rushed through me.
I wanted to do this full-time.
My descent into PTSD.
Policing showed me a side of life I never knew existed. Every day, people lied to me. I saw cruelty, callousness, and violence beyond description.
The double suicide of two teenage girls marked the beginning of my descent into PTSD. I had to guard the scene for hours, and it broke me.
The significant events that caused my suffering are easy to spot — suicides, murders, and car accidents. The reason I had PTSD for 20 years was because of these cases. But what slipped under the radar was my gradual erosion of faith in humanity.
In a short time, I expected people to lie. I saw it as my job to expose them as liars and find the truth. This put me in an adversarial relationship with others. Everyone became a threat — a low life until proven otherwise.
I’ve seen normal young men and women try to climb over a murder victim because he was blocking the kebab shop. These men and women weren’t criminals. They were your average citizens.
People have wanted to fight me for holding up traffic because someone died in a motorbike accident. Their inconvenience mattered more to them than someone’s life.
I’ve seen the trauma on children’s faces after their parents have been screaming at each other for hours. Arguing in front of your children is a form of child abuse, and it leaves scars.
I rarely felt like I was making any difference. Every day, I felt like I was struggling to stay afloat, putting a band-aid on the gaping wounds in society. As well as PTSD, I grew wary and tired.
I ended up far away from my spiritual, light-hearted days at university. I found the concept of a God laughable. I still don’t believe in God, but I struggle not to show scorn towards those who do.
The police killed my belief in the goodness of humanity. It destroyed my faith in anything spiritual. I became angry and bitter. I grew to hate humanity.
A rebirth of sorts.
As I’ve recovered from my two-decade fight with PTSD, much of my anger has dissipated. I still don’t believe in God or anything spiritual, but I have a new appreciation for the beauty of things around me.
I’m grateful every day for the life I now lead. It could have been so much worse. I’m not meant to be here. People thought I’d be dead or in a mental hospital. A doctor told me that I was 100% disabled for the rest of my life.
And yet, here I am — relatively healthy and happy. While the heady days of spirituality and religion are far behind me, so is the anger and rage against the world I felt as a police officer.
Every day, I make a point of recounting the things in life for which I’m grateful. Today, I’m thankful for:
Not having the pain of depression anymore
My health
My relationships with my mum and partner
Financial security
Comfort
Freedom to live life on my terms
The chance to reinvent myself
PTSD weakens us. Even when we recover, we never return to where we were before. But PTSD also gives us the rare chance to become something different. To go from victim to survivor. To make new choices and find new passions.
“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” is nonsense. But if you’re alive, you have the chance to recover. PTSD may be the wake-up call you need to change the direction of your life.
What are you grateful for?
Leon Macfayden is a freelance mental health writer and life coach. A former police officer medically retired with PTSD, he draws on lived experience of trauma, depression, and schizophrenia to create honest, practical writing that helps others navigate recovery. He runs the Substack Trauma to Strength, where he shares stories, insights, and tools for turning pain into resilience.
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This is powerful!! Thanks for sharing!!