Trauma and my Fractured Soul

Many traumatic events have occurred in my 36 years of life. My childhood was especially hard. I once thought because I had survived to adulthood I could survive anything. I thought nothing life could hand me was harder than what I experienced as a child. I guess I was wrong. Either my childhood prepared me for what would happen as a woman or it fostered the perfect storm for the PTSD I developed with Mikes death.

I think of our souls as tempered glass. It's tough and made to withstand a great deal but is, at its core still glass. And it's particularly telling that I think of glass because I am terrified of glass. I guess it's symbolic in more ways than I even realize.

Like I said my childhood was troubled. I don't say this to disrespect my parents in anyway. They did the best they could. But regardless, it's necessary to explain my youth to accept my growth and healing. It is part of who I am.  My parents battled addiction. With substance abuse comes a certain chaos. As an adult I understand now that addiction is a selfish bitch. It grabs you and refuses to let go. I spent years resentful at my parents for picking drugs and alcohol over us. I realize now as a mother myself, they were so wrapped up in the arms of addiction that they could not see the harm or danger my siblings and I were exposed. I forgived. However, the events of my childhood left an indelible scar. No matter who's at fault, what's to blame...it's permanent. I blame no one only acknowledge it's presence...that scar that does not fade.

When I was just five and my little sister nearly 3 she climbed on to my mom's dresser and ingested some pills that sat in cigarette cellophane. It looked like candy to her. My aunt was the one who walked in right after. From my recollection it was some form of prescription "speed". We had no phone so my aunt tore off on foot to the nearest business to borrow the phone. I waited by my sisters side. Waited for the ambulance. She hadn't called the ambulance. She called poison control. She feared getting into trouble with the law for being in possession of medication not prescribed to her.  The hotline told her this type of drug would have the opposite effect on my sister. It would cause her to sleep for an undetermined amount of time. It did. I stayed by her side for three days while she slept, constantly making sure she was still breathing. That was the first time in my memory that I recall addiction coming before us in the eyes of my parents. She could have died.

The first pronounced crevices to my small soul began to form.

With drug use come not only chaos but other addicts and the dealer. I don't know the specifics of why this dealer had it out for my family. Only that his name was Bullwinkle. One evening we returned home from a BBQ. My siblings and I went running down the basement stairs to check on the puppies our dog had just given girth to. I got half way down the steps and our dog ZZ was in the way. She wouldn't move. She was a full chow and was notorious for being territorial. At first I didn't think much of it. She was a bitch and her new babies were just steps away. Seconds later my brother flipped on the light at the top of the stairs and I say ZZ was covered in blood. I ran up stumbling on every step to get my parents. They ran past us. We stayed upstairs waiting for them to tell us she was ok. While waiting I noticed a broken vase by the door. A note sat by it. "Your kids are next" This monster had shot our dog and threatened my own life. If never felt safe after that. Even after my mom told me he was in jail for a long time. I always imagined him breaking out and coming to make good on his threat. It was the summer after I finished kindergarten.

My soul received a hairline crack that night...

As a child I witnessed my parents fight. Not argue. Physically brawl. I huddled my siblings in a room away from them and waited for it to quiet before going out to check on them. In one particular fight my mom went after my dad with a butcher knife. I was still just 6 years old. We did not have a home phone so I ran to the closest house banged on the door and begged the neighbor to please call 911. The woman said no and she wouldn't get involved slamming the door in my face. I didn't know what to do. I had no options. No one was there to save us. I grabbed my siblings and we hid. Bawling because I felt helpless, terrified one of them would die that night.

Another blow to my soul...

Later that year in an argument between my parents my dad was driving off in the car. My mom grabbed on to the drivers door and he sped off. She did not let go and he didn't notice her grasp. Her ran over my mom. The back tire ran over her leg when she hit the ground. When I finally caught up to where they were she laid there with a huge hole in her leg. My most vivid memory was the white towel stained red with the blood gushing from her wound. It was terrifying. She still has that scar to this day. It required skin grafts from other parts of her body. The accident had literally grinded her skin away. Later she would joke part of her but was on her leg. That's where they harvested the skin. Although she was able to joke about it, I could never unsee the events that day. The damage was done.

An added fissure to my already marred spirit.

I was sexually abused by two male adult family members. One 20 year old cousin and one uncle. Not just family member but family members who lived in our home at the time. The first time it was by my uncle. I told my parents but he still remained in my life. It was my dad's brother afterall. He died a few years ago but I was still required to attend family functions where he lurked until his death. I admit I was relieved when word of his death came. Not sad. I felt bad for my grandma and dad but not a sliver of sadness for him. 

That was more of a gaping crevice laid to my soul. One that constantly cracked and caused a spiderweb of tiny fractures across the surface.

The second time was about a year later. We were living with a family friend. My mom was in rehab. My dad was in jail. There was no one to tell. And I learned telling didn't do much anyway. I actually saw the cousin at a family members funeral as an adult. I left. I would not subject myself to that. I would not pretend it didn't happen. I was in charge as also pregnant at the time. I wanted my unborn child as far from that as possible.

It was 20+ years before I could begin to trust men. I even felt uncomfortable alone with my own daddy. I was in my 30s before I could sit on my father's lap. What had happened changed me. It reshaped who I was. At 36 I still find myself uneasy alone in the presence of men. I hated myself for not even being able to trust my father. All he ever did was love me. Yet I was scared that he too, given the opportunity may hurt me. My uncle and my cousin stole something from me I could never replace. Even a hug from my dad felt repulsive.

What they did stole a piece of my inner light.

When I was 8 I had just come from the shower, still dripping wet wrapped in a towel. Standing at my dresser I struggled to pull open a drawer to retrieve my pajamas. As the dresser rocked the unframed mirror sitting on top began to fall straight to the ground. I didn't even notice it as I was wrangling with the drawer.
It all happened so fast and it was painless I didn't realize it had just severed my thumb. The blood began to not just flow but spray like a fountain from my finger. It hung by just a stitch of skin on the palm of hand. I ran to the bathroom in shock to run water over it. I looked down woozy about to faint when I saw so much blood on the floor. I couldn't figure out why so much blood...until I saw my big toe. It was also laid open. I added my foot to the sink. I was standing there naked covered in blood with my hand and foot in a sink. I don't remember if it was my voice I heard screaming or my sister who witnessed the whole thing. My dad was the first to rush in. He came charging actually and pushed me to the ground. I went flying. He thought because I was just in the shower and the look on my face that I was being electrocuted. He pushed me down to break the circuit. He noticed fairly quickly though that was not the case. By then my mom was also by my side. I was in complete shock. They knew immediately I needed to go to the ER. In my shock I fought them. I told them I was naked and couldn't leave the house. My father grabbed the towel and swooped me up like a rag doll, racing for the door. Both my finger and toe were reattached but I am still terrified of broken glass. Just the sight takes me back to the moment I nearly lost two digits as a child.

By the time I was 17 and out in the world on my own my soul had already become beaten. It was fragile and I handled it with care. I knew as an adult I would be the protector of it and I could control what did or did not happen. I was committed to not allowing my tragic childhood to determine who I became as a woman.

My upbringing explains quite well why I loved a Marine and moved away at the chance. The military protects. The military has discipline. There was a predictibility and security in the lifestyle. I felt like I had a chance away and safely guarded on a military base. I enjoyed that. I began to heal. I had children and knew they would never experience what I knew to be true and possible. That would be only something that happens in movies. Their life would be calm. They would have a chance in life. A stable home with a mom and dad who loved them and eachother.

The cracks in my soul did not close. Glass does not heal itself. It has no ability to do so. I took care of it. I accepted what had happened and that it was weakened by my past but it was still there. I had hope for the future. I liked who I was as a wife and mom. I felt liberated and free. I knew I had broken the cycle of abuse.

...and then Mike started developing symptoms of PTSD.

My childhood might explain why it was so natural to stay with him. Even when he got so bad. I knew chaos.  I loved him so much. Also staying with him was less scary than returning back to where I came from, the threat of my own kids witnessing the things I had as child. Or worse should they fall right into the cycle themselves. That was something I could not have. My kids deserved so much more. 

I was even petrified when he retired and we moved back home. I had just hoped I was a good enough example by that time to withstand. I hoped if they saw the behavior they would find it odd and inappropriate.  I was so worried about coming back I didn't even see the bad situation they were already in with their father growing sicker in denial.

Then the night that gunshot rang out my fragile soul burst into a million tiny shards. Scattering in every direction. I finally broke. I let go and allowed it to take me. I fell to pieces.

Nothing I endured before that compared to the fear, the shock and the complete devistation of Mikes suicide.

I felt the absence of my soul. The emptiness. There was nothing. I just knew I'd lost it and I would never recover. How tragic to have lived through all I had so young and to be emotionally mugged of anything left at just 34.

I was admitted into a phych. facility a month after Mike died. I was convinced I would be held for a very long time. How can you live a normal life without your soul?

I wasn't in that hospital for 6 hours before the doctor told me I wasn't mentally ill...I had PTSD and grief. It came as a shock. Mike had ptsd. Was what I felt anything like he felt before he died? Did he feel like his soul was stolen?

That diagnosis felt like the doctor and God had handed me a box of broken glass that was once my tattered soul and a giant tube of Krazy Glue.

My soul was shattered in a box but it was not gone. I have since began to rebuild. Having to face my fear of broken glass among many other things. It is a slow process but I know it's there. I know now more than ever it will be solid again but never as it originally was. I am okay with that. I will take care of my self and my soul.

With God and the support of my friends and doctor all things are possible. I plan to live that beautiful life I promised Mike I would. Two years ago the universe went black. There was no beauty. There was nothing.  Now, I find the beauty in everything. I celebrate every day. It feels so good to know I still have a chance. I will take it and appreciate it.

My soul is different now but it's still here.