Depression, Grief and Loss, healing, Hope, Love, Unconditional Love

Global Pandemic and Trauma History

The last few weeks have felt all too familiar for a lot of us. It took me a while to understand why.

Growing up surrounded by trauma, your body lives in a state of chaos. The fight, flight, or freeze response is always present. Adrenaline circulates your body. Startle reflexes at every corner. Second-guessing every thought, and every person. Are they safe? Can you trust them? These same reactions and thoughts have crept back into my reality.

My creativity is gone. My energy has left as well. Big plans for a new book, a clean, organized house are taunting me. I am exhausted, and yet I have not increased any workload. I didn’t understand this and beat myself up over it. The negative self-talk took over my reality.

I couldn’t put my finger on it, but the feelings were eerily similar. It wasn’t until I read a post online that compared what is happening in the World with trauma. With everything that is happening, our fight and flight responses have been activated. But, there is nothing to fight, and we are forbidden to flee. The only option we have at this moment is to freeze. Our bodies slow down to self-preserve.

This is why you are exhausted. This is why you feel uneasy. If you have lived through trauma (and if we’re being honest, who hasn’t?), then you have felt this before. If this is new to you, you are in good company.

Trauma survivors and people living with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) know what you are going through. We know what it’s like not to trust anyone, not know where the threat is coming from, or when it might attack. We know what it’s like to feel anxious and uneasy in our own skin. We are used to being exhausted, even after a full night of sleep. We know how to worry like no one’s business. Depression isn’t just a trendy word to us. We get it.

What you are feeling is real. It is legitimate. It is scary. It can change your life. Things are out of your control. The lack of control increases the fear. The fear increases the anxiety. The anxiety increases the exhaustion. The cycle starts again, and again. Your breathing increases, and panic sets in. Racing thoughts and lack of oxygen. How will you survive?

Oh, but you will. You will find the light in the corner of the darkness. You will push out those negative thoughts, one by one (maybe letter by letter). You will find a way to breathe. You will take it one day, one minute, one second at a time.

Some of the worst trauma still haunts us, but you continue to live. You do only what you can. Be proud of your accomplishments, even if it is only that you were able to open your eyes and get out of bed. Look for the little things, because they will become the big things. It is all in perspective.

When you feel the walls closing in on you, reach for something you are grateful for. I know, sometimes, it is hard even to do that. Don’t give up on yourself. You matter. Someone loves you. Someone can’t wait to hear your voice. Someone thinks you are amazing. Someone is looking up to you.

Be gentle on yourself. Be okay with doing only what you can. Cry if you need to. Feel everything that comes. Don’t give up. Don’t let the panic, or the fear, or the negative thoughts take over. You are not in this alone, no matter how much it may feel like you are.

And think of how much stronger this will have made you. You have what it takes. Don’t forget it.

Sending healing thoughts out into the World.

Always look for the light.

#DomesticViolenceAwareness, Child abuse, Depression, Domestic Violence, EMDR, Grief and Loss, healing, Hope, Love, Uncategorized

January 2020 Domestic Violence Story: A Child Witness

Since awareness is key to helping end domestic violence, I want to share a story each month with a different focus. There can never be too many stories shared. Sharing replaces hopelessness with hopefulness.

Since this idea did not come to me until late into the month of January, I thought I would start with my story. I did share my story in October 2019, as well as in my memoir, The Monster That Ate My Mommy, but there is always room for more details and more insight. My hope is that sharing my story, even on repeat, it will reach the right people to make a difference. If one person is helped by my suffering, it was for something.

The first three years of my life I did not have contact with my father, and as far as I know, neither did my mom. She brought baby girl Aiken home to her mother’s house from the hospital with the father’s name on the birth certificate blank. From the start she knew she didn’t feel safe around my dad, and maybe for the first time in her life, she listened to her gut feeling. During those three years she kept him away from me, and because he was not named as my father, without a DNA test, he did not have any rights to me.

The plan had been to name my brother’s dad as my father, and I was going to be given his last name. He agreed to this plan, and as far as I knew, he was my dad. He was loving and kind, and fun to be with. Before this plan could be put into motion, he became very sick, and died. I am not sure if it was this alone that changed my mom’s mind about my dad, or her wish to give me a father, or the hope for a family, but he was welcomed into our lives. My birth certificate was changed to list him as my father, and my last name was hyphenated to include his.

Within days we were moving into a new place as a family, and the abuse came creeping back in. Some of the scariest, most traumatic moments of my life came from the three short years we lived together. I witnessed my brother’s beatings, so severe, I was not sure he would live. I watched as my parents had violent sex in the living room, and saw my dad inches away from ending my mom’s life.

I was a watcher. I watched and observed everything. I wanted to be prepared for what might happen. Every sound awoke my adrenaline as I waited for it to escalate, and spiral out of control. Even at four years old, I knew I had to think fast, and be ready for what might come. I knew I had to be strong and step in for my mom or brother when their beatings became too much. I’d cause some sort of distraction to take the focus off them, hoping the belt across my bare bottom would be enough for him. If they could have a break, maybe they would be strong enough for the next time.

I knew there would always be a next time. I knew that even when we were laughing and having fun, it would end as quickly as it started. My guard was never down, and it wasn’t until recently that I understood the impact this has had on me.

Some things are easy to see what they were caused by, while others take time to fully understand. My newest development came in a counseling session where EMDR therapy was used.

The goal of the session was to understand the reason I don’t feel at home anywhere. The last place that felt like home was my gram’s house, the same house I was brought home from the hospital. Even though I moved out of this home when I was three, every time I went back, I knew I was home. It wasn’t a big surprise to me. It made sense that my gram made it feel like home; she was home.

My problem was I have not been able to recreate that feeling since. It was not due to feeling unsafe or unloved. I didn’t understand what was the route of this lack of connection came from. In the past abuse and neglect made it was easy to see why I didn’t feel like I was home. My life is no longer filled with either and I wanted answers. I wanted to fix it. I wanted to find that feeling.

Some of the factors that lead to this decision were the boxes I have not unpacked for over ten years. They follow me, all the things I have carried with me throughout different moves, and do not find a permanent place inside the building I reside. I do not decorate or make an effort to make it feel like “home.” I thought it was because I was lazy…or busy…but lately, I knew there was more to it.

During my session I had to go back in time to a memory that may have caused this. Going down memory lane I counted 20 moves in my lifetime. Most all of them had a negative connotation. There were two that stuck out. One was when I was 14 and first in foster care, and the second, the one that I worked on, was when I was six and going with my dad for visitations.

Tears began to roll down my cheek as I thought back to thirty-two years ago, to my six-year old self with my rolled up brown paper bag full of my clothes gazing out the window, waiting for my dad’s car to arrive so I could slip out the door before my parents had a chance to interact. In those moments I dreaded these weekend visits. I wanted to go to my gram’s, but on his weekends, I couldn’t.

As I worked through these emotions and memories I realized what had been keeping me from feeling at home. It was the lack of fitting in, the lack of having a safe place, the lack of belonging, the lack of having a solid foundation.

How does this all relate to being a child witness to domestic violence?

All that fear, and waiting I experienced followed me. I’m ready at a moments notice to throw my belongings into paper bags, or garbage bags and throw them into my car to get to safety. I’m ready to make my escape, because to me, home was not safe. To me, home was where I went to be hurt and watch others be hurt. It was a place that held all the secrets and horrors that no one else was allowed to know. It was filled with loud voices, swears, insults, and bruises. It was the space between going to school, and my gram’s house, where safety wasn’t questioned.

Watching my dad hurt and threaten to kill my mom changed me. It instilled a fear in me I thought was part of my existence. It gave me an altered view of what home and love were supposed to look like. It ate away at my self-esteem. It robbed me of self-love.

It changed me.

As an adult, who found my way to my own house of horrors, it took me a while to realize it was not normal. I didn’t believe I deserved anything other than what I had always known. I recreated a “home” that mimicked the one I had grown up in. On guard for the next incident to happen, I never had time to get comfortable. I didn’t know what comfortable was.

Recently, I thought something was wrong with me because I can sleep through my husband’s alarm clock. I know now that there is nothing wrong with me. For the first time in my life I feel safe. Safe enough to sleep soundly. Safe enough to let my guard down. Safe enough to figure out what home is.

It’s time to start living. Existing is exhausting.

If you have exposed your children to domestic violence, please don’t feel guilty. We all do the best we can with the information we have at the time. Each day is a new day to make a change. Tomorrow is a clean slate. Don’t let the past keep you somewhere you never belonged.

I don’t share my story for pity, I share it for awareness. Awareness is the key to ending domestic violence.