Triggered

This meme is Inconceivable.

Triggered...

It's become a hashtag on Twitter. A Facebook meme. A joke. A sneer. Just another word that's carelessly and thoughtlessly thrown around until its meaning is battered from our universal consciousness.

What does "triggered" mean to a PTSD survivor?

It means a crippling sense of overwhelming anxiety. Literally being physically unable to function due to a breakdown in the psychological function of our minds. It may create a violent outburst, a crying fit, a panic or anxiety attack, or a period of deep depression. It may create a temporary break from reality. It could mean a flashback to the most horrible thing we've ever experienced- literally re-living the moment in our minds. This is the reality PTSD and trauma survivors live with. We are careful about "triggers" because they are events which re-open the wound and require care to regain our ability to function normally. Triggers are exhausting to deal with.

To a survivor, a "trigger" is not a joke. It's not a meme. It doesn't mean "I'm really angry about what I just saw/read/heard." It doesn't mean "I'm frustrated," "I'm sad," or "I'm upset." It doesn't mean "I strongly disagree with what's happening here," or even that I'm upset with a societal or personal injustice.

It means that a trauma survivor has been re-injured and may be in need of professional intervention. When it's used as a joke or taken out of context and used by, or to make fun of, "Social Justice Warriors" et al online, it steals our collective recognition of the PTSD and trauma survivors' experiences. It steals any cognition that their very real injuries exist. It makes an invisable wound even more invisable, and makes it even more difficult for the survivor to feel less alone, less isolated, and less ignored.

Please stop using it as a meme. Stop using it to express your outrage, frustration, or anger. Please stop belittling and mocking the condition that some of us live with. Misusing psychological terminology is not cute, clever, smart, or funny. It's cruel and thoughtless.

Trauma survivors are not special cupcakes in need of kid-glove, Politically Correct(tm) treatment. Would you make fun of a person who was recovering from physical injuries or permanent disability for their inability to function normally? If not, then why are you doing it to trauma survivors?

Please, stop hashtagging "triggered."

"You keep using that word. I don't think it means what you think it means." -The Princess Bride

Her name was Rachel

I'm sharing this in honor of the brave folks of the Twitterverse, who participate each week in the #PTSDChat hashtag conversation on Wednesday nights.

Sometime I may tell more of her story, but for now, this is as far as I can go. 

The rain is falling outside and I’m not thinking of anything really. Just watching the drops come down, splattering on the grass and road and window, when you come to my mind, uninvited, rushing in as always all bright eyes and out of control curls, grabbing my hand and pulling me from my reverie.

Come dance! It’s raining! Come dance with me!

Giggling, tugging, skipping, you lead and I follow, pulled by an unstoppable force, unadulterated joy in its purest form. We dance… You dance, and I watch as you spin and twirl and run and stumble and move through the rain, letting it splash over you, letting it wet your hair, which makes it even more unmanageable, letting it wet your face and your teeth as you smile into the sky, laughing all the time.

Dance safe my beautiful sweet girl. Let the rain fall and splatter on the grass under your brown bare feet. Let it soak into that wild hair and make it even more wild. Spin around and laugh and laugh. Let heaven ring with your laughter. Let it embrace that joy and keep it safe. Someday, maybe, I’ll be able to dance with you again. 

How Not to be a Jerk to a PTSD Survivor

Never read the comments section. It's my mantra. I know better. I truly do... but sometimes I click, and sometimes I read, and sometimes some idiot will write "triggered" when what s/he meant to type is "butthurt," and my bloodpressure starts to rise.

Sometimes my family or someone I love will say something that hits me like a clothesline to the knees. Sometimes I can catch my balance and stop myself from pitching head-first, but not always. Sometimes I have a bad week, and all the ignorance and well intentioned but misguided words add up, and the result is a rant. So, guys, I apologize in advance, but this is most definitely a rant.

I hope it's a rant that will educate and edify you, if you happen to love someone with PTSD. Or, if you know someone who lives with it, like me. If you're reading this because you want to understand, thank you.


Things to never say to a PTSD survivor:

1) You've got to let it go.
2) It's in the past.
3) Why can't you just get over it?
4) Why does it still bother you? That was years ago.
5) I don't know... it just seems like you want attention.

Let's break these down just a little, shall we?

1) If I could "let it go" it wouldn't be called a DISORDER.

Stop and think for just one minute. Break it down. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

2) It's in the past. Yes, I know. That's what Post means- it happened in the past, yes. My condition is a result of something I experienced in the past.

3) Getting over Traumatic Stress?- What happened was an extreme trauma. It left me deeply wounded. Do you tell a car accident survivor who's left a paraplegic that they should "just get over it," or "you know, you could walk if you tried hard enough?"

Of course not. That would be unsympathetic, to say the least. A denial of the physical reality of their injuries. Asinine.

So, why do people say things like that to PTSD survivors? It's ignorance, plain and simple- they don't understand what PTSD is, or that the damage, although there's not always a visible physical component- has left scars.

4) It was years ago. Yes, it was. And yet, I re-live some moments as if they're happening right now. Confused? Look back at #2.

5) Attention seeking, seriously? Do you think that's what this is about?

Think about the word, Disorder. That, my friends, is the kicker. PTSD is a disorder.
Granted, it's a disorder of the mind and emotions, rather than the fragile nerves that make up the spinal column, but the damage is equally deep, permanent, and disabling.


The point of this brief rant? It's not to shame or lash out. It's to educate. If you love someone with PTSD, it will be difficult to understand them at times. You may not understand their emotional out bursts, their moodiness, their withdrawal, nightmares, or other symptoms. You might not understand why they can't "just let go" of something from their past. Why they keep mentally revisiting such a dark place. Trust me, we don't do it purposefully.

Have you ever seen someone put themselves into a wheelchair "to get attention?"
Of course not, because although a wheelchair is an incredibly useful tool for someone who needs one, and can be fun to play with for those who don't, it's an inconvenient way to live. No one who has the ability to walk normally will put themselves through the inconvenience of using a chair all the time.

The anxiety, depression, and other symptoms of PTSD are inconvenient, too. We don't use our coping skills because they're fun. They are our lifelines, necessary to our ongoing mental health.

What can you do to help your loved one with PTSD? Just listen. Be there. Learn to recognize the bad moments, and what helps your person, whether it means giving them some space or just being there with them. Educate yourself. Learn about the disorder. Trust the survivor to know what works for him or her. Respect their need to make their own decisions. Respect their self-knowledge. Most of all, just think. Develop empathy. Educate yourself, and remember that the disorder is not the person. It's a part of their lives, but it's not who they are.

Love,
A PTSD survivor

Second Chance Living

So, I've been thinking about writing this post for a long time.

I've been thinking about the events that led to my dealing with PTSD. I've been thinking about how much I would share, and what I would not say. I'm still thinking.

There are stories, friends, that are better left untold. There are things that happen in real life that make the scenes from books that keep you awake at night seem like shadows under the bed, easily dismissed by a flashlight and a mother's kiss. There are real-life monsters, and they walk around in human skin. I don't like horror stories. I don't read them, and I don't write them.
I have decided that I do not want to talk about the past. I don't live there anymore, though my mind occasionally conspires to drag me back. I live in today, in the present, with my kids and my friends and my family. This is where I choose to take my stand. This is where I will stay, and this is what I want to write about.

Sometimes the only way to move forward is to take a stand.

Life is weird sometimes, when you're living on your second chance. Some of us made bad choices as teens and young adults. For some, those bad choices led to endings, of freedom, or of life itself. I have mourned friends whose choices led them away, along paths where I could not follow. I have learned from their mistakes, but have, to my continual amazement, been spared. I am a living second chance. I often feel that I owe it to those who were not given that gift, to make the most of it.

Living on a second chance means that I don't take anything for granted. It also means that I don't have the same perspective as many of my friends and family. I don't see opportunities in the same ways they do, and sometimes that causes frustration. Why wouldn't I want to go for the management position in the company I work for? I could do the work easily enough, and the pay is reasonable. But it would mean giving up too much of the precious time I have remaining with my kids- while they're still young and living at home. I can't make that sacrifice- the money's just not worth it.

My heart. My loves. My life. 

Why do I "waste" my time on writing fan fiction and making silly Youtube videos, playing a children's game and hanging out with people who do the same things with their spare time?
Because, friends, there simply is not enough joy in this sometimes-dark world. There aren't enough smiles to go around. There are shadowy places in minds that are too often left unexplored and unlit. If my goofing around in a Minecraft world, or my writing stories that bring heroes to life brings even one person a bit of joy, a glimmer of hope, and gives them the nudge they need to feed their own creative spark, I will gladly labor for as many hours as it takes to make that happen.

The further I get into Youtube, the more fun I have.

I am one of the lucky ones. I fell into a pit, and was trapped there, by the subsequent depression and anxiety related to trauma. But I have a pretty amazing family. We're not perfect- who is? And parents who, while they made mistakes, loved me and wanted the best for me, always. Those are powerful weapons in the fight against depression, and I consider myself most fortunate.

The purpose of this entry, and of this blog, is to light candles. To reach out to those who are living in that dark place. To let you know, you are not alone. You can fight back. You can find joy. You are worthy. You are loved. You are wanted. I've been where you are, and I've found my way out again. You can do it. I believe in you.

"What if I fall??"
"Yes, but what if you FLY?"

Remember that life is an adventure. Live it. Learn from it. Never stop believing. There is power in faith, and in hope, and in love. Light always wins over darkness. Always.

Safe travels, friends.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Been a while...

Hasn't it? It's been a while since I've revisited this page. The reasons are many and mostly mundane.
Holidays. Thanksgiving, and Christmas, while lovely, did take up a lot of my time and attention. I'm happy to report they were among the best we've had in the past 3 years. The kids were happy. I was relaxed. We all just enjoyed one another's company.

It was lean, as always. Their gifts required careful planning and saving, but the looks on their faces when they opened them, and the use they've put them to in the weeks following, have made it all worth the effort. I rarely see Babygirl without her phone (an unlocked, off-brand that works with our text-and-talk plan, with which she can pick up wifi when she wants "data.) Thing1 carries his camera- a beginner's DSLR with more knobs and twiddly bits than I could navigate- with him nearly everywhere.

And me? I got the precious hours spent with my kiddos. I got to welcome Thing1's girlfriend to spend time with us. She's got a very special place in his heart, and I'm dreading the day they split, and hope it won't be too high a drop from the clouds he's riding right now. Ah, young love... So precious, so poignant... and so fleeting. They've been friends for years. Dating for weeks. I don't know how long it will last, and, like, I'm sure, the adults in my life when I was young and in love, I'm not telling him that the ending will be inevitable and bitter-sweet.

The goofy pair at Halloween. 

They are too young, their lives yet unripe for the stresses of marriage and babies and commitments. (and yes, we've talked, extensively, and continue to talk about the more serious side of this floating infatuation he's in now. About respect. About care. About safety and using the upper brain to control the lower one.) Let's let it suffice to say that he knows, at the very least, to keep it covered or keep it zipped. I hope that, when they part, they will retain the depth of friendship they've enjoyed since he crushed on her in the second grade.

On a lighter note, I also got a gift from my kiddos, unexpected and beautiful. I had shown Babygirl a pattern online for an apron made of an old pair of jeans, and she tried her hand at sewing, with a little help and encouragement from her brother. The result was that I now have a beautiful apron, which I love. It has pockets. I love pockets. I also hate having flour all over my clothes when I'm done baking, and this is not only a beautiful gift, it's also functional. It's easily the favorite thing I've received for Christmas since I was 13 and got a Brooke Shields doll. (Hey, don't laugh! I'd just seen The Blue Lagoon, and Brooke was my heroine.)

You'll have to excuse the mess. It was the end of Christmas Day's
dinner and we were still cleaning up when Babygirl insisted on snapping this photo. :)

Life, especially life with the challenges of mental illness, is no easy task. I could say the same, of course, of life with Crohn's, or diabetes, or lupus. I don't think I have some special burden; just the same burdens that many carry, in different forms. Some days it's not easy to get up and get out of bed and keep moving forward, especially with the uncertainties of freelancing for a living. The income is sporadic, and a client's disappointment may mean the loss of a job. I have to strive, with everything I write, to stay on point, to stay relevant, to stay connected and to express the client's expectations and desires. That sort of constant effort can be exhausting, but it's also what keeps me moving forward. It gives me purpose.

Parenting is, in many ways, the same. We all carry our personal burdens, but the children we're responsible for must be shepherded, fed, clothed, sheltered, and led. Their disappointment doesn't lead to the mere loss of a job; it can leave lasting scars that destroy lives and carry forward into new generations. The time I've put in these past few months, the efforts to put together a simple holiday celebration and to invite in those who are connected to our family by the unfamiliar strands of teenage ardor, seem to me to be the most important job I could've been doing. I may be putting things too high, thinking that these  hours will have a stronger impact on my growing young adults' lives than they will. I could be wrong about Thing1 and his lovely young partner. They could go on to marry and have children of their own, as my own in-laws did, marrying when she was just 17 and he was 19. Fifty years and counting, they're a walking love story.

But for now, all I have is experience to go by. All I have is my own memories of young love, and memories of the hours contentedly dressing up a Brooke Shields doll while Mom prepared the meal and Dad smoked his pipe in his chair while watching the Macy's Parade. Those are the memories that reassure me that my son will come out of this relationship changed, with new experiences and a new perspective. Perhaps with new scars, but ones that will heal and that will shape him, and make him, in the end, a better man. Those are the memories that assure me that my own kids will look back, one day, and remember the holidays as a happy time with their family and loved ones, something that they will want to recreate for their own children.

All we can do is keep moving forward, and doing our best.
I hope, if you're reading this, that you had a beautiful ending to 2015 and that 2016 brings you new joys, new experiences, and new hope.

God bless, Friends.
A belated, but sincere, Merry Christmas to you and yours.

~Mary

“There is no such thing as a "broken family." Family is family, and is not determined by marriage certificates, divorce papers, and adoption documents. Families are made in the heart."-C. Joy Bell

Today was a day

Today was a day.

Today, the sun rose. It shone through the window and lay on my face, insistent. It pushed through my eyelids. It wouldn't let me go back to sleep. Today my cat lay on the blanket, anchored as firmly as a boulder, unwilling to relinquish her soft and her warm. Today the two, the sun and the cat, battled silently. The sun won.

Today I showered and dressed and went out with my dogs. Today they frolicked in the grass and wrestled and sniffed and rolled. Like every day.

Today I came in and worked, reaching out to the world and creating, through a little screen and a keyboard.

Today I was restless and sad. Today I remembered. Today the memories spilled over and leaked down my cheeks. Today I felt tired of feeling tired, and the road and the memory of happier times called me. We walked together, the memories and I. The breeze whispered over my skin and the sun shone smugly warm, victorious over the cat, who was still curled on the bed, sulking in her soft and warm.

Today I found a tiny plastic cow on the road, and wondered about the child who lost it and the story of how it came to be there. Today I found a smooth, white stone and remembered gathering them as a child, treasures that exasperated my mother when she had to empty them from pockets in the wash.

Today, I walked as far as I could before I had to turn back. The grass was lush and green and soft under my feet. The sun smiled on and on, and the breeze whispered and hushed through the trees.

Today I didn't get a letter from a friend in the mail, but a book came, and that was almost as good.

Today was a day. A day I decided to go for a walk. To look for the beautiful things. To feel the sun and the breeze and the grass.

Today was a day I decided to go on.


~*~*~*~*~

For those of us who live with the symptoms of PTSD like anxiety and depression, every day is a choice. We get up. We move through our days. We choose, every single day, whether and how to continue living.

If you are dealing with anxiety and depression, remember, you are not alone.
It gets better. Every day you have a choice to make. Today, I've chosen hope. I hope you will, too.
Safe travels, friends.
Mary

Of Love and Loss and Moving On

This is a re-post, from my now-defunct blog, Life, Dreams, and a Turtle, from January 2013.

In October of 2012, one of my best friends, Laura Curtis, passed away. The loss was sudden, and I was the one who got the call- I was the last person on her phone, and the person the State Troopers contacted in an effort to locate her next-of-kin.

Devastation has no words for this kind of loss. I miss her, and my sister, who passed suddenly just two years later, in August, every single day.

For those who never visited Life, Dreams, and a Turtle, Kame (pronounced Kah-may), is my Eastern Box Turtle.

My notes in church are often less.... lyrical, than you might think.

 Kame has once again slipped into hibernation mode. His torpor means that he disappears for days at a time, emerging only occasionally to explore the offerings of fresh raspberries and take a short dip in his bathing tub, before disappearing beneath the mulch once again. He deals with winter by avoiding it entirely, passing it half-asleep and hidden.

Not for the first time, I find myself envying my shelled friend's ability to sleep through the less pleasant months of the season. I, too, have been hibernating, in a way. I've been avoiding speaking out about many of the emotions rolling through my days as I move forward, because so many of them have to do with other people, and I have vowed that this blog will be about my own life, and not a clearinghouse of gossip about others.
It might not be possible for me to blog without mentioning what's going on in my ex's world, or in my children's, but I'm trying not to air anyone's laundry but my own.

So much has happened since I last wrote. October brought with it a shocking blow with the loss of a very old and dear friend. Laura Kim Eisele Curtis was one of the best friends I've had. She put up with my ramblings, my oddities, my failures and my quirks. She made me laugh. She made me less ashamed of my PTSD symptoms and helped me see it as a condition to be managed, rather than a weakness. She stood beside me as I walked through some of the most difficult times in my life, and she allowed me to be a part of her life as she dealt with her own losses, blows and failures. Her passing was devastating, and a loss to the world, though most will never know what they missed by not knowing her.

My beautiful friend Laura, with her dad, Don, being a goof in the background. She had a quirky sense of humor that she came by honestly.

There are many things that Laura shared with me that I will take to my grave, but I can tell you a few things about my dear friend. She was a great singer and an amazing mom. I will forever hear her voice singing "You Are My Sunshine" to her daughter over the phone at bed time on the occasions she stayed at my home. There is surely no sound more beautiful in the world. She was a good friend. I can't count the times she listened to me and let me run on. She gave me good advice. She was the one who encouraged *cough*dragged*cough* me into seeking out a college degree. She has been my friend, my support, and my confidant for well over ten years... and now she's gone. Just like that, in one dark night, she left this world and traveled beyond the veil.
And even now, she is with me. 

I could hear her beside me, snickering, at her final service, as the Pastor's voice rose in song. He had a lovely voice, but Laura often attended my son's guitar lessons with me, and we had sat, barely containing school-girl giggles, through many voice-student's renditions of "New York, New York". Since her parents live near the Big City, and my favorite fictional heroes are rumored to occupy its sewer system, the song made us giggle all the more. I could feel her arms around my shoulders, even as I cried. I could hear her voice in my dreams, in the wretched days after her passing, laughing and exclaiming, "but Mary, I'm here with MacKenzie! I'm dancing... I don't hurt anymore..."

Her baby daughter who succumbed to SIDS was waiting for her, I know. And although she has left two other beautiful young women behind, I know the joy of that reunion will be complete when we all come together in Eternity's time. Laura knows no grief now, no pain. She has stepped out of time, and into the place where there are no more tears, no more sorrows. It is only those of us who are left behind who grieve for the parting. I could feel her presence again, more faintly, when I achieved my first college degree. I could hear her voice, quietly telling me "I'm proud of you, Friend. You did it."

Laura has moved on, and although I was not ready, could never be ready, to lose my friend, I know that this parting is a part of life. Death's pain is the echo of the separation Man took from God in the Garden, and it is eased by the knowledge that the gap has been closed by His son, that this world is healing. Death is a scar in the eternal tapestry, nothing more.

And now, it is time for me to move on, to move forward in my own life. I can not hold on to the hurts and worries and grief of the past year. I can not hold on to the man who was once my husband, or allow his choices to guide my emotions any longer. I must come to a place where I can see him building a new life of his own, and be able to smile and wish him well. I have not yet reached that place. I don't know how long it will take, but I do know that the only way for healing to begin is to remove the splinter of bitterness and anger.

A painting from my college Illustration class, with a quote that I hope, will define the new year.

Someone very wise once said that revenge is like a splinter. It festers and poisons the mind. The only way to heal is to let it go.

The river is moving on... and I must step into it once again, and find a new way. 

-Mary
~*~*~

Post Traumatic Special Cupcake Syndrome

I didn't plan on making this a blog post. In fact, it was meant to be just a comment on my Facebook page, but I am seriously ticked off, and I need to tell you why.

This morning, I read a tweet from a Youtuber who was chided for not putting "trigger warnings" on his content. Trigger warnings are comments or warnings applied to various media online, to make survivors of abuse or trauma aware that the posting may contain content which can "trigger" symptoms of their mental illness, like flashbacks, nightmares, or anxiety attacks.

Trigger warnings have their place. They protect trauma survivors from further pain. 

To give my response to this a little bit of background: I have lived with PTSD for 20+ years. I was diagnosed in 1989. I was a stupid, scared teenager with no concept of mental illness except that it made one "crazy" to have one. I did not make a good connection with the psychiatrist who made the diagnosis, and soon dropped out of therapy. 

I've essentially been on my own with this. When I was diagnosed, there were no internet communities dedicated to abuse and trauma survivors. There were no soldiers' groups spreading PSAs for combat veterans. There were few therapists who were familiar enough with the condition to provide effective treatment beyond medications to mask the symptoms. It wasn't until I was an adult that I was able to find the counseling and help I needed to cope with the symptoms.

That is not what makes me angry. It's been incredible to see an entire community spring up in support of those who live with the effects of past trauma. It's been healing to be able to reach out to others and tell them there IS hope. You can heal. You can find peace, and while PTSD isn't truly "curable" in most cases, the symptoms can be managed with good support and self-care routines. 

What makes me angry is the request for trigger warnings on content that is put out there for entertainment.

Now, let me clarify- Trigger warnings have their place. They are common in communities that are designed as a support network. Those online spaces are, by definition, safe zones. They are where survivors go to find the connection and healing they need. Trigger warnings on shared content that might be problematic for the members of the group are just a common-sense courtesy that make these groups what they are- bubbles of safety.

The internet, as a whole, is NOT a "safe zone". it is the wilderness. You enter at your own risk.

It's beautiful, and there are hazards. Preparation and common sense are necessary. 

Expecting any content provider or entertainer, to provide trigger warnings is unreasonable and dangerous- and here's why- it's GIVING UP YOUR CONTROL. You are giving someone else the job of keeping you safe. This is not healthy or productive. It's the first step on a slippery slope and in certain circumstances, can lead you into abusive, unhealthy relationships. 

As a survivor, control is a critical thing. You lost control to the traumatic event. In healing, there often arises a need to control EVERYTHING. This might come out in OCD symptoms. It might come out in needing routine or a "safety" item or object. It comes out in a myriad of ways, some healthy and some not. 

The attempt to control others, by demanding trigger warnings, is an unhealthy expression of this need, and when people respond by giving in to the demand, they are essentially feeding the insidious Special Cupcake Syndrome that impedes healing.

We are all Special Cupcakes, but not even cupcakes deserve the right to control others to get our needs met.

Special Cupcake Syndrome is when someone who has a mental illness, or who does not have a mental illness but desires attention and control, who may or may not be an abuse or trauma survivor, demands special treatment, or acts out in ways to get attention for themselves, or attempts to control or manipulate others, using their real or perceived condition as an excuse for their behavior. 

Let us be VERY clear- PTSD and related illnesses are NOT THE SAME THING as Special Cupcake Syndrome. Sometimes, the lines can become very blurred between the two, because survivors NEED attention. They need validation. They need support and healing and understanding and compassion from the people around them. These are natural and valid needs for every human being. None of those needs mean that they are displaying SCS, and not all expressions of these needs are SCS related. NEVER FEEL GUILTY OR ASHAMED TO EXPRESS YOUR NEEDS. 

SCS is not an expression of a need. It is an unreasonable demand to have that need met by someone else, in a way that seeks to control them, and it's most commonly found in online interactions. (Though, it does happen in real-life encounters as well.) With SCS, getting the need met is less the goal than controlling the other person. Getting your needs met in ways that do not manipulate, abuse, or attempt to control others is the only healthy road to healing. What survivors both need and fear is to be KNOWN. We need to be seen. We need to be loved as individuals, by people who know us well enough to love us. We can not get that from people who do not know us well, like celebrities, web page administrators, or other "anonymous" internet connections. They have no connection with us, or real investment in our well-being. Demanding that they meet our needs is not only unreasonable, it's unrealistic. It is holding another person responsible for our feelings and reactions- which, in turn, gives them control over our feelings and reactions.

What SCS behavior gets us is attention for our condition. Attention can be a balm, a soothing salve, but if it is for the wrong thing, or expressed in the wrong ways, it's actually doing more harm than good.

Bandaids don't heal everything. Sometimes stitches are required to close a wound. 

If you have a puncture wound, doctors will tell you NOT to use salve or try to heal the surface of the wound too quickly- doing so can cause a really nasty infection, and the wound will have to be re-opened to drain it. Puncture wounds must be healed from the inside out. So it is with trauma. Until we allow ourselves to deal with the initial trauma, and have help adjusting our perspectives from a trusted therapist, we can not heal. 

Healing is the only path to peace. 

If you suffer from anxiety, depression, flashbacks, nightmares, mood swings, or other symptoms of trauma, please seek out the help you need. There are many qualified counselors who can guide you through the healing process. There are groups and communities where you can begin to find connections and build a network of support. There are probably people in your real-life circles, who care enough about you to become part of your healing process. If there are not, you may need professional support and help to find those people. You need to learn about healthy personal boundaries and healthy ways to get your needs met in the context of loving relationships with healthy people.

Self care is NOT an expression of SCS. It's a good and healthy expression of supported yet self-sufficient autonomy.

It takes time. It takes trust in others. It's not easy. It takes support. You can do it. The trauma left you wounded, but you're still here. You are not a victim. You are a survivor. Own it. Where there is life, there is hope. Make the most of it. With love from the trenches, Mary PTSD Resources: For Veterans (Thank you for your service!)

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