I look at a photo, I can remember the moments before, during, and after I took it. I make homemade donuts and I can remember my granny lifting me up to sit on the counter, handing me an aluminum bottle cap, and instructing me on how to place it in the middle of each circle of raw biscuit dough to create donut holes. I smell Exclamation perfume and I’m transported back to my elementary, middle school, and junior high days, when I had bad hair cuts, sometimes wore my hair half up (when the perm finally grew out) in a side ponytail; I wore lots of rings and bracelets, Writing/Reading/English and Choir were my favorite classes, and loved each member of NKOTB at different stages. I touch damp dirt while gardening and I’m reminded of the many times I helped Aunt Debbie (who was developmentally disabled) dig for worms to give to her brothers (my uncles) for fishing bait. I taste Whataburger biscuits and gravy and fresh-out-of-the-fryer french fries and I’m suddenly sitting there, early Saturday morning with my mom before we make our way to various yard sales and stores, walking off all of those carbs until we’re ready to return home. I hear Whitney Houston’s, Greatest Love of All and I reminisce about hearing her amazing voice as I memorized every word of as many of her songs as possible, so I could keep singing her newest hit, hoping to one day see her perform live.
It can be comforting to know I can recall those joyous moments in my life with such little effort. Just a little spark of the senses and I can travel back in time for a moment, visiting my youth or loved ones who have passed. PTSD can unfortunately have the opposite effect. Watching a scene in a movie where one character spits in another’s face and I’m reminded of the many times the ex abuser did the same to me. I gasp and groan in anger. I smell Velveeta cheese, and I am transported back to a fight that lasted into the early hours of the morning when he threw all of my clothes in the floor, took cheese dip out of the refrigerator, and slammed it on the floor, spattering across my clothes. I feel pain in my throat… and his hands clench my neck, squeezing until I beg for my life. I had trouble breathing and speaking for weeks/months afterward, I still bitterly recall. If I taste a McDonald’s cheeseburger or spicy chicken sandwich, I’m forced to wonder how many of those I had to eat when it was all we could afford because he wouldn’t get a job. A hundred? A thousand? I hear someone say a certain word or phrase, and my jaws clench, my shoulders tighten, my heart races, as I suddenly remember that exact word or phrase spoken to me for the sole purpose of abusing me.
I have been told things like “you have to get over that,” and “move forward.” I tried that for two years, but in that time my body began to suffer the physical consequences of “getting over it and moving forward.” I began having migraines. My entire body was in pain. I had trouble breathing, and my stomach was in knots. My blood pressure was so low it concerned every nurse that I encountered. My hair was brittle, and my skin was parched. I can pretend to just get over things and I can certainly move forward, but if I don’t DEAL with the mental and emotional pain that abuse caused me, my body and mind will suffer even more in the long run.
I know most everyone knows the phrase, “build a bridge and get over it.” Despite being cliche, it’s a pretty good metaphor, but the people who say that either haven’t thought it through, or they don’t mind being condescending. Has anyone who has said it thought about how long it actually takes to build a bridge? If someone shattered a bone or lost a limb, no one would tell them, “slap a cast or stitches on it, don’t be a baby, get over it, and get back to your normal life.” Just because you can’t see someone bleeding, it doesn’t mean they’re not injured. Healing takes lots of time, effort, self awareness, and support.
As a domestic violence survivor, I along with countless others who are diagnosed with PTSD (for various traumas) would encourage you (especially if you have a family member or friend experiencing either) to educate yourself, listen to understand, be their cheerleaders, and love them as they are while they become who they want to be. Just like the person with the shattered bone wants to get back to their normal activities, we want to go to the store without being tormented by each one of our senses. The person who lost a limb has to learn to do things that were simple before, and we want to sleep without nightly and horrible, haunted nightmares.
Don’t shame people into silence. Their healing journey is unique and they’re doing tons of work to make the next small step. You don’t know who’s watching them. We should celebrate people publicly healing, to encourage those that are suffering in silence. Don’t contribute to creating stigmas, but create an environment where hurting people can heal, without concealing their pain.
Thank you,
One Survivor Among Many
