The Origin Story
I sat at work today crying for 15 minutes because I could not remember a word.I had 15 suicidal thoughts before 9 AM. I carry a *cute* Disney backpack to contain my medications and other items I use in case of an episode.
Welcome to the life of a PTSDiva.
So, here’s the backstory.
Girl meets boy. Girl falls in love.... They go on to have a surprise birth of a daughter, get married, and buy a house.Perfect, right?
It starts out slow. Gradual things. A call here and a text there. Picking constantly about appearance, voice volume, laugh.
Complaints start because his friends don’t like you. You have to stay home with the kiddo so he can have fun. Why do you both need to be home to watch a toddler? Can’t your mom help?
Why do you complain so much? Are you trying to isolate *me*? It’s not my fault my friends don’t like you.
It creeps in like a shadow at first. Noticing you get anxious in really obvious places like the gas station at night.
The isolation starts. Not for him. He goes out and has all this fun and all of these friends. Works a low paying job with younger people. People (especially girls) that are always texting and calling. Waking up the kid.
Arguments start. They’re loud, explosive affairs, that end up with you apologizing, as if it was your fault you woke up the crying baby? Like you didn’t have the right to get angry?
The shadows come closer. Anxiety becomes a low level beat against your skin. It’s constant, like breathing. You believe that now you’re more on guard. You can watch yourself. You can fix everything and make things better!
You start to question your behavior. Seriously question.
“What can I do to be better? How can I make life easier? How can I be perfect for my mate?”
The chores start to pile on you. And you don’t notice. It’s just a few things, here and there.
He starts to yell. All the time. About everything. The kid and the cats are terrified of him. You all cringe when he gets angry.
There’s no such thing as accident forgiveness. A glass breaks. Dinner gets burned. A red sock with the whites.
God forbid you spill a drink in his car. Just hide. Run. Pray.
Afterwards, it always seems like you...deserved it.
There are the shadows, They seem to get a stronger grip on you. Outside your house doesn’t seem...safe. You know how *perfect* you have to be while you’re out. The kid better be on best behavior. You better not cling.
Be cute. Be clever. Be pretty.
You notice the looks. The eyes that bounce away when you bend over to grab the kiddo for a hug. He stands there too long with her. Touches that one too much. People talk. People stare.
You come home and cry. The calls get worse. The phone is a constant companion now.
You spend minutes, hours, days trying to figure out what has gone wrong. Why does everyone outside of your house love him? Why do they hate you?
You ask questions of him.It’s ugly. He twists words and statements and inflections until you’re begging for forgiveness. Which he withholds.
Why were you asking for forgiveness? Did he apologize?
The shadows are everywhere but home now. Home is a sanctuary, because you believe you can control it. All you have to do is please the monster that lives in your beloved. That’s it.
Then...when he gets angry he holds your wrist too hard. Pushes you against the seat in the car when you get in the way. “Bumps” you into the wall.
The anger blossoms over the kid too. Hauling her away from too many spanks.
Years. This has gone on for years. The kid is 8 now. She lives in fear of him. Of not being perfect. She’s torn too, because she likes to cook and sing with him.
Money starts to go missing. Lots of it. The fighting is so bad now...the best thing for you to do is save the kid. Send her to Mom’s place for a week. She’s safe there and YOU will sort out all of this and make it better.
You have to do something to make it better. You have to figure out how to make him happy.
The days turn to weeks and months. The kid hates walking into the house. Refuses to come home.
One night...the shadows get you. At home. In your safe place.
You want attention. Love. You’re sad and want to be held. Isolated and lonely...No one has really touched you in weeks.
You beg. He’s on skype with his latest “friend”.
You snap. He ends the call. Lashes out. Never *quite* hurts you on purpose. Never *really* abuses you, sexually.
That was the last night. I chose to end it.
Pills. I had a handful of pills but didn’t want to die without giving love to the three people who would really miss me.
One saved my life. Really, they all did.
I’ll revisit my story as things come up. I really just wanted to cronicle the things I am learning and doing during recovery.
I’ve been in recovery from PTSD, Anxiety, and Depression for almost two years now. These things have exacerbated my OCD and ADD. I tongue and cheek joke that my diagnoses read like alphabet soup,
I call it my grab bag of crazy.
This is my new life as the #PTSDiva.
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October is Domestic Violence Awareness Month
When a pregnant woman experiences abuse, so does the baby inside her. During the 1st trimester, physical and emotional abuse can cause miscarriage. During the 2nd and 3rd trimesters baby hears the yelling, the sirens, the crying, the chaos on the outside. This can lead to PTSD after birth. The woman’s high stress levels release cortisol, which can cause harm to brain development in utero.
There are many negative effects domestic violence can have on a developing baby. These are just a small few. If caught early enough the effects don’t have to be permanent.
Victims of domestic violence need to be supported. They need to feel safe. They need their voices heard.
For both woman and baby, it could make the difference between life and death. Please hit SHARE to broaden the awareness.
Need Help? The National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-7233 | 1-800-787-3224 (TTY)
#OctoberIsDomesticViolenceAwarenessMonth #DVAM #DVAM2017 #TakeAStand #BreakTheSilence #PurpleRibbon #YouAreNotAlone #NoLongerAVictim
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