Darkest Before Pitch Black

The saying, "It's always darkest before pitch black" comes from a character in the Raiding Forces Series by Phil Ward, which are good WWII historical fiction books. In the past year I've thought I've hit pitch black, just to discover it can get blacker. This weekend, with my husband (we've been separated for 6 months) pitch dark got blacker.... there were several 5 gallon buckets of tears over 2 days. I would have to say though, this time it was different. We both admitted our faults, what we've done to contribute to the failure of our marriage. We've never attacked each other, quite the opposite, we just don't talk. About anything. Ever. Which has created a HUGE divide in the way we function. We have different reasons for acting this way, but we're both to blame. We've talked more in the last 2 days, then we've talked in months.

My husband admitted last night that he always viewed "our problems" as my fault, leaving him fault free to be irritated. He admitted to being immature and selfish in his ways and thinking. He finally reached the point where he will literally do anything to save our marriage.

When he looks at me, I see how much he loves me. I know he loves me.

I'm the kind of person that when I'm faced with a question, I grab a book. So deciding that this is the time for our marriage Hail Mary, I went kindle cruising for a book to help save my marriage. I decided on Fighting For My Marriage. This book caught my eye because it had 56 people give it 4 stars. So I read the first couple of pages. I liked the easy reading, the explanations, examples, and the fact all of their theories are based from real studies from around the world. They give detailed information regarding the studies in the back if you want to research the numbers.

After the Beloveds went to bed, I asked him if he'd be willing to read this book with me. He hates to read, so I could read it out loud. We could do a chapter a week. Discuss the chapters, what we agree with, disagree with, and what we're going to work on. To my surprise he instantly agreed. He also agreed that he would give church an honest try. That he would go with an open mind, which then we could discuss the ideas we agree and disagree with from church. To my astonishment, he agreed.... again.

I'm hoping that the marriage book, and developing some kind of faith will give us something to talk about. Opportunity to agree and disagree. I'm hoping that they will also give us a venue to forgive and grow, making our marriage better and stronger than it has ever been before.

Here's to Hope and surviving pitch black.

Inspiration from Laura Hillenbrand's book - UNBROKEN

Yesterday was a bad day. I couldn't control my emotions of fear, anger, or anxiety. I even scared my kids when I got a letter from Bank Of America, who bought out my mortgage a couple years ago, and have decided to screw with me. I'd been on the phone with them almost everyday last week, so when I got a letter saying my house payment hadn't gone through and I was charged a $25 fee I kinda lost it. I screamed at the kids to get into the car, and screamed at the dogs to get outside. I was full of rage. Every muscle in my body was tense and I wanted nothing more than to unload my rage on the first person who crossed my path. I wanted to hit someone. HARD.

See I'm not a screamer or a yeller, so this behavior is seriously out of character and scared my Beloveds. I scared them so bad in fact they didn't say a word during the 20 minute drive into town. Or in the Bank. About 10 minutes into the drive on the way home, after I was reimbursed the $25 fee they felt it safe to carefully ask questions. Upon realizing this, and having them tell me I scared them, I felt even worse. When we got home I locked myself in my room and cried for an hour. When I was done crying I was so exhausted that I fell asleep in front of the the warm fire. When I woke a couple hours later the rage was gone. When my husband came in the house and found me half asleep in front of the fire he asked me if I was sick. I told him yes. I don't feel it's a lie, I'm just not sick the way he meant.

Last night I finished the latest book I was reading. It was called Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand. I knew it had something to do with World War II but really bought it because I love the way Laura Hillenbrand writes.

The story is about the life of Louie Zampernini. He was an Olympic runner, Bombardier, stranded at sea in a rubber boat for 47 days with no supplies, and a Japanese POW during World War II. You could say Louie is the ultimate survivor. Unbroken is a detailed account of his experiences and those closest to him. As I read about his survival at sea, which broke records, I thought if he survives so can I. When reading of the torture, starvation, and humiliation of the Japanese POW camps, I thought.... Holy Cow.... how can someones will be so strong? How does one live through such devastation? When the war was over and Louie came home and was faced with his demons (PTSD) I was interested to see how he'd deal with them. Then to discover he was able to get through his PTSD after some time. Louie had a happy fulfilling life and marriage. Louie's story has given me hope. What Louie survived went far beyond what I survived, so if he can do it.... so can I.

I woke this morning telling myself it was a new day. The Beloveds had a Christmas Concert at school, which I dressed to attend. The over populated gym felt like it was closing in on me. Exits were too far away, and I'd never find my kids if something happened. I took a couple deep breaths, and did my best to relax. I say my best because I was sitting ram rod straight in my chair. Every muscle in my back and shoulders tense enough to crack walnuts. I felt I need to feel the tension of my muscles because the muscles in my arms, legs, and chest felt numb. I needed to feel something. That's why when my bony butt started to hurt in the metal chair I didn't adjust. I focused on the pain, it is what grounded me to the chair, which grounded me to the floor. Which grounded me to the present. I realize that sounds crazy, but it was oddly comforting.

I'm going back to my Beloved's school this afternoon after lunch to partake in the rest of there classroom celebrations. I know the loudness of the cramped rooms, and the extra parents are going to make me feel overwhelmed and claustrophobic, but I refuse to let my stupid brain make me miss my Beloveds joy. I will take my meds. I will remind myself to breathe. I will do all of this because my Beloveds smiles and laughter is worth all the anxiety. And someday, hopefully soon I will be able to move on, like Louie did.

Me? Logical?

Today my best friend called to vent. At one point I said something, and her reply was, "You're so logical." If I'd had liquid in my mouth, I would have spit it out.

Me? Logical?

Did she know who she was talking to? Obviously not, because if she knew that I jump at every passing shadow, reflection, and that no matter what my surroundings are, I'm constantly figuring out, if I were to be ambushed by an attacker, where would it be? Where would he hide? How would I get away? I'm constantly locking all doors, driving my Beloveds crazy. As soon as all the car doors shut, I lock the doors. There is absolutely no where I feel safe. Take today for instance, I put the alarm system on chime, so if any doors or windows opened I would hear a little chime and a female computer voice would announce what had just opened.

Later, I opened the sliding glass door to get more wood for the fire. I came back inside, shut, and locked the sliding glass door. Then I heard the chime. My heart picked up. I started to panic. I decided in my terror I'd go see what door it was that opened. When I reached the alarm pad I felt stupid. It was the sliding glass door that I had gone through when getting wood. I set off the chime.

Trying to calm down I starting reading my latest book. Then the door bell rang. Oh shit, I thought. I walked slowly to the door debating the entire time on whether or not I should open it. I looked through the glass to see a little old lady. I looked beyond her. I didn't see anyone threatening lurking under a tree. I slowly opened the door. The little old lady was delivering Christmas cookies. Still I couldn't get the door shut on her fast enough.

So, I tried to relax again and read more of my book. When I start hearing "strange noises" at this point I know I'm loosing it. I keep reading my book. Then my whole body is covered in goosebumps and they will not go away.

This is when I hear my friends voice telling me I'm so logical. Yeah right, because it's perfectly logical to feel like you're about to be attacked at any moment. It's logical that I can't fly my American Flag because the movement makes shadows on my back porch, which constantly makes me jump thinking someone's out there.

Yeah. That's me. Captain Logical.

Oh... Just Get Over It!

You know there are times when saying, Oh get over it! Is valid, like when a Beloved is all bent out of shape because it's his brothers turn to pick the Wii game, then there are other times when people just need keep there mouth shut.

As you all know I'm struggling this week. I admit that. When I'm having an especially bad time I go through personality changes, I recognize that too. I'm irritable, I force smile (to make other people more comfortable, however my true friends know it's not a real smile) I withdraw and become more reclusive.

The Holidays always bring on a bout of struggling, but that repressed memory has really thunked me upside the head and sent me spinning this year. Why are the Holidays so difficult for me? Well, I mourn for what stable family I had, like my grandparents. I used to spend my summers with them in Fresno, and it was some of the best times of my life. My grandparents took me traveling, and to museums. My grandmother enrolled me in art classes every summer starting when I was 5 years old. She also taught me manners, and which fork to use. I was always safe at my grandparents. I loved them dearly. They are both gone now. I miss them very much. It also makes me sad that my Beloveds will never get to experience them, feel their love. The Holidays guaranteed a visit with my grandparents as a child.

As I sit here I'm smiling and sad all at the same time thinking of life with my grandparents, especially as I struggle. I know they'd support me, and validate me if they were here. They'd be loving and strong. But they are not here. I do have a half sister (same mother) who was abused by my father before me, so she should be my support system, right? Nope. She always had her memories, so has never stopped dealing with the horrors of what happened to her. My father also confessed to molesting her, but swears he never touched me, his favorite, his Princess. *Gag. So by my father's refusal to validate me, as he validates her, he is undermining my character. I can't tell you how many times I've heard, But why would he confess to her and not to you if he did it? That just doesn't make sense. (Yeah, because sexually molesting children makes total sense... right?) Both of my sisters, my husband, and someone I considered close enough to be a second mom, after mine died have all said this to me. I've also heard, Maybe your just imagining what your sister went through? My sister has never told me details of her molestation. I have never asked, and I never will. I don't want to know. My husband's favorite rationalization was, If this really happened they why did it take 28 years for you to remember? Then there is this one thrown on top of everything else, which I've heard from my sister, and my best friend, Just Get Over It!

Yeah, I'm feeling supported, validated, and loved. Thanks guys.

Just for the record, mourning for the death of loved ones, and PTSD is something you NEVER get over, it's something you learn to live with, and live through. It's a difficult thing to know the people you need the most question your character causing a permanent divide in the relationship. I mean, why would I lie? What benefits do I have about making up the molestation, the flashbacks, the insomnia, the panic attacks, the fear, the nightmares, and the repressed memories? Why did it take so long for me to remember? My guess it that my brain was protecting me, until I had something else worth protecting more, like my Beloved. That's why his birth popped off the cork of my brain. Why would my father confess to molesting my sister and not me? My best guess is that she is not of his DNA, she is from my mothers 1st marriage, where I am his DNA. I say this because I've talked to others who were molested where the step father rationalized because she wasn't really his DNA, so it was okay. (Oh look the child molester always makes sense, that's why I'm a big lier, right?)

Do you know how difficult it is when NO ONE BELIEVES? Any idea how alone that makes me feel? How worthless? These are the reasons I don't share my story with anyone, either they don't know what to do with me, and pop out with, Oh... Just Get Over It or they rationalize all the reasons why I'm lying. I am a lot of things, but a lier isn't one of them.

On top of all of that, Christmas Eve this year marks the 1 year anniversary of discovering my father-in-law was a child molester. This is the 1st set of holidays without him. Even though he is sitting in jail and not dead, this experience is like a death for his family. For his wife, who divorced him after 30 years of marriage, for his sons, and for the grandchildren who love him. I say love because they do still love him, even after this horrible thing he's done. They miss him. They mourn him. So.... here I am dealing with all of the above, with a husband who is exercising his perfecting of the Ostrich Maneuver of burning his head in the sand, leaving me to emotionally take care of myself, and the Beloveds on this first set of Holidays without his father.

Super. Awesome.

Happy Frick'en Holidays

Burnt

At the beginning of the week, I burnt my hand on the wood stove getting a rather large piece of wood in. The fire was SUPER hot, I was throwing in one last log before I left the house for a couple hours. I wanted to make sure I'd at least have some good coals when I got back. As I gave the wood an extra little shove with my left hand, I heard the most peculiar sound. It was the sound of meat sizzling, only I wasn't cooking any meat. I looked towards my hand and saw I was touching the stove with the back of my hand. My brain registered a quick pain, then it was gone. Where my hand was burnt, the skin had instantly broken open exposing under skin, and it was all black. I said a few colorful sailor words as I walked to the kitchen sink. I needed to clean it since I knew there was ashes in the burn. I shrugged grabbed the dish soap and cringed as I began rubbing in the wound, only to find out it didn't hurt. I decided to get the first aid kit and put burn cream on it before I left. Now the weird thing for me, is that this burn has never actually hurt. It feels cold, but there is zero pain.

The sound of sizzling flesh, brought up two other memories. In one memory I was 7 or 8 years old. My father had your typical child molester 1970's fan with exhaust pipes that ran the length of the van, under the doors. It was just the two of us, and we were headed to the auto part store. We arrived, I opened my door and slid out. I remember I couldn't move my left leg. It was stuck to something from behind. I remember the sound of sizzling meat, all other noises where silent. No passing cars, no birds, no people. I looked over my shoulder to see why I couldn't move and realized my leg had touched the exhaust pipe as I slid out. That's when the pain hit. I opened my mouth to scream, and no sound came out. The world was still silent, except for the sizzle and the pain. Like a crack of lighting all sound came crashing back instantly, including my voice. I was screaming. I remember seeing my father running for me, he grabbed my leg and pulled it off the exhaust pipe, because it wouldn't come free otherwise. Some of my flesh still sizzled on the pipe.

My next memory is of my father telling me to suck it up and stop crying because he wasn't leaving without the part he came for, so I lifted up my leg, which was in terrible pain and hopped into the store making whimpering sounds that kids make when they're trying their best not to cry. I stood next to a display, holding onto it with one hand. I don't remember anyone looking at me, or asking me what was wrong. I don't remember what part my father bought, I do remember it cost $14.67. On the drive home he allowed me to put my foot on the dash, wasn't I special? I never saw a doctor for the burn that covered the entire backside of my left leg.

With the exceptions of occasional cigarette burns (my father smoked 6 to 8 packs A DAY, so it was easy to bump into the lit end if you weren't paying attention) burning my leg was my first real nasty burn. This memory disgusts me. It's another one of those what the hell were they thinking moments in my childhood.

Last year, my youngest Beloved had to have his tonsils and adenoids taken out. They were so big he couldn't eat, you couldn't understand him when he talked, and he was starting to have difficulty breathing. I knew from talking with the doctor that a laser would be used. What shook me to my core, was when he was in recovery and I went to be with him, and he reeked of burnt flesh. I almost threw up on the spot. It is one thing to see, hear, or feel your own flesh burning, but to smell the burnt flesh of your child? As I write this, I can smell it, and it's making me nauseous. My son smelt like burnt flesh for 3 very long days.

Every time I see the burn on my hand, I wonder why it never hurts. It's scabbed over now, I'm waiting for it to fall off. I can't help but wonder if I'll have another little scar to mark me. I only wish I could get the sound of sizzling flesh out of my ears.

Your True Name

I love to read, and I read pretty much anything I can get my hands on. Recently the last of the Eragon books came out, it is called Inheritance. These books are children's books, ummm grade level about 6th or 7th I think. I they are big books which could double as a booster seat for anyone who needed one. It is set in the time of dragons, elves, dwarfs, humans, and a few other species. One concept that repeats itself in these books is ones True or Authentic Name.

Your true name isn't the name your parents gave you. Your true name is melded from your character, accomplishments, failures, and attitude. If you figure out another persons true name, then you have dominion over them, hence why authentic names are important in the story.

This concept of a true name makes me wonder what my true name would be. In the book, most characters can't be honest enough with themselves to discover their true name, as it holds the good and bad of a person. Am I honest enough to discover my true name? Who am I? If I know my true name, will it help me to really look at others, see them for who they are? Help me make better decisions regarding friends, families, and love?

I know I'm a survivor, I'm strong, and I'm a mother. Those are the good points. I'm also haunted which can sometime cause me to be reckless or become scared. These would be the bad points. I'm sure other people would add to my true name. It's a work in progress for me. What's interesting in the book is that if you change, your true name changes. So bad people can become good, and good people can turn bad.

I guess there is still some hope for me. What would your true name be?

Forgiveness

This morning I woke up with a church hymn stuck in my head. This is very unusual and has never happened before. I do believe in a higher power, but I'm not single minded focused on the higher power, but that is another post.

I had to take a muscle relaxer for a vicious nausea inducing stress headache I had yesterday, so I woke up late and groggy. Even though I was conscious, this hymn continued to play in my head, or at least the chorus played. Oddly now that I'm fully awake I can't remember the hymn at all. Not a single word.

This year I have desperately tried to forgive four people in my life who have lied, betrayed, sexually, or mentally abused me. First was my father. I finely found my strength to tell him I forgive him for the sexual abuse, mental abuse, the alcoholism, lying, and cheating. As I forgave him though, I also told him he was no longer welcome in my life. Fact is my father is one GIANT trigger. He triggers me in every way possible, so why continue contact? Because that's what good daughters do? Screw that. I'm done being a "good daughter." He adds nothing positive to my life, or by Beloveds life (who he's only met a handful of times.) Sometimes, I have to remind myself that I forgave him.

Another person I'm trying to forgive is my mother. Do you know how hard it is to forgive a dead person? She died right before my 19th birthday of cancer. I was her caregiver. That was before my memories came back. What I do know for sure, is that she knew what my father was doing sleeping with any female that would spread her legs for him, lying, and abusing us daughters, only she couldn't deal with it, so she ignored it. See this is something I don't understand at all. I love my Beloveds more than ANYONE. No exceptions. So I'm still working on forgiving my mother. I'm still pretty angry with her.

My ex-bestfriend JK is someone else I need to forgive. This is one I think I'll be able to let go shortly. What did JK do? Well he lied to me about his life, in every aspect. He lied about having a wife. He lied about having a girlfriend. He lied about his name, and his girl friend's name when he finally introduced her into his other lies. I think he even used my vast experience with death to manipulate me by confession the tragic death of the love of his life. Who's not dead I might add. He was in the military for most of his life, and told me he had PTSD. Another lie? He was the one I used to call when I had a trigger or a bad day. Was everything he said a lie? So you see, I already have trust issues, and then I come across a master lier who has wiggled his way into an important position in my life. Niiiiiiiice right?

Now as if the above wasn't enough to deal with, I get to aid in putting my father-in-law in jail for LIFE for molesting little girls. (Enter more trusts issues here.) Now my Beloveds are having to reconcile with the fact BOTH of their grandfathers are permanently out of their lives because they are both child molesters. Since they didn't have much contact with my father, no big loss. But my father-in-law spent a lot of time with my Beloveds. My oldest has been showing symptoms of abuse, but what the heck, we're all screwed up THERAPY FOR EVERYONE! By the way, can you imagine how much guilt I have, since I exposed my children to a child molester? Sure it was unknowing, but still. He might have hurt my children, a pain I'm waaay to familiar with, and I gave him opportunity.

Mucking through the above has made me take a hard look at the people around me. Why do I have certain people around? Who is my support system?

No One.

I realized I married my husband because I knew he'd never physically harm me, and never leave me. What's the problem? He's so emotionally retarded that he subscribes to the method of the ostrich when bad things happen. Because if you ignore something long enough, it will go away.... right? Sure for years I subscribed to the method of the ostrich, but look where it's gotten me? I'm a complete mess and none of my problems are gone. What's worse is that he is incapable of giving moral support. I'm basically here to be his maid, cook, and raise his children, everything else is not his problem. It's my problem. For years I ignored his attitude, because if I acknowledged it, then I'd have to do something about it. Obviously I've come to a place where I've said I can't deal with it anymore. We are separated and I don't see any reconciliation ahead. The hard part is, how do you forgive someone for being them? He hasn't changed, I've changed.

I have a lot of house cleaning to do so I can forgive those toxic people, and remove them from my life as best as possible. I'm working on it. What's the hard part? Being alone. I don't trust people (jeez I wonder why?) and since most people I know haven't been through half of what I have they just look at me wide eyed. I can't blame my friends for not knowing what to do or say with me, but I don't have anyone.

Walking through this healing journey of my life alone sucks! So maybe that's why the hymn was stuck in my head this morning when I woke up. Maybe it was the Higher Power (insert name of your Higher Power here) letting me know I'm not really alone? It is a comforting thought.

Study Shows Possibility Of Immune Problems in Women With PTSD

I absolutely hate it when someone tells me I can't do something, especially if there reason is because I'm a woman. I recognize that I can't carry a 180 pound man a 100 yards over my shoulder, but not all men can do that either. However, I ran across an article that suggest biological differences between Men and Women could explain how their body handles the affects of PTSD. I knew the body has its own memory, and in my case it's the bodies memory that brings up the repressed memories in my brain. But how can being a women with PTSD affect my immune system?

This article PTSD Invokes Sex Different Immunities was published back in April of 2011 and it basically discusses a small trial where immune systems of PTSD men and women where compared. The men showed no noticeable difference but the women showed a significant difference. I find this especially interesting because a couple years after my PTSD was diagnosed I was also diagnosed with Graves Disease which is a disease where my immune system attacks and tries to kill my thyroid. I've also developed several allergies I've never had before this past year. Since allergies are an immune response could they have been triggered by my PTSD too?

The number of men and women in the trial weren't enough to make this anything more than a suggestion, however I personally think this theory has some weight to it. So this leads me to wonder, if I get my PTSD under control, will my Graves Disease go into remission? I think it's possible, because when I was doing well, the disease was almost in remission. Then 2011 happened, The Year Of The Devil and my Graves as spiraled out of control. I guess only time will tell.

Is My Head Screwed On?

Ok, so I have prided myself on having an AWESOME memory, but lately it's not so awesome. I have lost my favorite coffee mug, a Van Gogh novel, with my favorite froggy bookmark, and.... holy cow I can't even remember the list of things I've lost in the last couple of months! What the heck?

This whole memory loss thing adds to me feeling crazy. For example, I took off my glasses tonight to change from work clothes to comfy clothes. I remember putting my glasses on my bed. I remember changing my clothes. I remember putting my glasses on my face. I remember going in the living room to warm up by the fire. After my Beloveds went to bed I turned on the TV, at some point I realize it was blurry I wasn't wearing my glasses. Ummm I didn't remember taking them off. When did that happen? And why did I take them off in the first place? I searched the house three times feeling like an idiot before I found them in the bathroom. I don't remember going into the bathroom, but I do remember having to pee.

So is my brain so muddled with the bingo balls bouncing around in there that I don't have conscious thought about what I'm doing, and where I'm doing it? I just hope my head is screwed on or I'm going to be in a world of hurt.

A Yoga Community helps PTSD

Okay, after last nights rant I found a site called War Retreat. It's a community which uses Yoga in it's goal to help people, especially active duty and Veterans get though PTSD. Yoga is something I have done on and off for years. Recently I wish I could do it more, but I don't always have a safe place to do it in. For example the moment I try to lock myself away for some "me" time, I either have one of my Beloved's interrupting me because they are hungry, arguing, or asking permission to watch a movie. If I try to squeeze in yoga during my busy day, I usually end up with the puppy licking my feet or sitting on me. When I throw him outside I have to try and block out his whining and howling. All of these distractions make it difficult, but I'm still trying.

Anyway, I saw this in the article Earn CE Credit At A Trauma Seminar with Bessel van der Kolk, MD. and I thought I would share. I like what it has to say.

"Overcoming trauma means learning to fully engage in the present without being hijacked by survival-related emotions and sensations. Success means allowing yourself to know what you know and feel what you feel without reentering the misery of the past. Recovery depends on having physical experiences that contradict the sensations and feelings of helplessness and disconnection. Physical mastery of a body-based practice like yoga can open new pathways to current reality."

I wished I lived somewhere relatively close to where War Retreat is based. I'd like to know more about them. I wish I could go to seminars like this one, because right now my head is full of so many thoughts it feels like one of those cadges the bingo balls roll around in until a number is chosen. Only mine isn't stopping to let me hold on to a single thought. They just keep swirling around in my brain. Having my thoughts tumbling around isn't helping my personality. Everything and everyone is annoying me. I can hear my husband eat chips and drink from the next room.... and I want to claw his eyes out for it. The kids screeching and running around like banshies, it makes me want to scream in frustration.... but I'm the grown up, and I have to act like it. Being the grown up sucks sometimes, but someone has to do it, right?

PTSD Terms That Irritate Me

Okay, after todays triggered flashback of a repressed memory I know I'm edgy. My senses are in super over drive. I swear I can hear a fish fart in the pond a couple hundred yards away. I still feel empty and am probably going to have to take meds just to sleep, so I probably shouldn't have been cruising the internet trying to find myself some kind of release.

My PTSD stems from my childhood. I often sum up my childhood as a bad Jerry Springer episode.... any episode. The weird part is that I thought I had a "normal" family for years. For example, I thought it was "normal" for my father to have a beer and a six pack on him at ALL TIMES. I thought it was "normal" to be my fathers designated driver at 9 years old. I mean it was just more convenient, that way he and his buddies could get drink and hunt. They could shoot birds out the truck window and not have to worry about drunk driving and illegally firing a weapon form a moving vehicle. Duh.

The sexual abuse... well that's how all fathers show there love, right? I mean what's more natural than to be spooned by your father at age 7 and watch porn! In reality I don't have many memories of my childhood. I blocked out all the "normal" until my first Beloved was born. That's when the repressed memories showed up. That's when the night terrors started, the flash backs, the anxiety attacks, and all the rest. I like to say that's when the crazy started, but I guess it really started years before that. (I'd like to note that my father admits to molesting my half sister, but not me. Makes total sense... right?)

So here I am 8 years later and only slightly better, meaning the night terrors are random instead of a nightly marathon for months. The hard part about this, is that I feel completely alone. Sure there is plenty of PTSD articles and help out there, but they all surround Veterans. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad the community and government is finally taking notice and helping our Veterans. We owe each one a huge debt for fighting for our freedoms. However, because of all of the Veteran centered help, I feel like a misfit. I don't have anyone to talk to, anyone who understands. I have a lot of Veteran friends and interaction with Veterans though an organization I volunteer for, and I feel ridiculous admitting I have PTSD. What? Like I'm on the same level as them? They survived to FRICK'EN WAR!

Anyway, I digress.... so I was cruising the internet using search terms like "PTSD" and "Sexual Trauma PTSD" and I came across a few things that really chapped my hide. Lets begin with the word "VICTIM." This word makes my skin crawl. I am NOT a victim. I am a SURVIVOR. The word victim to me means helpless. I was a helpless child, but I'm a grown woman now and I'm far from helpless. I don't allow ANYONE to call me a victim, and I think the word gives off the wrong impression when used in relation to PTSD.

Think about it.

Then I stumbled upon this little gem from Uplift Program it's about half way done the article.

Trauma, Personality and the Brain

Childhood abuse or trauma has a pronounced effect in brain development. It can lead to subtle structural abnormalities in the frontal lobe, which is closely related to the limbic system — the seat of our emotions. These abnormalities may result in deep-seated personality deficits (for example, an inability to be empathetic, or pathological narcissism) that are not readily diagnosable as psychiatric disorders. This may explain why early exposure to traumatic stress or disruptive changes in environment may result in more fundamental behavioral changes that are more often diagnosed as personality disorders.

So If I'm reading the above correctly, childhood trauma has a physical effect on the child's brain, especially in the part of the brain that process emotions. These brain abnormalities may result in personality deficiencies. Now according to my dictionary, a Deficiency is defined as a failing or shortcoming. Sooooo what this article is really saying is brain abnormalities have caused personality shortcomings and failures? Please show me one person in this universe that doesn't have a personality deficit. We are all human (as far as I know) and therefore none of us are perfect, hence we have personality shortcomings and failures!

Alright, I'm done.

PTSD Memories

A memory came back today while eating lunch with my youngest Beloved. It's the kind of memory that is so revolting I wanted to unzip my skin, step out of it, and watch it be destroyed. My heart rate picked up. My breathing became rapid. I felt myself start to disassociate, pulling into my little bubble.

What I really wanted to do was take the dog for a run until every muscle was so exhausted I couldn't feel anything but the burning of my lungs. However, I couldn't do that, I'm SUPER MOM (said in loud booming voice.) I had told my youngest Beloved I would take him to see Arthur Christmas and I always do what I say. As I was driving into town on the narrow two lane road my body was on auto pilot. I felt like I wanted to wash my body with bleach inside and out. I knew I was a train wreak, trying to keep the repressed memory, well repressed, but repressed memories are like new born babies, they come out when they want to, and once out they never go back in.... changing you in new ways.

As I was driving a mini van driver (the bane of my existence) pulled out in front of me. What's the problem? I had my cruise control set at the speed limit of 65, the mini van driver cut me off with a top speed of 35 miles per hour. Instead of slamming on my breaks I sped up planning on passing the driver. You might think this was the right thing to do, however it wasn't because there was on coming traffic. (Remember narrow two lane road.) Because I was already in a bad place I remember thinking screw it, I'll go three wide.

From the moment I said screw it, I couldn't hear anything. Not the radio. Not the car. It was pure silence. I saw the cars coming, the mini van sped up irritated with me thinking I would back down. As the on coming car was about to pass me I remember thinking shouldn't I be scared? Seconds after I passed the on coming car doing about 80 mph I heard my youngest Beloved in the back seat say, "Whoa."

See I forgot he was in the car in my disassociated bubble. The sound of his voice made me flinch which took me towards the side of the mini van. I remember there was a second I closed my eyes and simply thought GOD. I couldn't get more of a payer out of my brain. Only that the one word. I felt a jolt sure I'd hit the mini van; only I hadn't. I passed him and pulled back into my line slowing down.

All the sounds came crashing in on me in an instant. The radio, the engine, the tires on the road, the wind, my youngest Beloved's breathing. Then it hit me. I almost killed my beloved. I almost killed two other innocent families because of my anger, outrage, and shame. Tears streaked down my face as I silently sobbed the rest of the way into town.

How could I do that? How could I risk so much? What kind of person am I?

The books, the therapist, the meds they don't seem to be helping. I have a diary but I'm afraid someone I love and care about, like one of my Beloveds will stumble upon it and read it. I don't want them to know how crazy I really am, especially since I'm the sanest person in there lives. Shudder. So I've decided to conduct this blog as my personal experiment. If I can freely say what I'm thinking and feeling without worrying about what friends and family will think, will it help? Will writing let out the horrible and unthinkable that I can't bring myself to verbalize?

I want to get better. I don't want to survive life, I want to live it. So I'm going to give this a shot and see what happens.