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PAST ISSUES

A Hurricane Katrina survivor talks about her Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

by Rose Champagne
Exchange Staff

     I am one of the many who suffers from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) as a result of the events surrounding August 29, 2005.  Hurricane Katrina completely changed my life.  All that I had planned for myself was altered in a matter of hours.  I didn’t just lose my prearranged future and the city I loved, but also myself.
 
     For me, PTSD started out just as depression and anxiety.  When I arrived at Franklin Pierce only a week after I had evacuated New Orleans I was a zombie, completely void of emotion and feeling.  Life became a schedule of events I didn’t care about.  Wake up.  Go to class.  Read.  Eat.  Sleep.  Repeat.  I stopped washing my face and brushing my hair.  What was the point?  How could I care about such stupid things when something so devastating just happened? 

     Soon the mundane events of a typical day were interrupted by bursts of panic attacks that included crying, screaming and anger.  The pressure on my chest felt like someone had piled rocks on top of me.  An electric current was surging through my arms and hands.  I craved control over my life and I couldn’t get it.

     I remember arriving in NOLA for my sophomore year of college on a sunny Friday afternoon.  The immense branches of the live oaks provided a canopy over St. Charles Avenue, which is where Loyola University is located.  My mother and I had spent a few days driving from NH to LA.  The car was filled to the brim with clothes and dorm room accessories.  We didn’t mind that the car lacked air conditioning, the open windows were refreshing and the air felt soft from the humidity.

     Upon reaching NOLA, the first task was to unpack the car and get everything into the dorm room.  New Residence, New Res for short, was a 6 story upperclassmen dorm.  I was able to squeak into the newest and nicest dorm on campus because two of my three Gamma Phi Beta roommates were juniors.  My direct roommate, Megan Tribble, had decided to decorate our room before tackling the mountain of boxes and suitcases that littered her side of the room. Unlike Tribble, I opted to leave my side of the room blank until the next day.  It was early evening and it was time for a Cajun dinner.

     One wall of Cannon’s Restaurant is made completely of windows which give a picturesque view of passer-bys and the occasional streetcar.  Dinner at Cannon’s is a staple in our New Orleans visits.  My mother would narrow her choice down to either blackened catfish or tilapia.  I stuck with my all time favorite, grilled Atlantic salmon.  After our Creole feast we waddled back to the car with our full stomachs.  It wasn’t long before we returned to our hotel room and crashed for the evening.

     We woke up early the next morning to beat the long lines at the bookstore.  The distance between our hotel and Loyola was short, but we figured we’d drive anyway.  To our confusion, cars were bumper to bumper along St. Charles.  Even though the congestion was unusual, we didn’t really give it a second thought.  Especially because all of the cars were going down some side street and not heading towards Loyola. 

     Campus was rather quiet for the Saturday before classes were to start, but hey, a shorter line in the bookstore sounded good to me.  We entered the retro-looking Danna Center and climbed the black and white speckled stairs that led to the bookstore. A woman with keys was at the door.  I couldn’t believe I was going to be the first student to get my books for the semester.  “No honey, the bookstore’s closed,” she said.  “President wants people to evacuate instead of buying their books.”  I was puzzled.  Why were we evacuating?  It was at that moment that I figured out why we had run into such traffic.  All the cars were following the evacuation route.  Hurricane Katrina was on her way.

     For some Southerners the threat of a hurricane is at most an annoyance.  The threat is so frequent and most of the time they don’t even end up getting hit, but they still have to go through the hassle of boarding up and shipping out.  Or for some New Orleanians, it’s an excuse for a party and to drink Pat O’Brien hurricanes.  The advice Loyola gave was to take some clothes and evacuate and see you in a few days.  My mother and I took the advice and headed for Alabama.  Nothing went as planned and the next few days were the worst days of my life.

     My mom had to listen to the radio constantly and watch the TV whenever we stopped at a hotel.  It seemed like every hour the news got worse.  ‘Katrina headed for New Orleans.’  ‘Category 5, can expect completely devastation.’  ‘There will probably be nothing left.’ And then there was silence and Katrina hit.  Directly following the storm were all the pictures of the destruction.  I will always remember those images.  I saw places I knew destroyed.  I worried about my friends, a bunch lived in New Orleans.  One of my closest friends went through hell because she experienced Katrina in the Superdome. 

     As time progressed I felt myself slip further and further away.  I was falling down a hole that I couldn’t dig myself out of, no matter how hard I tried.  My mind was abounding with images of my city in peril.  People screaming and waving white flags from their rooftops.  Dead bodies floating in the streets.  I would cry for hours.  I was completely lost.

     PTSD has been a constant struggle.  There is hope with each day as I slowly make progress.  Despite all of the turmoil I look on the bright side.  I never would have imagined how much my life has changed from this one event.

Read more about Rose's experience and what it was like to share such a personal journey with others.