Saying Goodbye to Bella

My son's dog has passed away.

Bella was 15+, a basset mix rescued from a shelter in PA when my son was 9.

Hounds are outdoor dogs, not pets...
Or so this former country-girl thought. 

My old gal, Amanda, had passed in February. I'd been promising my son a dog for almost a year. In July I attended a writer's conference in the area and stopped in to the shelter where my friend had gotten her springer spaniel. I was hoping to find a similarly sweet and intelligent friend for my troubled son.
We'd already been on quite a journey. The tantrums started at about age 3. He was recently 9, and rather than diminishing with age, they'd grown worse. There was more to come, but we already knew something was wrong. We just didn't know what, or how far we'd have to go before the road would turn for him.

When I talked to the folks running the shelter, he asked me, "How do you feel about basset hounds?"

I rolled my eyes. I had hounds as a kid, and they were noisy, slobbery, boneheaded doofuses, better kept in outdoor kennels than in the house, due to the difficulty of housetraining. My experience with hounds told me they were hunting dogs, not pets. He told me that she'd been returned to the shelter by a family that didn't look after her properly, that she was shy and sweet. I relented and agreed to meet her, knowing I would be bringing my son back later to look at puppies. Smaller, fluffier, easier, trainable puppies.

She came into the visitor's room looking anxious. She went immediately to the windows, staring out as if looking for someone. Looking for her family to come back for her. The family that had returned her, bone thin and shaking. She still wanted them. And my heart melted a little.

I brought my son in, as planned, careful to explain that he was free to choose a PUPPY. That he should meet her, but he didn't have to choose her...
It was a lost cause. She was brought into the visitor's room and LAUNCHED herself at him. Wagging, wiggling, facelicking happiness embodied in a bony hound dog. "I want THIS one, Mom."

It took us SO long to get weight on her.

And so it began.
She came home, only to hide under the kitchen table and bark and growl at my husband. She managed, with her six-inch legs, to get on top of the kitchen table to raid the butter dish. She refused to eat at first, forcing us to get creative in concocting dishes she would nibble at, until she eventually decided to eat properly. She was so thin at first that the vet wouldn't spay her- and by the time we got enough weight on her, we discovered that my dog Charlie had been a bit frisky and there were pups on the way.

I was worried sick... She'd just gotten healthy, and the vet had revealed that her stated age of 3-4 years was inaccurate- by then she was close to 8.

She successfully delivered 11 pups, but 4 did not survive past the second day. Of the seven remaining, we were able to find homes for 5. Two of her girls remain with us to this day.

Bella with her girls.

In the past few months, I noticed a change. She was moving more slowly. Returning to her picky eating habits. Having more digestive upsets, which have been common with her, on and off, the entire time she's been with us. (We've consulted the vet before, and he told us there was nothing to be done; she simply had a sensitive digestive tract.)

A long story short... She was an old lady- past 15 now by our best guesstimate- and she was tired.

She loved the outdoors, even in winter, but summer sun on grass was her favorite.

She spent her last day lying in the sun in the grass. At some point she wandered out by the kennel to be near her girls, content to lie there. We brought her in that evening and she had cuddles on the porch and fell asleep in one of the recliners. Fearing the evening air would be too chilly for her old bones, I moved her inside that night, into her crate with a fresh blanket. When we got up in the morning, she was gone.

This has been a journey. She was with us when my son was expelled from school in the 5th grade. When he was throwing his tantrums (Which we know now were expressions of anxiety.) When he told me he never really wanted a dog anyway, but cried when, out of sheer frustration, I threatened to find her a new home.

She taught him that some tasks- like feeding the dog and taking her out- must be completed regardless of feelings or mood. That some things are more important than our own internal turmoil. That when someone, or something, is depending upon us, we must set aside our personal challenges and rise up.

She helped him grow, helped him mature, and helped teach him empathy. She was always there with her floppy, silky ears, and her sneaky way of climbing onto the couch when she knew she was supposed to go into her crate for the night.

She was slobbery and smelly and noisy and stubborn- everything a hound dog is. She was also, for 8 years of his life, my son's friend and companion. She was a good dog, and she will be missed.

Rest easy, old Girl. You've earned it. 

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

Please don't call me special

I've been called a lot of things through the years, but by far the most hurtful has been "special."

I know that sounds insane. Reverse humility, attention seeking... No, it's really not.

The fact is, hearing that I'm "special" because I survived the trauma that led to my PTSD is like a knife to the gut. If I'm "special" for surviving, what does that make the other victims who did not? Less special? Less deserving? Those ideas send survivor's guilt into a spiral.

I'm not special because I survived. I'm not special because I pieced myself back together, hid the entire thing from my family, and tried to get on with my life. None of it makes me special, or conversely, less deserving.

Hiding was a form of survival.

What happened was not an object lesson. It was not God carrying out some mysterious purpose. It was not a sound bite, a media clip, or a podcast topic. It was horrible, tragic, terrifying, and awful. It was loss. It was hate. It was anger and terror and the stuff nightmares were made of. It was not "special," and it did not make me a better person.

The idea that God "has a purpose for everything" is ingrained in much of Christian culture. Some take comfort in the idea that, in an out of control world, God is in control always. And (I believe) he is. However:

We live in a fallen world. That means that God's vision of perfection- humanity working in harmony with one another and with the Earth, was derailed. We got too much knowledge too soon as a species, and, like kids exposed to something we weren't ready for too young, we're still acting out the consequences.

As a friend is fond of saying "Death, loss and separation were never in God's plan for us.
We were not meant for death. Eden was the plan. We were made for Eden."

We are fallen human beings. God is sovereign. He is omnipotent- that is, he is capable of controlling everything. But does he? No, and for a very good reason- Free will. If God controls every human action, what would be the point of Creation? The entire experiment becomes completely pointless if He controls everything. Free will was the entire point of creation- we are created as autonomous creatures. That means that sometimes, we do truly awful things to one another. Out of our brokenness. Out of our own hurts, failures, and fundamental flaws, we sometimes do the worst things human imaginations can produce. The idea that God controls everything, and has a "purpose" for everything, is fundamentally mistaken.

Bottom line? Not every event has "meaning." Sometimes, incredibly shitty things happen to people who don't deserve it. The trick to finding peace, at least for me, is to learn to be OK with that, to find peace in the center of a storm of chaos. Not being "special," but rather, acknowledging being caught up in the swirling insanity that was unleashed when that fatal first bite was taken.

Please don't call me "special" because of what I've suffered.
Being myself is quite enough.

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.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Attack of the WHAT???

Dear readers, I am, at this very moment, having an emotional meltdown. Over a video game. With real tears trickling. It's not pretty. It's an ugly cry, and it comes from down deep, because this is more than "just a game." This is the full circle. This is the infinity snake catching up with itself. The mobius strip making the connection... It's just a game, to be sure, but to me... it's more.

Some of you, if you know me in real life, have heard me talk about Minecraft. About the connection forged between myself and my troubled tween. My son has been playing Minecraft almost from the beginning. He played the truly early stages- the first releases of the game. He would get SO excited when updates were released. He, quite frankly, drove me half mad with his chatter about creepers and endermen and zombies and mobs and mods and downloads.

Redstone was a complete mystery to me. It still is to some extent. I didn't understand the appeal of this blocky, weird game, until one day, seeing the disappointment in his face when he caught me rolling my eyes at just one more rendition of "Me and Brody got cornered by these zombies but his wolf was fighting for us and then this creeper came along and..."

For an instant, I caught sight of just how deeply my little boy, whose father had just walked out of all our lives, was hurting. I decided to appease him in the only way I knew how- I asked him to teach me Minecraft.

It was the beginning of an era. With a lot of frustration and some swearing (mostly me) and some "Geez, Mom, you're REALLY bad at this!" eyerolling comments, he introduced me to the game. And then, in an effort to understand it better, I did what I do best - research. Research took  me to Youtube, to explore the gaming channels... and that's when I discovered a whole other dimension of minecraft- Mods.

The very first modded Minecraft "lets play" Youtubers I watched were Generik B, Chimney Swift, and BDoubleOO, playing "Attack of the B-Team." Their commentary was engaging. The gameplay was intriguing. Chimney, in particular, caught my attention with his infectious enthusiasm and his mischievous approach to multiplayer gameplay. Soon, my son started playing B-Team, too, and got me to play it. I eventually upgraded my computer to better handle the modpack. Together, my son and I discovered this world. We explored it. We built things together. We laughed. We shouted. We got frustrated. We created and destroyed. We argued and collaborated. We learned... and we grew.

These days, my son doesn't really play with me. For a while, we played servers together and built incredible things. He showed me his creative world in which he built some insane redstone projects. Even now, when he has a girlfriend and a life that is slowly carrying him away from the childish pursuits of Minecraft and further toward the interests of an older teen, he can still be drawn back in. We still watch Etho, another Let's Player, together. We discuss his builds and talk about how crazy his "sand worm" project is, and how cool. Even as my son is growing away from his early interest in Minecraft, I am building a small hobby channel and immersing myself in the community that nurtured that early interest.

And now, a new era is opening up. Attack of the C-Team will be a sequel to the early Attack of the B-Team series. Many of the same Youtubers who participated the first time around will be involved in this remake. To call my reaction "excited" is like comparing Mt. Vesuvius to a sparkler.

This new game is about more than Minecraft. It's just a game, after all. There may be mods in this pack that I don't care for. The changes with the update may not appeal to me. I might not be as excited to play once I see what's been added and what's been taken away. Knowing all of that doesn't dim my excitement one bit.

These past few years have been... difficult.
My kids and I have navigated some rough waters. Not only has the divorce caused enormous emotional upheaval, we subsequently lost my best friend and my sister. Both deaths were sudden and unexpected. The devastation was deep and is lasting. For the past year or more, I've been knocked off my feet with grief, just keeping my head above water. It's only been in recent weeks that I've begun to feel as if life might have a chance of returning to some semblance of normalcy, and that the gaps left by the losses might close enough so that the feeling of continuously falling into them will end and our feet might once again touch the ground.

While no game, no exciting news, and no new adventure can possibly begin to touch the depth of the losses we've suffered, there is a moment, after one has been walking through darkness for so long, that a flicker of light can be seen. There is a moment when you realize that the tunnel you've been walking through isn't endless after all, that you will step out of it. The sun will once again warm your face, and you will feel the breeze against your fingertips. Spring will come, even after the longest winter. What is lost to the past can never be recovered, but there will be new experiences and new joys and new chances to laugh and live and breathe together. There is healing, and that, my friends, is something worth celebrating.

My kids have both expressed interest in exploring this new modpack together. The idea of playing together again, and discovering the ways in which we've changed, as players and in our relationships, is exciting beyond words. The fact that they still want to play with me... It's a balm to the soul.
So, forgive me if I dance just a little too exuberantly at this announcement. If I get a little carried away, and get just a little too excited. It's been a long, cold, dark night. I'm ready for the sun.

Bring it on.

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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