Another sleepless night.

More Than Broken: Confronting the Labels That Limit Us

By R. T. Garner

Yeah, I’m awake again. It’s been months since I’ve had a good night’s sleep. Every night, I lie here, staring at the ceiling, running through the same loop of thoughts over and over again. It’s like my mind is a damn broken record, replaying every mistake, every missed opportunity, every time I felt like I wasn’t enough.

Let’s cut to the chase: I have PTSD. There, I said it. I’ve been carrying that label for years now. But here’s the thing — ever since those four little letters got slapped onto my life, everything changed. It’s not just about the nightmares or the flashbacks. No, it’s more than that. It’s the way the world looks at you the moment they hear “PTSD.” It’s the way people start treating you differently like you’re fragile or broken. Like that diagnosis is the only thing that defines you.

It’s bullshit, but it’s real. Ever since that label got attached to me, it’s like I’ve been fighting to prove that I’m more than those four letters. It feels like everyone looks at me and only sees “damaged goods.” And no matter how much I try to show them otherwise, the doubt lingers. You think it’s hard serving in the military? Try coming home and wearing a label like that. Try fighting against the way people judge you, even when you know you’re more than their damn assumptions.

And you know when it really hit? When my own family started looking at me differently. I haven’t spoken to my family since 2020, and I wish I could say it’s because I don’t love them. But that’s not it at all. The truth? They love me, but they didn’t see me anymore. Every time I looked in their eyes, I saw it — the doubt, the pity, the way they thought I needed to be “fixed.” No matter how many times I tried to tell them, “Hey, I’m not broken; I don’t need you to fix me,” they kept coming at me like I was something less. That shit hurts, man. It drags you down. It’s like being punched in the gut every time you walk into the room.

So I stopped talking to them. Yeah, it wasn’t easy, but you know what? Since then, I’ve been happier. I cut that negativity out, even if it came from the people I love. But the scars are still there. The truth is, I’m sick of being defined by PTSD. I’m sick of people looking at me like that’s all there is to me. And I’m really fucking sick of being judged by people who don’t even know the first thing about what I’ve been through.

Look, I know people say, “Don’t compare yourself to others.” But let’s be real — when you’re stuck at the bottom when you’re doing everything you can to move forward, and nothing’s happening, it’s impossible not to compare. I see people I went to school with — people who had the same opportunities as me — moving up in the world. They’re congressmen, doctors, lawyers, CEOs. And here I am, applying for jobs that I’m more than qualified for, only to be told I don’t have the right experience. Or worse — being told that my military leadership doesn’t translate into the real world.

It’s not that I’m not trying. Hell, I went back to school, I earned three master’s degrees, and I’ve applied for countless jobs. But every time, I hit the same wall. I’ve been told I’m not “corporate” enough. Not “qualified” enough. People look at my résumé and shrug, like the years of experience; the blood, sweat, and tears mean nothing. Meanwhile, I see people with half my experience stepping into roles I could crush.

You want to know what it’s like to have PTSD? It’s not just the bad dreams. It’s the way the world labels you. It’s the way you get put in a box the second they hear those letters. You get judged, second-guessed, doubted. And after a while, you start to question yourself. You start to wonder if maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m not good enough. Maybe this is all I’ll ever be. But here’s the truth: it’s all bullshit. It’s their limited beliefs, their judgment, and their inability to see beyond a label.

And you know what? I’m done letting that label define me. Yeah, I have PTSD, but that’s not the whole story. It doesn’t mean I’m broken. It doesn’t mean I’m any less of a leader or any less capable. If anything, it means I’ve been through some serious shit, and I’m still standing. But the world doesn’t get that. Employers don’t get that. Even people I thought knew me don’t get that.

I’ve been fighting this fight since 2010. I’ve been second-guessed, doubted, judged. And it’s not just strangers — it’s people I thought were supposed to have my back. That’s what hurts the most. When people you love look at you and only see what’s “wrong,” when they can’t see the person behind the diagnosis. I don’t talk to my family anymore, and yeah, I miss them. But I couldn’t take the constant judgment, the constant feeling like I was something broken that needed to be fixed.

People think they know what PTSD is. They think it’s just flashbacks or waking up in a cold sweat. But it’s so much more than that. It’s the constant battle in your mind. It’s the overthinking, the self-doubt, the way you can’t shut off your thoughts. It’s the look in people’s eyes when they don’t see you anymore; they just see the letters. It’s the feeling of always being underestimated, no matter what you’ve accomplished.

But here’s the thing: I’m still here. I’m still fighting. And I’m tired of being judged for what I’ve been through. I’m tired of being defined by something I can’t control. I’m tired of comparing myself to others when I know I’m doing everything I can to move forward. Yeah, I’m struggling. But I’m not broken. I’m not a victim. I’m not some damaged vet who needs fixing. I’m a person who’s been through hell and is still showing up every day, even when it feels impossible.

So yeah, I’m sharing this because I’m done pretending. I’m done acting like I’m okay when I’m not. But more than that, I’m done letting anyone — whether it’s my family, employers, or anyone else — tell me who I am. I’m more than a diagnosis. I’m more than PTSD. And if you’re reading this and feeling the same way, know this: You’re more than your diagnosis, too.

The world can slap as many labels on us as it wants, but at the end of the day, it’s up to us to decide who we are. So yeah, I’m tired. But I’m not giving up. And if that’s all I’ve got right now, then that’s enough.

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This article was published on October 20th, 2024 in Long. Sweet. Valuable. publication.