Tag Archives: c-ptsd

It’s Not Supposed to be This Way

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Lysa TerKeurst’s newest book title pretty much sums it up. I haven’t even read the book yet, but I know I will love it and that it will deeply resonate with me. Just the few times I’ve listened to her story on how this book came about, I know that she understands the pain and grief that war against our faith in a Good God.

It’s 11:30pm and I couldn’t sleep because I was shaking with anxiety, feeling like I couldn’t breathe, tossing and turning, ugly crying in desperation, “why?” and “how much more?”. It’s not supposed to be this way.

Sleep has been eluding me lately as it seems every night new memories are pushing their way to the surface as I wrestle against them, willing them to stay locked away and let me be, though I’m powerless to stop them. I can’t stop them from coming, I can’t stop the triggers that reveal them, the physical pain my body goes through after they come, the emotional turmoil that’s finally released after being hidden so long. It’s not supposed to be this way.

It’s been four years. 110 memories. Multiple abusers, starting from age 3 through 17. Four years of wondering when this nightmare will end. Four years of trying to live my life as normal as possible while recounting, remembering, and reliving a past more traumatic than anything I ever thought possible. It’s not supposed to be this way.

Two uncle’s. An aunt. Her “friends”. An extended family member. A friend’s dad. A guy from the gym my parents worked out at. “Friend’s” of the family, including one from church. A seventh grade science teacher. Camp counselors. Boys I went to school with. Isn’t pedophilia “supposed” to be rare? How is it actually possible that so many different people could hurt me in the same unthinkable and evil manner? Memories so incredibly disturbing, perverse, and shameful I could never write them online. Not even just the acts themselves, but the psychological brainwashing, manipulation, and confusion that ensued to keep me quiet, which wasn’t even necessary because I dissociated every.single.trauma anyway. It’s not supposed to be this way.

I’m still here, sometimes so overwhelmed by the fact that I’ve even survived the memories, let alone it happening in the first place. I’m still clinging to my faith, still hoping, still believing, still declaring He is good…even though it’s not supposed to be this way.

And I can only hope that somehow, someway, someone out there will see all that Jesus has healed me from. How most people with a past like mine are not living a blessed life like I am. That even though it’s been incredibly difficult, HE has brought me through… strengthening me, putting my pieces back together, reconciling my soul back to Him. That though SO many people in my life failed me, hurt me, abused me, tortured me, took advantage of me…He has never let me go. Every single memory I’ve faced, He’s been there, holding me, comforting me, catching every tear. It’s really not supposed to be this way. But maybe, the beauty from this devastation is that I know Him more fully. My roots have been planted so deep that NOTHING can pull them up. My house has been built on the solid rock, my faith on the firm foundation.

But those who wait on the Lord Shall renew their strength; They shall mount up with wings like eagles, They shall run and not be weary, They shall walk and not faint.
Isaiah 40:31

The Shower

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It had been one year since the evidence of past sexual abuse had come knocking on my door, and if you’ve been following my story, you know that up to this point I had believed it was only one incident. Though I had been in a season of rest there was an area of my life that although should be an ordinary, mundane task, was sadly a nightmare: showering.

Ever since my first PTSD episode, I had been unable to shower. What should be easy and mindless was a constant source of dread. A few times a week, I would force myself into the bathroom, turn on the water, and contemplate getting in. I couldn’t do it, the fear I felt was too strong. So, instead I would stand there on the towel, with the shower curtain open, getting water everywhere, and do my best to wash myself while never actually getting in. I would then wait until my husband was showering to lean over the tub and have him wash my hair. He didn’t really know why he needed to do this, but he never complained. Being so broken that I couldn’t wash my own hair was a sobering picture of the devastation and destruction sexual abuse leaves, but it also made me love my husband even more. His patient, quiet support was a rock of refuge.

When the flashbacks and memories came of a time I was in the shower at the age of four, a couple of things happened. First, some of the shame and humiliation from how I’d been “showering” for the past year was lifted as I finally understood the root of why this was happening. I wasn’t just anxious to shower for no reason, rather showering was a trigger to a horrific memory. While I won’t get into the sad and disturbing details that took place in that shower, I will say that when you are four years old and you’re enjoying a shower, feeling “big” that you know how to do it and don’t have to take a bath like a baby, and a grown man gets naked and gets into the shower with you, it most definitely will impact you.

While in a way it was good for me to finally have the understanding of this trigger so I could begin healing from it, walking through the necessary but difficult steps of forgiveness, there was a second thing that resulted from this memory surfacing that I wasn’t sure was such a good thing. If it didn’t happen just once, how many times did it happen? That became a painful and nagging question I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to. But, with this newfound knowledge of what was going on, a determination to prove that because the light of Jesus lives inside me, I wasn’t going to let the enemy have this power over me anymore. I could and would shower.

Opening up and sharing something that had been so embarrassing was really freeing as I saw the love and support of family and friends, and was reminded once again that we “overcome by the blood of the lamb and the word of our testimony” Revelation 12:11. Unfortunately, full healing would wait another year from this particular memory. Though the next year I would be able to get in the shower, I would still have to pray through it and have worship music on, and be in and out as fast as I could. I am happy to report that I now shower like a completely normal person, it is no longer a trigger. But for two whole years, it was. That shows you that sexual trauma does leave a big wound, but it doesn’t have the final say. That is because of the healing power of my Jesus, and I hope that gives you hope. Sometimes healing doesn’t happen exactly when or how we want it to, but it does come. He is good.

Denial

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The next few months were the scariest time of my life. I wasn’t ready to face the truth, I couldn’t get past the whole, “there’s no way something like this could’ve happened without me knowing. How could I possibly not remember something like that?” In actuality, this is quite common. Dissociation is a God-given coping mechanism that allows the core personality to go on in tact by separating the trauma from the conscious memory.

I was going through what is called a “denial stronghold“. Unfortunately, running away from the truth made it worse. I was so afraid of the truth, afraid of what letting that memory in would feel like, but inside was a little girl screaming to be heard, begging for justice and someone to believe her. My daily struggle with never-ending anxiety and panic attacks were taking it’s toll. I was constantly on high alert, fighting for my life. This state of hyper-vigilance was exhausting, as I was constantly, day after day, putting all of my effort into fighting the worst intrusive thoughts one can imagine, and battling daily just to survive. “No weapon formed against me will prosper” became the anthem of the life, until after hours of doing intense warfare every single day, I would collapse in exhaustion, only to begin the same process again the next morning.

I could be in the middle of doing lessons with the kids and have to retreat to my room, devouring Psalm 91 over and over again, tears falling until there weren’t any tears left, until eventually I felt stable enough to move on to the next task. My kids didn’t know what was happening to their mommy, or why I would suddenly need to go be alone. I can, however, see God’s faithfulness through that time as even on the worst of days, somehow, I was able to do what needed to be done and meet the needs of my family.

One thing that really took a hit was my ability to cook decent meals. Aside from the typical fatigue and nausea of pregnancy, getting through each day was so much work, and this was the area that I struggled to keep on top of. My husband had no idea what I was going through, so this was a cause of tension at times. All he knew was that he was working two jobs, sometimes gone 14 hours a day, and coming home to frozen pizza. I couldn’t possibly tell him what I was experiencing when I couldn’t understand it myself.

I remember my midwife trying everything she could to help me with this anxiety. The supplements she recommended couldn’t put a dent into fixing this. She told me about how the baby can feel what the mother feels, and the consequences that come from a baby whose prenatal environment is filled with anxiety. I desperately pleaded with God to protect my child from any harmful effects of what I was going through. I’m not choosing to feel this way, I don’t want to feel this way, please Lord, watch over my baby.

The fear and panic manifested in different ways. I could be driving down the road and just suddenly feel my muscles jerk or seize up and it was like I had no control over my body. I would pray religiously over every.single.thing out of fear that if I didn’t cover all my bases just right, the ground would come out from under me and the worst case scenario would happen. It was impossible for me to relax. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. It’s like something wouldn’t let me.

One of the worst incidents happened on my 31st birthday. My husband took me to see “The Case for Christ” and I so badly just wanted to escape for a little while, to forget my daily struggles and watch a movie like a normal person. It was a sold out show, we ended up in the very back row, surrounded by strangers. I couldn’t get comfortable no matter how hard I tried, and though I typically enjoyed movie theater popcorn, I couldn’t bring myself to eat it. Just thinking about it made me feel disgusted.

Not even a half hour into the show, extremely terrifying intrusive thoughts popped into my head and I really thought I might not live to see the end of the movie. Typically when someone is having a PTSD episode, they will enter fight, flight or freeze mode. Flight was always my go to, like I was trying to get as far away from my reality as possible. However this time I couldn’t get up and leave. There was too many people, too many stairs. I felt dizzy, sure I couldn’t make it to the exit without falling. I stayed put for the remainder of the movie, frozen and unable to escape, shifting in my seat and unable to stop fidgeting, trying to somehow make it to the end. Whispered prayers in desperation got me through, though it may have been one of the longest hours of my life.

A year and half later I would have a memory come back that made sense of this whole incident, and it involved being in the back row of a movie theater watching “Rescuers Down Under” in November 1990, when I was four years old. But in the meantime, I was left feeling like perhaps I was going crazy.

Am I going to survive this pregnancy? Is this ever going to end? I would lash out in anger at the Father I thought had good promises for me. Why are you doing this to me? Where are you? You told me to trust you. Yes, the faith I thought was so strong was now being shaken to the core of my very being, and I hadn’t a clue what the outcome would be. It took everything in me to muster enough faith to trust at all, to believe in a good God when everything inside me was screaming the opposite. Scripture became my lifeline. It was quite literally, all I had to hold onto.