After a few therapy sessions with Sara, I was beginning to see that my childhood had been chaotic, more chaotic than I had thought. It's difficult to know what's "normal" when you don't grow up around it. You don't know what to expect. Sara looked over my completed timeline, wide eyed, and explained that we would need a lot of time to go over everything I had constructed. By Sara confirming that I had, in fact, gone through chronic trauma as a child and had survived an especially difficult childhood, I felt relief. I felt validation. Finally, someone with trauma treatment experience was not telling me to "suck it up" and "you had it better than some." Validation, I believe, is one of the first steps to giving yourself permission to grieve. By documenting what has happened to me and saying to myself, "this was traumatic," I've completed the first step in validation. I would now need to mourn the traumas that occured as well as the loss of my childhood. But first, Sara and I had to complete the task of getting through my timeline. By this particular session with Sara, we had finally reached the age of nine.
When I was nine years old, my fifteen year old sister found out she was pregnant. The family debated on whether my sister should have the baby or not, but collectively decided that the final decision was my sister’s. My sister and her boyfriend decided to have the baby.
It was a chilly, yet sunny day in March when I received a note in class to come to the office. I knew this was it – I had insisted that my mother call my school if I was in class when my sister went into labor. After school, I ran to the nearest city bus stop going downtown and jumped into my seat, my arms and legs fidgeting with excitement. The bus stopped a few blocks away from the hospital. I ran to the hospital to find that I hadn’t missed it – my sister was still in labor. I waited in the waiting room, my foot tapping the legs of the chair in which I sat. About two hours after I had arrived to the hospital, my nephew was born. My mom came to get me from the waiting room and shuffled me into the birthing suite. I squinted, entering the dark room. I saw my sister’s boyfriend in the corner of the room with a small bundle in his arms. I slowly approached my sister’s boyfriend, not wanting my excitement to scare the brand new being I would meet. I looked into the blanket to see a wrinkled, crying, slightly purple being. He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, I thought to myself. I giggled with joy. I slowly settled into a chair next to my sister’s boyfriend before he placed my new nephew into my arms. I cradled him in my arms, not moving an inch. I loved him. I couldn’t understand it, I couldn’t grasp why or how I already loved this little being.
During the 48 hours that followed my first meeting with my nephew, joy would give way to terror, anxiety and pain as we learned that my baby nephew had contracted a rare disease during delivery which affects the immune system. Before the end of his third day on earth, my baby nephew’s compromised immune system had allowed him to contract pneumonia, beta strep infection and meningitis. He was rushed to infant intensive care. In the days following my nephew’s birth, I got onto the same city bus each day after school, got off at the hospital and went to work on my homework in the hospital cafeteria. This had become my routine; I insisted that I would be in the same building as my nephew. I was in the hospital cafeteria on the third night when my mother came to tell me that the doctors gave my nephew a 25% chance of living through the night. My mom went back up to my sister’s hospital room. The cafeteria was silent. I walked to the hospital chapel. The chapel was also quiet and bare. I knelt down before the alter, my hands squeezed together – as if the harder I squeezed my hands together, the more likely my prayers were to be heard. I closed my eyes and prayed on my knees, tears streaming down my face. I didn’t understand why I was so upset. I didn’t know this baby, yet I already loved him. I asked God not to take him away.
I stayed that night with my grandmother. She knew I was upset. She tucked me into bed with her. In the dark she told me a story of the Saint for “lost causes.” We prayed together to this saint. She held me and warmed my feet with her own. The next morning, I would wake up to find that my nephew had lived and he would live the next night and the night after that.
June 26, 2007
June 25, 2007
The Babysitter
As my next session with Sara drew closer, I again found myself sitting and staring at the timeline I had started. Shortly after my grandpa’s death, a family member began to sexually abuse me. In the middle of the line I drew on my timeline to represent the sexual abuse, I drew a box and labeled it “inappropriate contact with babysitter.” I thought back to the incident with my babysitter. My mother had needed a babysitter at the last moment; neither of my siblings was available. I was about eight years old. My brother volunteered his friend. Not too soon after my mother left, I began to feel uncomfortable with this person – the way he looked at me, the way he’d pick me up and put me on his lap. I got up from his lap to go “find a toy.” He picked me up to put me on his lap again, telling me to read him a story. As I began to read my story book to him, I could feel his hands rubbing me. I got up a few more times, each time – picked up by him and brought back to the couch. I wanted to run, I wanted to scream. I wanted control.
I was noticeably upset at school the next day. A close friend of mine followed me outside to recess and picked at me to tell her what was wrong. I finally told. My friend told the school counselor. Before the school day was over, I was called into the counselor’s office. I didn’t particularly like our school counselor. I sensed that he was indignant, uncommunicative and lacked in the department of compassion and patience – all bad things for a school counselor to possess. After spending time and energy dancing around the subject at hand, I finally gave my counselor a run down of what had happened with the babysitter. I was then sent back to my classroom. No more was said – no words of encouragement, no affection, no one telling me that it wasn’t my fault, that I wasn’t bad.
Of course, those are the things I came out of this experience with. This contact with my babysitter as well as the chronic abuse I was experiencing made me feel that I was dirty, ruined, bad.
My mother looked at me as she closed the front door that night. She had just returned home from work. She said, “Well, Emily…I got a call from your school counselor today.” I looked at my feet. “You did?” I was ashamed. I couldn’t look at my mother. “Yes,” she said. “He told me what happened between you and the babysitter.” “Oh,” I said, still unable to look at anything other than my shoelaces. “Well, Emily, I just wanted to let you know that we’ll have someone else watch you next time.” My mother put her purse down and went into her room, where she would remain for the rest of the night, as she usually did after returning home from work.
About one month later, I was sitting on a bench at the mall when my mother nudged my shoulder and said, “Oh hey, Em…look – it’s your favorite person!” I looked up to see my former babysitter. He passed us both – nothing was said. My mother had sarcastically pointed out a person I was extremely fearful of in such a calm and lighthearted manner that I did not know what to say. I had again been put in the position of being the adult, as my mother had routinely decided to place herself in the position of being a child.
I knew then that I couldn’t trust her to keep me safe, to be an adult, to comfort me. Who will do this then? I had already learned how ugly the world could be, so to come to the realization that I would never be protected by my parents, was a scary experience. I knew now that I could never tell my mother about the sexual abuse that had plagued the last few years of my life. I couldn’t bear to hear her make a joke of it.
I was noticeably upset at school the next day. A close friend of mine followed me outside to recess and picked at me to tell her what was wrong. I finally told. My friend told the school counselor. Before the school day was over, I was called into the counselor’s office. I didn’t particularly like our school counselor. I sensed that he was indignant, uncommunicative and lacked in the department of compassion and patience – all bad things for a school counselor to possess. After spending time and energy dancing around the subject at hand, I finally gave my counselor a run down of what had happened with the babysitter. I was then sent back to my classroom. No more was said – no words of encouragement, no affection, no one telling me that it wasn’t my fault, that I wasn’t bad.
Of course, those are the things I came out of this experience with. This contact with my babysitter as well as the chronic abuse I was experiencing made me feel that I was dirty, ruined, bad.
My mother looked at me as she closed the front door that night. She had just returned home from work. She said, “Well, Emily…I got a call from your school counselor today.” I looked at my feet. “You did?” I was ashamed. I couldn’t look at my mother. “Yes,” she said. “He told me what happened between you and the babysitter.” “Oh,” I said, still unable to look at anything other than my shoelaces. “Well, Emily, I just wanted to let you know that we’ll have someone else watch you next time.” My mother put her purse down and went into her room, where she would remain for the rest of the night, as she usually did after returning home from work.
About one month later, I was sitting on a bench at the mall when my mother nudged my shoulder and said, “Oh hey, Em…look – it’s your favorite person!” I looked up to see my former babysitter. He passed us both – nothing was said. My mother had sarcastically pointed out a person I was extremely fearful of in such a calm and lighthearted manner that I did not know what to say. I had again been put in the position of being the adult, as my mother had routinely decided to place herself in the position of being a child.
I knew then that I couldn’t trust her to keep me safe, to be an adult, to comfort me. Who will do this then? I had already learned how ugly the world could be, so to come to the realization that I would never be protected by my parents, was a scary experience. I knew now that I could never tell my mother about the sexual abuse that had plagued the last few years of my life. I couldn’t bear to hear her make a joke of it.
June 22, 2007
Ambulances
One of my first memories is fairly clear, considering my age at the time. I was three and a half years old. I remember the dark carpet of our house, the white trim around the windows. I was standing on the couch, looking out through the large picture window in the living room when the ambulance rolled into our driveway. I watched as the strangers in the ambulance got their bags and rushed into our home. The strangers made their way past me and to my mother. The next thing I remember is my mother being rolled out of our living room on a stretcher, through our front door. I watched through the window as they put my mother into the back of the ambulance. I knew that my mom was really sad. I knew that my mother had taken something that had made her sick. I knew that she might die, although I’m not sure if I knew what that really meant at that point. My grandparents had arrived by this point. The sirens of the ambulance sounded, startling me. I held my ears and cried as the ambulance took my sick mother away. From this point on during my childhood, I would experience an intense fear of ambulances, although I wouldn’t remember specifically why.
I suppose part of processing your past isn’t just getting into what you remember but also figuring out how each experience affected you. For me, this one experience at 3 years of age instilled: a fear of ambulances, the fear of injury to my mother, the fear of abandonment. It generated a general feeling of instability and also introduced a few themes of my childhood – general anxiety, chaos, drama – the feeling of always being on edge. Each experience generates any number of affects. I’m beginning to realize how one can build up a lot of emotion after years of chaotic experiences.
I suppose part of processing your past isn’t just getting into what you remember but also figuring out how each experience affected you. For me, this one experience at 3 years of age instilled: a fear of ambulances, the fear of injury to my mother, the fear of abandonment. It generated a general feeling of instability and also introduced a few themes of my childhood – general anxiety, chaos, drama – the feeling of always being on edge. Each experience generates any number of affects. I’m beginning to realize how one can build up a lot of emotion after years of chaotic experiences.
June 20, 2007
The Timeline
After several sessions focusing on stress and anger management, Sara explained to me that she’d like me to create a timeline of my life – from birth to present. The timeline should include major traumas as well as meaningful life events for both myself and important figures in my life. Sara’s assignment seemed easy enough. I arrived home after my session to find that my boyfriend had gone out with friends. This would be the perfect opportunity to start my timeline. I sat on the couch, armed with my paper and pen, turned on some ambient music and went to work. Sara suggested I begin the timeline shortly before my birth, as studies have shown that stress on a pregnant woman can affect her baby. I began with documenting my father’s response to my mother’s pregnancy – “Have an abortion, or else I’m leaving.” This was the threat that kicked off my tiny existence. From the year of my birth, I drew a long line, spanning several years, to show the divorce proceedings that were kicked off by my birth. After the line, I drew a box. Within the box I wrote, “Father moves away – to other side of country.” I move to the next year on the timeline and write, “Grandpa dies of cancer.”
I stopped writing. My mind flooded with vague but happy memories of my grandfather. My thoughts moved from the memory of the first time my grandfather fed me cantaloupe to the memory of every time I walked in a room, my grandpa’s face lighting up as he said, “You’re a pretty little girl.” He was one of the few people in my life who realized I was a child. He treated me with warmth, care, affection, protection – all the things a child needs from an adult. I will always remember my grandpa as one of the best people I met while on this earth.
I looked back down at my timeline. This timeline was not shaping up to be too pretty, I thought, and I was only at age five. Shortly after my grandpa died, came the first cloudy memories of sexual abuse. A family member I had trusted had began to act inappropriately with me – undressing me, touching me, telling me to touch them. This continued for several years. I drew a long line spanning several years, to represent the ongoing abuse on my timeline. Shortly after the beginning of the sexual abuse, I made another box representing the physical abuse I had experienced from my child care provider. Shortly after that, I drew another box to represent my first recollection of a suicide attempt of my mother’s. I paused. On my timeline, I was now just past 6 years old.
Tears began to well in my eyes. I began to think of events I had pushed out of my head, events I had not remembered in years. There was so much I had forgotten. I began to shake as I realized how much had happened – just in my first six years. I’m not one to complain or exaggerate – in the past I had taken any opportunity I had to downplay the chaos of my childhood. Now, just the beginning of my childhood was staring me in the face – I couldn’t downplay it, I couldn’t push it away. There it was. Shaking, I put my pad of paper on the table and reclined back on the couch. Tears rushed down my face as I tried to control my breathing. I felt demoralized, exhausted, lost, hopeless.
I would not be doing any more timeline tonight, I decided. I had taken the first step. And, sometimes, the first step is all you can take in one day.
I stopped writing. My mind flooded with vague but happy memories of my grandfather. My thoughts moved from the memory of the first time my grandfather fed me cantaloupe to the memory of every time I walked in a room, my grandpa’s face lighting up as he said, “You’re a pretty little girl.” He was one of the few people in my life who realized I was a child. He treated me with warmth, care, affection, protection – all the things a child needs from an adult. I will always remember my grandpa as one of the best people I met while on this earth.
I looked back down at my timeline. This timeline was not shaping up to be too pretty, I thought, and I was only at age five. Shortly after my grandpa died, came the first cloudy memories of sexual abuse. A family member I had trusted had began to act inappropriately with me – undressing me, touching me, telling me to touch them. This continued for several years. I drew a long line spanning several years, to represent the ongoing abuse on my timeline. Shortly after the beginning of the sexual abuse, I made another box representing the physical abuse I had experienced from my child care provider. Shortly after that, I drew another box to represent my first recollection of a suicide attempt of my mother’s. I paused. On my timeline, I was now just past 6 years old.
Tears began to well in my eyes. I began to think of events I had pushed out of my head, events I had not remembered in years. There was so much I had forgotten. I began to shake as I realized how much had happened – just in my first six years. I’m not one to complain or exaggerate – in the past I had taken any opportunity I had to downplay the chaos of my childhood. Now, just the beginning of my childhood was staring me in the face – I couldn’t downplay it, I couldn’t push it away. There it was. Shaking, I put my pad of paper on the table and reclined back on the couch. Tears rushed down my face as I tried to control my breathing. I felt demoralized, exhausted, lost, hopeless.
I would not be doing any more timeline tonight, I decided. I had taken the first step. And, sometimes, the first step is all you can take in one day.
June 18, 2007
Diagnosis: PTSD
During our second session, Sara also explained her diagnosis to me. She proceeded to tell me that I had a clear case of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). PTSD is officially defined as, “a term for certain severe psychological consequences of exposure to, or confrontation with, stressful events that the person experiences as highly traumatic. Clinically, such events involve actual or threatened death, serious physical injury, or a threat to physical and/or psychological integrity, to a degree that usual psychological defenses are incapable of coping with the impact (Wikipedia).” To hear the diagnosis both frightened me and relieved me. My relief over the feeling that I hadn’t been babying myself, that it wasn’t something that I should’ve been able to suck up and move on. Now, however, was the realization that I had a disorder I had to work to overcome, a disorder that was causing me, and at times, the people around me, daily pain.
Some of the symptoms of PTSD include: nightmares, flashbacks, emotional detachment or numbing of feelings, insomnia, avoidance of reminders and extreme distress when exposed to the reminders ("triggers"), loss of appetite, irritability, hyper vigilance, memory loss (may appear as difficulty paying attention), excessive startle response, clinical depression, and anxiety. I have experienced each of these symptoms numerous times – some on a daily basis.
I had never realized that there might be a clinical explanation to why, for example, I had reacted with sweats, severe anxiety and distress any time a stranger had any physical contact with me (whether accidental or not). I was now learning how to identify my “triggers,” and any physical contact with someone I did not know and trust was one of them.
As my list of triggers slowly grew (I’m still finding triggers here and there today), I made it a point to share this list with my boyfriend. Loving a trauma survivor cannot possibly be an easy thing. My boyfriend and I had at this point been through many fights that neither of us understood. I was not able to explain to him why I began crying after being startled by a loud bang or why I would have an outburst of anger anytime he wanted to leave during an argument. If you are a trauma survivor – I recommend bringing your partner into every aspect of your treatment. As my boyfriend began to learn about PTSD and about my traumas, he was able to understand at least a bit more about why I react the way I did – and that I was working on getting better.
Some of the symptoms of PTSD include: nightmares, flashbacks, emotional detachment or numbing of feelings, insomnia, avoidance of reminders and extreme distress when exposed to the reminders ("triggers"), loss of appetite, irritability, hyper vigilance, memory loss (may appear as difficulty paying attention), excessive startle response, clinical depression, and anxiety. I have experienced each of these symptoms numerous times – some on a daily basis.
I had never realized that there might be a clinical explanation to why, for example, I had reacted with sweats, severe anxiety and distress any time a stranger had any physical contact with me (whether accidental or not). I was now learning how to identify my “triggers,” and any physical contact with someone I did not know and trust was one of them.
As my list of triggers slowly grew (I’m still finding triggers here and there today), I made it a point to share this list with my boyfriend. Loving a trauma survivor cannot possibly be an easy thing. My boyfriend and I had at this point been through many fights that neither of us understood. I was not able to explain to him why I began crying after being startled by a loud bang or why I would have an outburst of anger anytime he wanted to leave during an argument. If you are a trauma survivor – I recommend bringing your partner into every aspect of your treatment. As my boyfriend began to learn about PTSD and about my traumas, he was able to understand at least a bit more about why I react the way I did – and that I was working on getting better.
June 17, 2007
Day 2: The Plan
The Plan
With my first session under my belt, I returned to Sara’s office ready to get started. After sitting down, Sara showed me the structured plan she had organized after our last session. As I am a structured person and find comfort in organization, I was pleased to see a detailed plan in the form of a therapy timeline laid out before me. This actually made the therapy seem manageable. Perhaps I would be able to get through such enormous issues step by step.
First, would come stress management. I suppose it is common sense – if one is reaching into their past to explore several traumatic events, they will need to make sure they first know how to manage the stress that will accompany that journey. I found that I was not very advanced in the stress management department to begin with. In fact, one of the reasons I contacted Sara for assistance was due to my anger getting more and more difficult to suppress in the last few months. I suppose it would make sense for stress management to be linked to anger management. So, I first worked with Sara on stress management. Analyzing the level of one’s stress management skills may include looking at their social involvement, their hobbies, their venting outlets and their stress-reducing techniques (such as taking a bath, exercise, writing, etc). I quickly came to find that I was foremost lacking in the department of stress-reducing techniques. I had grown up believing that to spend money on a sporadic massage was selfish, as was taking time for yourself. If I was to buy myself a new outfit, I was decidedly a show-off, a snob. Self sacrifice was a must in my household growing up. Slowly teaching myself to take time to unwind was not easy – I still struggle with it today.
It occurred to me after this session that so many people refuse to take time for themselves. A very obvious observation, I must admit. But how much it must affect society? As an adult, I realized, it wasn’t just my responsibility to complete the everyday tasks, but also my responsibility to release the everyday build up of stress – something that benefits both myself and those around me.
With my first session under my belt, I returned to Sara’s office ready to get started. After sitting down, Sara showed me the structured plan she had organized after our last session. As I am a structured person and find comfort in organization, I was pleased to see a detailed plan in the form of a therapy timeline laid out before me. This actually made the therapy seem manageable. Perhaps I would be able to get through such enormous issues step by step.
First, would come stress management. I suppose it is common sense – if one is reaching into their past to explore several traumatic events, they will need to make sure they first know how to manage the stress that will accompany that journey. I found that I was not very advanced in the stress management department to begin with. In fact, one of the reasons I contacted Sara for assistance was due to my anger getting more and more difficult to suppress in the last few months. I suppose it would make sense for stress management to be linked to anger management. So, I first worked with Sara on stress management. Analyzing the level of one’s stress management skills may include looking at their social involvement, their hobbies, their venting outlets and their stress-reducing techniques (such as taking a bath, exercise, writing, etc). I quickly came to find that I was foremost lacking in the department of stress-reducing techniques. I had grown up believing that to spend money on a sporadic massage was selfish, as was taking time for yourself. If I was to buy myself a new outfit, I was decidedly a show-off, a snob. Self sacrifice was a must in my household growing up. Slowly teaching myself to take time to unwind was not easy – I still struggle with it today.
It occurred to me after this session that so many people refuse to take time for themselves. A very obvious observation, I must admit. But how much it must affect society? As an adult, I realized, it wasn’t just my responsibility to complete the everyday tasks, but also my responsibility to release the everyday build up of stress – something that benefits both myself and those around me.
June 15, 2007
Day 1: Therapy
The first time I went to Sara's office, I was obviously nervous. I had found her information on the web after a particularly overwhelming series of nightmares had forced my sleeping patterns to come to a grinding halt. "Sara: experienced Trauma Counselor," the website had stated. I wasn't necessarily comfortable seeing a therapist, but I was at the point that my life was being affected thoroughly. So, it was time.
I sat in one of Sara's chairs, my hands crossed over my knees. Sara began her line of questioning, pausing slightly before asking me what specifically brought me into her office. It was then that a lump rose up in my throat, making it nearly impossible for me to speak. After a lengthy pause, I began to tell Sara about my nightmares - memories of sexual abuse as a child. I had never allowed myself to accept these memories as occurrences that actually happened - they were simply bad, reoccurring dreams. In the last few months, however, my "dreams" had invaded my mind and refused to be smothered as they had been for years. I couldn't believe my ears as even the vague descriptions of what happened came from my mouth. I had never told anyone anything about these occurrences. They had haunted me for years, yet I had always been able to label them as bad dreams that didn't actually occur in real life.
I left my first appointment feeling weighed down and vulnerable - I had just divulged the largest of all my secrets. Yet, I was hopeful. Something had shifted slightly. I wasn't sure what it was. I would come to learn more of the shift that began that cold February day in the months ahead.
I sat in one of Sara's chairs, my hands crossed over my knees. Sara began her line of questioning, pausing slightly before asking me what specifically brought me into her office. It was then that a lump rose up in my throat, making it nearly impossible for me to speak. After a lengthy pause, I began to tell Sara about my nightmares - memories of sexual abuse as a child. I had never allowed myself to accept these memories as occurrences that actually happened - they were simply bad, reoccurring dreams. In the last few months, however, my "dreams" had invaded my mind and refused to be smothered as they had been for years. I couldn't believe my ears as even the vague descriptions of what happened came from my mouth. I had never told anyone anything about these occurrences. They had haunted me for years, yet I had always been able to label them as bad dreams that didn't actually occur in real life.
I left my first appointment feeling weighed down and vulnerable - I had just divulged the largest of all my secrets. Yet, I was hopeful. Something had shifted slightly. I wasn't sure what it was. I would come to learn more of the shift that began that cold February day in the months ahead.
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