Episode 2:
Suffocating in the silence of my own denial

*The series is based on the real-life experience of Kim Nam-young, a JoongAng Ilbo reporter currently living with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The following articles are written from Kim’s first-person perspective.

To Readers

I have PTSD.

As a reporter on the social affairs desk, I covered the Itaewon disaster on Oct. 29, 2022. Since November of the following year, I have been receiving treatment regularly. I attend psychiatric counseling sessions and take medication every day.

I am only revealing the illness now, more than two years later, not because I have overcome it. This is not a story about recovery, but a record of living through the illness. To be honest, I still do not know when, or if, I will overcome it.

Instead, I want to talk about the time I have spent living alongside PTSD. Even now, I continue to work as a policy and social affairs reporter while exercising, traveling and going on with daily life.

If someone is hesitant to see a doctor, I hope this piece helps. I also hope we can become a society where people do not feel forced to hide emotional pain and trauma.

Reliving the moment

It began around October 2023, as the first anniversary of the Itaewon crowd crush approached.

Lost shoes piled along the side of the street, emergency responders pressing hard against the chests of people who had stopped breathing — These scenes would suddenly flash vividly into my mind even while walking down the street. When I woke from nightmares, my heart would race.

I began consciously avoiding related articles and even certain words. However, still, waves of nausea came over me, and I was always on edge for no apparent reason. Saying I was “having a hard time” did not come close to describing it.

A doctor later told me these were classic symptoms of PTSD. The things I had dismissed as simple oversensitivity were, in fact, cries of pain.

PTSD is not a memory that naturally fades with time. It is an illness in which the brain forces a person to relive past threats as if they are happening in the present.

That is why scenes suddenly resurface, and the body reacts first. Eventually, I had no choice but to begin treatment and start taking medication.

But there was something even harder to bear than the illness itself — It was accepting that I was someone receiving treatment.

Hiding the medication

After beginning PTSD treatment, I developed a new habit. Whenever I visited my hometown, which is in the countryside outside of Seoul, or traveled with friends, I packed a small opaque pouch with one purpose and one purpose only: to hold my psychiatric medication.

Before going to sleep, I would secretly take my pills in the bathroom and swallow them with water. In the mornings, I woke earlier than everyone else to take them. I always put the pill packets back into the pouch afterward.

If someone had asked what they were, I thought that I could probably brush them off as cold medicine. To be quite frank, I know that nobody would have even cared. Even so, I desperately wanted to hide the fact that I was seeing a psychiatrist.

The packets had no names on them. They were transparently wrapped. Yet I was terrified someone might notice them, so I always carried the pouch with me.

I also know that nothing catastrophic would have happened even if I had spoken honestly. Still, I did not want my family or friends to see my symptoms, such as insomnia, sudden heart racing, avoiding certain words or feeling waves of nausea that arrived without warning.

I did not want to be seen as "someone in mental health care" or someone who is "mentally ill."

At work, I tried to hide it even more carefully. I feared people would question my ability to do my job if they discovered my condition.

So, I worked longer and harder. I even tried to be the person who stays until the very end at company dinners.

There were even days when I heavily drank despite knowing I would not be able to take the medication I was supposed to take before bed. I did it to avoid anyone finding out that I was taking psychiatric medication and receiving treatment.

Looking back now, I realize I spent more energy trying to appear healthy than on actually getting healthy.

In some ways, being a reporter made it easier for me to hide my condition. Unless reporters are at the scene or meeting sources, they can often work alone from almost anywhere. Because of that, it was not difficult to conceal my symptoms from colleagues.

When I froze at certain words, I could simply pause and catch my breath alone. That was how I lived alongside PTSD while pretending it did not exist.

I was not alone

Over time, I began to realize this might not be just my personal struggle. Journalism itself constantly exposes reporters to scenes of disaster and tragedy, placing them in a high-risk group for PTSD.

Reporters who covered the Sewol ferry disaster, eight years before the Itaewon tragedy, were not much different from me. (The Sewol ferry sank on April 16, 2014. The overloaded ship capsized in waters off the southwestern coast, leaving 304 people dead, mostly teenagers on a high school trip.)

Nearly half — 45.9 percent — of the 270 journalists surveyed showed PTSD symptoms one month after covering the tragedy, according to a report titled "Psychological Trauma of Journalists Covering the Sewol Ferry Sinking: Continuation of Symptoms and the Risk Factors," published by The Korean Society for Journalism & Communication Studies.

Even six months later, 25.4 percent remained psychologically trapped in that day.

A 2021 survey of 544 Korean journalists also found that 78.7 percent had experienced trauma while working. Among them, 44 percent said the symptoms lasted for more than one month — long enough to potentially meet the clinical criteria for PTSD.

Yet many reporters treat psychological trauma as if it were an unavoidable part of their job. Instead of speaking openly about suffering in the field, they often turn such experiences into stories or jokes over drinks.

Reporters are more used to saying, “I’ve forgotten it all now,” while washing memories away with rounds of strong liquor.

Research on reporters covering the Sewol disaster also suggested that this kind of “macho mindset” may contribute to prolonged symptoms. Even when reporting causes severe physical or psychological pain, many perceive admitting to pain as a sign of weakness.

I was no different.

I believed I had to become a mentally strong reporter who never wavered in front of tragedy or emotion. So, I hid my medication in a pouch and hid even that pouch at work. I did everything possible to keep others from discovering that I needed medication at all.

From denying to accepting myself

It happened over drinks in the summer of 2024. As the conversation drifted from topic to topic over beer and food, the Itaewon tragedy came up.

“You were there too, right?” somebody said to me. “That must have been hard. Are you okay now?”

“I’ve forgotten all about it,” I replied with what I hoped looked like a smile.

In truth, I was not smiling. I could not smile. I simply lifted the corners of my mouth because I desperately wanted everyone there to think I was smiling. But how could I possibly be okay when hearing the word “Itaewon” alone still made my heart pound?

I silently told myself over and over that I was fine while desperately hoping the conversation would end as quickly as possible.

I’m not okay at all! Even now, there are times when the scene from that day flashes before my eyes like a photograph! I can’t fall asleep unless I take my medicine!

This is what I really wanted to say. But I did not want to ruin the mood or be treated like an outsider, even though I knew I was denying and deceiving myself.

Surprisingly, this kind of reaction — what psychologists call denial — is common among people with mental illnesses in Korea.

People who had experienced mental health issues showed greater understanding and acceptance of psychiatric disorders than those who had not, according to the National Center for Mental Health’s 2024 survey on public knowledge and attitudes toward mental health.

At the same time, however, they also showed stronger levels of self-stigma.

The findings suggest that people experiencing conditions such as PTSD understand their own symptoms well, yet are more likely to see themselves negatively because they fear social stigma.

Healing starts with acceptance

And that fear keeps many people away from seeing a doctor altogether. Seven out of 10 people who experience mental health problems never seek professional treatment.

I was one of them. Even before beginning full-scale treatment, I was afraid to step inside a hospital.

One thing I repeatedly said during my initial visits after the disaster was, “I think I’m okay. Shouldn’t people who are suffering more than I am be the ones receiving treatment instead?” After my fourth appointment, I even stopped seeing my doctor.

However, a few months later, I began experiencing PTSD symptoms. Even then, I erased the possibility of returning to see a doctor by telling myself I was simply too sensitive.

Denying that I was sick and denying that I needed treatment only pushed me further away from healing. This is how Chae Jeong-ho, a psychiatry professor at Seoul St. Mary’s Hospital, put it.

True healing is not only about easing the symptoms, but also about accepting and embracing the version of yourself that is receiving treatment.

I told him, “My partner and friends told me to go to see a doctor. Their support really helped.”

“That’s something to be grateful for," Prof. Chae said with a smile. "But the truly admirable person is the one who actually goes when others tell them to seek help. You need to learn to give yourself credit for getting treatment.”

The moment I heard that, it felt as if I had been struck by lightning.

I hated taking medication. I hated going to see a doctor. Yet even if it came later than it should have, I still took the medication and kept going back for treatment.

The only person denying my own efforts was myself.

Long story short, perfect happy endings existed only in dramas and novels — not in my life. Even after opening up to people around me about my illness, there are still times when I struggle to accept the version of myself that is receiving treatment.

I still sometimes pretend to be fine. I still occasionally wonder whether things would have been different if my mind had simply been stronger.

But at least one thing has definitely changed.

I now try to believe that the version of me who goes to see a doctor is also a pretty decent person.

Of course, beginning treatment does not solve everything immediately.

It turned out that sitting across from a psychiatrist and speaking openly about myself was itself another beginning.

The story continues to the third episode, "Episode 3: The importance of engaging in your own treatment."

BY KIM NAM-YOUNG [[email protected]]