Post Traumatic Jits Disorder

How Jiu-Jitsu helped me face my demons—and win.

Today’s post was written by Sam Dennett. Sam is a blue belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu training out of Partizan Grappling in Sydney, Australia. He’s also the author of Warrior Funk — a newsletter focused on personal growth, storytelling, and overcoming obstacles.

Hit the button below to get more of Sam’s work.

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Photo provided by the author.

“Sam? Sam, wake up, mate.”

I opened my eyes.

“Hey, bud. Don’t panic, you’re ok.”

My vision adjusted to the bright lights and focused on the people looking down upon me.

“Sam, do you know where you are?”

“Haffpi’al?” I tried to say ‘hospital’, but the sound that came out was all mangled. Why couldn’t I talk?

“Yes, that's right, you’re in hospital. Now, Sam, you’ve been hurt. You’re hurt pretty bad. But I need you to know you’re safe now, ok?”

“Uhhh…Ok?” I replied, unsure.

The people were paramedics, nurses, and doctors. Loads of them. I was so confused. Wasn’t I at a party a minute ago? I tried hard to remember. Visions of taking a toke of a joint and a swig of beer entered my mind, and then, blank.

I was lying on my back. I gazed down and saw I was shirtless, my pants were ripped, and I was covered in blood. My face ached, and I couldn’t say the words I wanted to say.

“...hwa’ happen?” I asked desperately.

The answer wasn’t a good one.

On April 22nd, 2012, my life changed forever.

I was out with my friends from Uni for a night out and went back to a friend's place for the afterparty. Turns out, the girl I was with had an ex-boyfriend who showed up at the apartment—and found us in bed together.

He proceeded to administer a beating so horrific (allegedly with a golf club) that I was within an inch of my life.

I would end up with my jaw broken in three separate places; dislocating it from the rest of my skull, unconscious for the entire ambulance ride, lacerations and bruises all over my head and face, and bleeding from both ears.

I was in a bit of a state, as we Brits would say in our patented, undermining way.

One week in hospital, major reconstructive surgery, and months of recovery later, most of my physical injuries had healed.

However, the unseen damage would follow me and ultimately, almost cost me my life via my own hand.

Initially, once ‘recovered’, I was back out drinking and partying. I guess I wanted to show people how tough I was, how such an awful event couldn’t keep me down, an act of defiance to the person who almost killed me.

The truth is, I was fundamentally different from that moment onwards.

Photo provided by the author.

On the surface, I was dancing, smiling, and socialising. But I was no longer drinking to have fun, I was drinking to forget. I drank to dull the pain. I drank so I wouldn’t feel anything at all.

I moved to Australia not long after the assault, but over the next few years, I would also fall victim to an abusive relationship, lose my father to cancer, and suffer a major heartbreak—all of which would compound the existing damage and symptoms I was experiencing.

The panic attacks would come from nowhere, with no discernible trigger or cause. I would be with friends at a pub, for example, and all of a sudden, my heart was pounding through my chest. I couldn’t get my breathing under control and would be completely consumed by a sense of dread.

Sometimes I would get a text or a phone call from a number I didn’t recognise, and that would throw me into the depths of the panic spiral.

They became so frequent, at their worst, I was having an attack almost every day, and they almost became the norm. I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I began to withdraw; everything I did seemed to result in a frenzy of panic, so it was safer to remain alone, my only loyal companion being alcohol.

The first violent outburst came when I was working on a farm in northern New South Wales, near the border to Queensland. A group of us were working to earn another year’s visa to stay in Australia, and the days were spent working the plan, and evenings were time to socialise and drink cheap wine.

One drunken night, a friend playfully tapped the side of my face near my jaw.

I’m not sure what happened to be honest, but something just snapped in me. I couldn’t control myself, and before I could even register what was happening, I had him against the wall by the throat, my other fist raised, ready to punch his lights out.

My fucking friend.

Horrified by my actions, I ran away into the fields and cried hysterically for hours. I was so confused, this wasn’t like me. Why was I acting this way? Why am I so angry?

This fury would be on a constant rolling boil within me.

Anyone who got close to me physically would set off these episodes of anger and panic. Any vague gesture towards my face or even just standing close to me would bring up these feelings, and I would have to sometimes literally run away.

After the assault, I did everything in my power to avoid confrontation. On the very few occasions that it was unavoidable, the rage that would emerge from me was frightening.

After work one night, my friend called me in a fluster, saying some guy just pushed him off his skateboard and was trying to fight him. I ran over to the area and was met by this lad swinging a glass bottle at my mate.

After trying to get him to calm down, the fight spilled onto the main road. Whilst trying to dodge the bottle swings, I spotted a bus coming down the street. Without thinking—yet fully aware of my intent—I stepped forward and kicked him hard in the chest, aiming to push him into the road, right into the path of the oncoming bus.

Luckily, he bounced into a parked car instead and wasn’t flattened by Sydney’s public transport.

My behaviour was becoming increasingly unhinged, and my drinking was completely out of control. My anxiety levels were at constant ‘fight or flight’ levels, and it was taking its toll on my physical and mental health.

I couldn’t be around people without a drink, it was my safety net. If I was drunk, my mind wouldn’t be scoping every exit ‘just in case’. If I was drunk, I could suppress my anxiety enough to hold a conversation. If I was drunk, I couldn’t feel. I could forget.

I would drink every day, from the moment I woke up to the moment I passed out. I was so horribly depressed; music had no sound, food had no taste. The world around me had no colour, it was a scary, dangerous place.

After an attempted suicide at the start of 2020, I chose to change things. I stopped drinking and realised I needed help.

I’d been doing well in my recovery—I had stayed sober, found a group of supportive people who helped me process my trauma, and had been hitting the gym regularly. However, there was something missing, I just wasn’t sure what it was.

It was during this transitional period of my life that I found Jiu Jitsu, or rather, it found me.

I agreed to help my mate, a brown belt, who wanted to start a small training group. I had no desire to do anything resembling fighting, but I love this guy, and he insisted I give it a try, and I was starting to get bored with the regular gym routine. So I promised I’d train for a couple of months while he got it going.

I had my first session a few weeks late, as I was back in the UK for the start, so the boys had a bit more experience. I remember being told to sit on the floor and not let my partner pin me to the mat. My reaction was to run away. Like, literally, reverse butt-scoot away until I left the puzzle mats. Over and over again.

I went home that night and typed ‘professional Jiu Jitsu’ into YouTube to see what it looked like at the highest level. I ended up watching a Gordon Ryan match. I forget who he was against, but all I saw was two huge blokes slamming their bodies into each other with such ferocity it resembled bucks clashing in the forest.

As I watched longer, I began to sweat, my heart rate rose, and yep, you guessed it, I had a panic attack.

I had a panic attack watching a Jiu Jitsu match.

Nevertheless, that one session ignited something in me. Instead of retreating, I went back. And again, and again.

In another of the early sessions, I had a round with my mate Casey. Casey was a little, let’s say, wild when it came to sparring. At one point during the roll, he had me in side control and was frantically trying to work his way into a more secure position. He was panting hard, his warm breath blowing into my face, the sound of his heavy, aggressive gasping was right in my ear as he used every single ounce of strength and speed he had.

The switch went off, and I was overcome with anger. I tapped, stood up, and walked out of the room.

Fuck this grappling stuff—all I wanted to do was hit him.

Still, I found myself going back. It wasn’t even a completely conscious decision; it was like something deep in me knew it was doing me good, so I kept turning up.

I found the positions that would trigger me, and put myself in them on purpose. I grabbed people I trusted and spent extended time being smashed. When I felt the anger or the panic rise, I would breathe through it and tell myself I was safe. I was uncomfortable, but I was safe. These were my friends, and they weren’t going to hurt me on purpose.

Nowadays, you can crossface the shit out of me and I’ll be smiling. Dragging your arms across my face to expose my neck? No problem, bud. Knee on my head? All good lad, you do you. I’ll stay calm until there's an opening, and before you know it, I’m ripping the ligaments in your foot apart.

I get excited when a huge bloke walks into our gym, and I’ll be the first one to test myself against him. I’ll still get my ass kicked, but that's not the point.

Jiu Jitsu was an absolute game changer. In all areas of my life. If I could handle a 100+ kg man trying to choke me unconscious, I could handle anything.

I noticed I walked more confidently on the street. At social occasions, I was no longer overthinking every single bad thing that could happen to me. I didn’t view every other male as a threat anymore.

The transformation from running away to competing was an especially proud moment for me. I stepped into a space of simulated combat—one of the closest things to a real fight—and I did well. I didn’t win, obviously, but I stepped outside of my comfort zone, didn’t panic or run away, and had an amazing experience.

Jiu Jitsu has helped keep me off the booze, too. I strongly believe that where most addicts fail is when they don’t have an alternative option to fill the hole left by their vice. Jiu Jitsu, by nature, is crazy addictive, so it was able to plug the rum-shaped missing piece in me and helped channel that energy into becoming better at grappling.

Jiu Jitsu didn’t save my life, but it did set me free.

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Today’s post was written by Sam Dennett. Sam is a blue belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu training out of Partizan Grappling in Sydney, Australia. He’s also the author of Warrior Funk — a newsletter focused on personal growth, storytelling, and overcoming obstacles.

Hit the button below to get more of Sam’s work.

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