The Weight of PTSD

My Fellow PTSD Sufferers:

This is not an advice piece. Let me say that first. Nor is it a "how to" for overcoming PTSD. This is me talking to those of you who get it, this life, this pain... it's for those who understand PTSD. Because you live it every day, just like me.

I will share with you some aspects of my life that I'm learning to overcome. I'll get straight to it: My entire family had/has issues, granted they were all different types of issues, but they all had their own particular thing. By "thing" I mean mental health issue and/or abusive tendency or tactic.

My Father

My father ran off constantly from the time I was ten years old. He would stay with his brother (also an alcoholic) and stay drunk for weeks on end. Obviously, he missed birthdays, anniversaries, and he never called. We never knew when he'd come or go. He never truly gave warning, nor did he seem apologetic when he returned. He would walk out, no reason most of the time, then a month or two later he'd come home. And the cycle would repeat.

That was my normal.

My father was an alcoholic. He grew up in a single-parent home, after a certain age, prior to that his father was abusive to all seven children and my grandmother. As you may have guessed his father was an alcoholic as well. My grandfather ended up homeless, living in bushes, and drinking wood alcohol to keep withdrawal at Bay (despite wood alcohol being extremely toxic).

So in some ways my father's upbringing somewhat shaped his parenting. Sure, he was responsible for his choices... But were his depression, panic disorder, and alcoholism inherited? I can't answer whether his childhood was the basis of his poor parenting; all I do know is he was detrimental to mine and my siblings' development.

He liked to get extremely wasted every day. When he drank hard liquor it was worse. He would beat us, for various reasons, undeserved, repeatedly until he left for work. He was mean. As we got older (my siblings and I) he gave up on the "hard stuff" and stuck to beer.

It limited the aggressive outbursts. However, it didn't end them. He'd pull guns on us, threaten to burn down our home, etc. I recall clearly being huddled in a corner of my mom's room, with my twin, at four in the morning. My father was outside the barricaded door with a gun or two in hand threatening to take us all out.

Again, this was my normal.

My Brother

I've covered my sexual assaults as a kid in my previous story (see "My Long Journey to Healing"). But I will sum it up. My oldest sibling was a sociopath, and, he not only physically tortured us, he sexually assaulted us and tortured animals. Us being my twin sister and me. We were suffocated to the brink of unconsciousness, locked in pitch black two feet deep linen closets, and urinated on. He enjoyed our pain, even laughing while he beat my sister's foot until her toenail lifted.

That was, unfortunately, my normal.

My Mother

My mother was complicated. She had an amazing heart most of the time. She often tried to make up for our dad's absence, never forgot a birthday, and worked very hard. That is one side of her I want to acknowledge. I do believe she loves us, but her methods are flawed. See, she made manipulation part of our daily routine. She would argue with my father while he was wasted, frustrated of course with his drinking and instability.

My mother always involved us kids in their adult business. Informing us of his affairs, his losses, and she used our responses to further drive wedges between the household. She would ask us if we wanted "daddy to leave?" assuring us the answer would stay between us. At ten years old, with such discourse, you so desperately wish to please the parent asking (whoever it is).

We would say, "Yes Mama we want it to be just us." She would tell him everything: "Your kids said they don't even want you here." My father being the "stable adult" he is would proceed to treat us like lepers.

She was fond of threats. Her favorite was, "If your father hasn't stopped drinking by (insert date), I'll drive myself and all you kids off a cliff." We heard it so often it became a joke, our way of coping with fear and heartbreak. How could we dictate what our father chose to do? It was a failure from the word "go"; we knew this much. So the first several times we would sob uncontrollably, begging her not to kill us.

The murder-suicide threats were my normal.

The Neglect

It's complex, to say the least. My PTSD stems from sexual trauma, physical trauma, psychological trauma, and neglect.

No sugar coating is acceptable; we had parents who failed us. They neglected our emotional, physical, and medical needs. Some were due to work conflicts, but often it was due to our health and safety being of lower priority.

For instance, I had severe abscesses as a kid due to tooth issues (several years of it). We were rarely given toothpaste, never had floss, and we never saw dentists.

One example I remember vividly is the day one of my teeth cracked. For days I was in pain and after a week an abscess formed. It got worse and I showed my parents repeatedly. My mom would bring me Orajel and Advil. Neither did much for pain.

So I decided to call my mom to demand a dentist appointment... I called my mom with my jaw swollen to the size of a golf ball, begging to see a dentist. Her response?

"Ava, go look at my insurance paperwork it's somewhere next to my chair, find providers list, call each of them and ask if they still accept my insurance. Then set up an appointment"

I was ten years old. Ten... I was not supposed to be searching insurance papers, finding providers, or scheduling my own dental appointment. I never saw a dentist. My first trip to a dentist was at twenty years old. I took my self. I was left to fend for myself often when dental issues came up.

I assumed this was normal.

Confronted... Kinda

They failed to stop our abuse. They saw the gashes on my face and my head, our bruises, we told them of pillows held over our faces, how he'd drag us by our hair, dissecting a frog while alive forcing us to watch, ironing a lizard while alive, etc.

But nothing changed, we cried from bus stop to front door. He was our babysitter after all. He had a solid six to eight hours to torture and rape us. I'll admit we did not dare tell about the rape until after he was incarcerated at about sixteen. We were too afraid to ever say anything about that. Not until we felt safer... Nothing was ever safe, though. It was false.

That life is no longer my normal. It never was, because it isn't "normal," it's sickness. I know that now. And yet, that offers zero comfort. I'm trying hard at thirty-seven to learn "normal," a task I struggle with. But, I can say this, I'm a better parent than my own were. My children are well cared for, see doctors and dentists on schedule, and always have clean clothes and plenty of food.

My story is complex, but this condensed version should shed some light. I hope.

Everyone's PTSD is different, as are their stories. Even when caused by similar circumstances. I'll be the first to acknowledge the sheer weight of dealing with it all has been overwhelming, painful, infuriating and depressing. I value the opportunity to put down these words. It's my voice, no one can ever again silence it, it is mine, my power.

Truth is eternal and karma omniscient.

To You

I have no words of wisdom as you battle the demons, the traumas, the hurt... I simply want you to know I believe you, I support you, I will read or listen to your story. I will share my strength (abundant or not) with you. I will be, in spirit, holding your hand and cheering you on.

Because we are not so different, you and I—we are fighting the same monster. We are wading through the pain and sorrow. The pain of being betrayed, abandoned, neglected, abused and wounded.

We are removing the weight of each trauma brick by brick, pebble by pebble, grain by grain (it's to be done at your pace). Take each day slowly and breathe a lot. Hug yourself often! Cry. It's OK to cry. It's OK to bawl your eyes out on your kitchen floor at three in the morning. It's OK to not be OK!

You are so brave, so beautiful, so worthwhile and so loved.

We are simply putting one foot on the path, shakey as it may be. And there is a clearing ahead.