How Do I Tell My Son About PTSD?

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I have severe PTSD from a variety of shitty life experiences. I’ve had it for nearly 18 years now and, in my personal opinion, it’s not likely to get any better; Lord knows I’ve tried. For now, medications and twice-weekly sessions with Pattie, to help with any triggers I’m struggling with are my only methods of working with it.

For as long as Gavin, and thereby the Boys have been alive, I’ve been diagnosed. They’ve never said anything to me about any of my idiosyncrasies, just always taken them in stride. I have to admit; I like things that way. Simple. Uncomplicated. I was just their mom. Sure, I’m old and still “mildly” obsessed with Harry Potter, could be a little silly and danced and sang along with the music while I folded and sorted laundry. No matter any of it, I was still just their mom.

All of that hit a speed bump this morning. Gavin and I each had to have bloodwork done and we use the same lab. It only made sense for us to go together, which was no big deal.

After Gavin checked in, he went and chose some place for us to sit. When I had finished checking in, I saw where he sat. I couldn’t sit there. No way. No how.

I need to see the entrance at all times, whenever possible. If seeing the entrance is an option, like this morning, and I placed where I can’t see it, especially with my back facing it; that is not an option.

Once Gavin had moved, he looked at me quizzically and asked me what was different with my seat; I explained it away, saying, “I feel more comfortable here,” which isn’t a lie but it isn’t anywhere near the truth.

What do I do? When do I tell them, all three of them, about these things, PTSD or Bipolar, depression or social anxiety or OCD?