I don't seem poor anymore: thousands of dollars on dental care, I dress OK, I have a fairly polished accent now. I don't talk to most of my family. My old friends live several thousand miles away and their world of drug abuse, poverty, and dysfunction is now one I only experience via the occasionally post I read on my Facebook feed.
The PTSD remains -- the anxiety attacks in the middle of the night when I think I hear yelling, the flinching and heart palpitations when a co-worker sneaks up on me as a joke. I feel ashamed to mention this as well, because PTSD seems to have become a fashionable affliction to claim to have, like Celiac disease. I look for all intents and purposes like a normal 20something white girl. The few times I mentioned PTSD I actually saw someone eye roll. They don't know about flashbacks to homeless shelters, finding people OD'd in bathrooms, being attacked for just existing.
I think the social circles I now move in have made all of this unmentionable. I am glad the author of this piece is at least bringing it up and talking about it. The isolation I feel among co workers and friends now is often very intense.