From My Journal..

Living Through Trauma: You’re not crazy, you’re just grieving.

⚠️⚠️ I want to warn you, this is a very raw, very real post. Read at your own risk- but I felt like sharing this. ⚠️⚠️

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When I was 11 years old, I woke up to screams. My mom’s screams. At 11 years old I called 911 as my father lay in my parent’s bedroom unresponsive. I tried so hard to help my mom lift him further onto the bed so she could start CPR. I watched her desperately try to revive him. I screamed at the 911 operator to “hurry up!” after she told me to calm down.

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At age 11, I watched my father die. I watched the paramedics put him on a stretcher, pull the sheet over his head, and carry him through my parent’s bedroom window because they couldn’t maneuver the stretcher in our tiny hallway. I remember running outside to throw up and then just standing in the driveway, a whirl of blue and red all around me but all I felt was stilled silence. In a blink of an eye, my life changed forever.

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At the hospital, we were met by the Chaplin and three or four nurses. I already knew what they would say. I collapsed when I saw them, I cried, I threw up in the break room trash can behind the ER nurses station, and I sat outside with one of the nurses while my mom saw my dad one last time.

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When we got home later that morning, everything was untouched but all wrong, all at the same time. My father’s glasses were on the nightstand, the blanket I made for him that Christmas laying on his side of the bed, his wallet on the counter. There were also sheets on the floor, needle wrappers on the dresser, and a latex glove under the window. I remember that being my confirmation that I wasn’t having a bad dream. This was real.

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At age 11, I helped plan my father’s funeral from the casket to the songs for the service. I remember being so startled when we walked into the funeral parlor where his service was and seeing him laying there in his casket. I remember kissing his cheek which no longer smelled like Curve cologne, and touching his hands, no longer warm. At age 11, I spoke at my father’s funeral and I saw my grandmother cry for the first, and only, time in my life as we rode in the limo to the gravesite. I remember the gunshots and the flag they folded and handed to my mom- the same flag and bullets framed and resting on my entry hall table.

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At 11 years old, I grew up. I became the person in our family who took care of things. From calling and paying bills for my mom, to holding her and encouraging her to get out of bed when she couldn’t for days on end. Cooking, cleaning, taking care of my sister. And I never really grieved.

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By age 14, I started having random anxiety attacks that convinced me that someone I know had died. Ambulance lights induced panic attacks, and I don’t remember most of my childhood. I don’t talk openly about my dad because honestly, I can’t. I can’t watch videos of him, I can’t look at his picture too long, I can’t even eat Mexican restaurant taquitos, listen to Amazing Grace, play basketball, or go to places we once did without fighting back tears or practicing my breathing so I avoid a meltdown. I’ve visited his grave twice in 16 years, only once could I muster the courage to get out of the car. Triggers are everywhere. And while I am working on these things, STILL, every day, PTSD is and probably always will be a major part of my life. My last panic attack was a little over a year ago and it was triggered by ambulance lights next door. I still cry by myself in my car because of a passing memory or thought, and it all still hurts. Like hell.

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I wanted to share this because so often PTSD is thought of as a veteran’s problem. And while it certainly is, there are other forms of trauma that cause civilians to suffer from forms of post-traumatic stress syndrome, also. When I was diagnosed with PTSD, I was shocked but suddenly, everything I was going through, am going through, made perfect sense. Almost 20 years later, I can still remember what I was wearing the night my dad died. I can remember every detail, how blue his face was, what my mom’s screams sounded like, almost every word the 911 operator said. That is the memory burnt into my brain. That night is one I revisit in vivid detail over and over again. But as horrible as that night was, it’s easier to deal with that memory compared to all of the sweet memories I’ll never get to have again with my father.

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I’m not sharing this for sympathy- it has taken me 16 years to openly share my story. And this has been extremely hard to write- I’ve erased it about five times. But something about this meme spoke to me. And it just seemed appropriate.

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For anyone struggling with trauma, know that you are NOT alone. You are not crazy, you are not broken because you “just can’t get over it” even though it’s been two decades. You’re not sensitive when you cry because a song comes on that reminds you of someone you’ve lost, or because the memory of them just came to you. Grief is grief and it is not a one and done thing. It’s a lifelong process.

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We are all so quick to acknowledge the existence of life-long, unconditional love but tend to sweep that under the rug and try to “move on” when someone we love dies. One of my favorite Ted Talk speakers, Jaime Anderson, discusses grief and she describes grief as “love with nowhere else to go” and death as “love just squaring up with its oldest enemy.” And she’s right. The grief will never go away, but it does get better. Eventually, we will start to see the beauty in those we have lost rather than focusing on the pain. We will be able to celebrate them without rejecting their memory because it’s something we cannot yet deal with. Don’t give up. Keep working. Because one day, love will win. And while triggers will always be there, the meaning of them will change. And it will be beautiful, reassuring, and peaceful.

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Hang in there. I am. ❤️

7 thoughts on “Living Through Trauma: You’re not crazy, you’re just grieving.”

  1. Yes. PTSD is a real thing not only for those in the military or law enforcement. It took years for me to understand what was wrong with me. Trauma. Any trauma, can cause PTSD. It’s time we share our stories. Like exposing film, once exposed, cannot be used against us again. We can start to heal. Thank you so much for sharing.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I remember your Grandmother’s phone call that next morning. I was on the patio of our home on Lakes Edge Drive. I still feel the sun on my back and how it seemed to burn a hole right through me as I made her repeat herself —. What did you say? WHO died? What? I remember bringing food over – was it that night? Or the next day? And then just crying with your Mom at the table in that tiny dining room. I remember that you and Katelyn looked shell-shocked. And small. And so scared. Your Dad was something special. I’m so sorry he’s not there for Wes and Eli. He would have loved being a Grandpa. I know his is very, very proud of you.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. 😭😭😭😭 I still try to reconcile it to this day and I can’t seem to understand it. Of all people, he didn’t deserve to go so young. I think today is a day our whole family remembers and will forever. I love you and thank you for your kind words and sharing your memory with me. I honestly don’t remember much after the night he died. Those weeks are blurry for me. I do remember you coming over now. I hadn’t remembered that until you shared. Thank you.

      Like

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