PTSD
I had a rough go last night with the words I wrote two days ago—I was triggered. Those words in my last post came flying out of nowhere, and it doesn’t end there. I need to let go of the rest.
Last night, while reading my "Clarity" post and acknowledging the words that came out of me from the depths of my soul about my mother—I cried my face off for over an hour. I couldn’t stop. It was a hard cry—it’s been a long time since I cried like that!
Unfortunately, Trent came home from work and caught the last 15 minutes or so of it. He came in and slightly closed my door to block the light as he got settled—he thought I was asleep. I tried to huff it down, but he heard me. I had to go to the bathroom to see what condition my eyelashes were in—they were drenched, and I could feel my eyes swelling. I tried to keep it in, but I couldn’t!
Trent asked me why I was crying, and I belted it out in a big, half-breath cry—”It’s my mom! Trent—you should really read my blog! The way I grew up was fucked up! What kind of mother doesn’t reach out to her daughter before open-heart surgery or even check in afterward?!” I was crying hard, and he listened.
I’ve never done that before—talked about how things really were with my mother to her grandchildren. It wasn’t for their ears to hear growing up, neither was my trauma. They love their Nana. Outside of me having to protect my mixed kids from her racist remarks a time or two, I allowed her access. My mother didn’t exercise that or take advantage of that at all. Not as I felt a grandmother should have anyway.
My mother said to me when I was pregnant with Kayla—”Don’t think you’ll be dropping it off here either!” And she wasn’t joking. I am speaking now, as a grandmother myself, and I can’t understand that! It wasn’t because of my kids—I truly felt she loved them in her own way. Looking back now, it was because of me, it’s more like she never wanted to help me or give me a break—she wanted to see me struggle. I mean, what else could it be?
I could actually feel Trent feeling for me, and he’s not that guy. He doesn’t intervene or even ask what’s wrong when I drop a tear here and there. This cry was different, and he felt it. He didn’t hug me, and he had no words for me. I belted out a few more words and got myself together.
He left his door open. I leaned in on his door frame and asked him, “How was work?” He replied softly and told me a story about his buddy from work assisting the police on the Rez. It was a good distraction.
I could feel his compassion for me coming through his voice. Trent doesn’t know how else to show it or how to console me. I can only hope that what I’m doing here—my healing, will rub off on him.
Trent is not a huggy guy. He’s always tough and doesn’t show emotion. I wonder why he’s like that? Hmmmm, I’m gonna take a shot in the dark here—maybe it’s got something to do with the way he was raised?! I wasn’t a huggy, kissy, affectionate mother, and I wonder why? Hmmmm—another shot in the dark here—maybe because that’s the way I was raised! When I see Trent’s tough exterior—it hurts like fucking hell because I know I did that!!!
Oof! I’m struggling with this post—hard to type with my eyes splashing on my glasses.
I took four Gabapentin and fell asleep, but not before dumping it all on my uncle Kev in a text. Kevin said, “I’m here for you, whatever you need, just let me know.” Well, I needed somebody—something—last night, and I called on him. He was sleeping, but I still got it out because if I didn’t, that cry was gonna be an all-nighter.
I realized last night that I can’t control those feelings from coming out anymore, but I do know how to release them and heal. I can no longer pretend that the way it was for me wasn’t, because I can fucking see everything now—with clear eyes—directly into my soul, all the damage.
I have zero intentions of hurting anybody with this blog—that is not what this is about. It’s me getting my trauma out, my pain so I can have peace. Every word spoken in this blog is my story, from my point of view, and true as fuck!
Don’t ever question the authenticity of my stories because they are either verbatim or written exactly how shit went down! And here it goes…
I was a child. I was raped by three guys—it was a horrifying experience, and I had no mother to go to. Oh ya, I’m sure I could have gone to her, and she would have begrudgingly taken me in, but instead, I chose suicide! How fucked up is that?! I don’t understand how a mother could make her child feel that way. I would rather have killed myself than to go back to her.
Thinking about it these past two days is telling me that she—my mother—and her way toward me are a huge component of my PTSD! I don’t understand even more how she doesn’t get it, realize it, or acknowledge any of it! She’s never going to apologize or take accountability—never! I once tried to tell her how I felt in my 40s, and she called me a selfish, narcissistic bitch and hung up on me.
I have so much PTSD composed of trauma, abandonment, and betrayal—more than 10 to 15 fucking normal people would have in a lifetime—it’s all unraveling, and my kids have felt the repercussions of it 100%. When you have PTSD, for one, your memory gets fucked! When you suppress as much shit as I have suppressed, using alcohol as your vice, your memory doesn’t work like normal people anymore—look it up! And that’s how I was throughout my life—memory getting fucked, just as I was—schlepping along.
People tell me things from the past, and I try so hard to remember, and I never understood why I couldn’t. It’s not like they’re bad things they’re asking me to remember—I just can’t fucking remember. People look at me like I’m stupid or fucking dense because I can’t remember! I’m not fucking stupid, but I most definitely have PTSD! Getting raped by three guys—events like that alter a person forever. I thought that was the first event that started my PTSD, but oh noooo, it was not! It’s all unfolding—a lot of shit happened to me wayyyy before I was 15! I started suppressing shit about my cool uncle and other events with my lovely sociopathic brother, whom I had the pleasure of growing up with before I was fucking 5 or 6!
I skimmed through life like nothing ever happened to me, and when shit did happen, I carried on pretending nothing happened—even while, at the very same fucking time, some other shit was happening to me!
I was numb—until I wasn’t.
I’m not numb anymore. I can feel everything—all of it—and it fucking hurts! That’s what my healing is about—this isn’t just for me—it’s for my ancestors, for my bloodline! NO MORE!
Nobody deserves this. Nobody deserves to be treated the way I was—growing up feeling unwanted, left and right, by both my mom and my dad. What kind of mother doesn’t call her daughter before she goes in for open-heart surgery? As a mother myself, I can’t even fucking wrap my head around that!
I was in a rift with my cousin Sam—one I thought would never be rectified—and even she showed up for me, acknowledging the scope of the situation. Sam is one of the very few people in my bloodline who knows and respects the true value of family, and for that, I will always hold her in high regard.
My mother and father BOTH need to read my words and fucking LEARN from them!
That woman is one cold ass-bitch—I have to say it! I don’t even know how I’ve gotten away without crying this long! Well, I certainly made up for it last night.
That shit cut! Cut off me—from ever wanting to see her or talk to her ever again. It sealed the deal! And she knew that. That’s why she chimed in on my daughter’s very public FB page, to come for me, to hurt me some more! Holy fuck!! When will it stop?! And my daughter high-fivin’ it with a heart! The betrayal never ends.
I’ve tried so hard to figure out what I’ve done to deserve this. The only answer I can come up with is jealousy! I didn’t do anything to deserve this other than being born.
My uncle Kevin tried to tell me a month ago that he was in my apartment by Woodbine Station when I was 15 and everything seemed all good with me and I can’t remember. I tried for a whole month to remember seeing him when I was 15 and I can’t. But I can remember an ambulance though, and black charcoal in my mouth, while getting my stomach pumped aggressively in the hospital—all fucked up! That experience alone was fucking traumatic!
There’s so many things, I can't remember, because when you block out your trauma, you’re blocking out a lot more than just that!
The next time you ask a friend or anyone for that matter, “Hey, do you remember when…” and they can’t remember—don’t look at them like they’re fucking stupid or lying. Take into consideration that there could be something else going on there other than stupidity.
When you look at someone, you’re looking at their casing, the outside. You have no fucking clue what the case is filled with! You don’t know what went down in that person’s life.
Shit, that person—like me in my 20s, 30s, and 40s—might not even know or have acknowledged yet what went down in their own life! Not even aware that they have PTSD! That shit is real!
I am physically and emotionally exhausted after writing this one. For the first time in a long time, I am tired—with my swollen eyes, I think I’m actually capable of taking a nap.
