Tag Archives: healing

A Letter

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It’s been a whole month since I last wrote, and while I wanted to continue documenting my story, I faced a few of the most difficult weeks I’ve had since this healing journey first started. Another memory surfaced and the emotions and stress that came out of it really took a toll on me, I was in bed for the majority of two weeks straight. An inability to cope with stress, my body shaking and trembling, sheer exhaustion, anxiety, lot’s of unpleasant things were going on. It isn’t just the memory that is “frozen in time” but also so many trapped emotions and physical responses to trauma that are stored right along with it, and I have to say when they are released it’s bittersweet. Very difficult in the moment but I know in the long run it’s so good these things are getting out and no longer stored in my body. During this time I was asking my husband if this nightmare would ever be over, and he encouraged me to write a letter to my uncle. I thought this letter would be just for me, for my own healing, but I felt very strongly that the Holy Spirit was leading me to make this my next post, as opposed to just the next chapter of my story I was planning to write. So this is a little interruption in the timeline of how things have transpired, but I pray it brings healing to others who maybe haven’t been able to find the words to match their experience.

Uncle *****,

Where do I begin? There are no words in existence to describe the evil that was done to me by your hands. Not just the things done, but also the words said, the lies that took root in my soul. Did you really think you could get away with it forever? That I would remain silent all these years? The innocent, powerless, helpless, little girl is now a grown woman with the light of Jesus Christ shining brightly in her, and the Holy Spirit that is in me will not back down, but stand for righteousness, justice, and truth. Because that little girl deserves it. I deserve it.

I was just a baby, three years old, when you first began to torment me for your own sick desires. I was innocent, full of light and joy, and you did all that you could to kill everything that was good about me. At times in this journey it’d seem you almost succeeded; that darkness had won. But the redeemer of my soul spared no expense to win me back to Him, including bloodying Himself on a cross so that I would know the depth of His love for me. While I rejoice that the evil grip of sexual and psychological abuse will not have the last say in my life, I cannot ignore, minimize, or deny the catastrophic damage that was left in my soul by your choices.

When a child is very young their personality has not been fully formed, so any trauma that takes place in those early years greatly impacts their sense of safety and security in this world, along with their sense of identity. Because most of the times you molested and abused me I was only three and four years old, the confusion, fear, and despair that set in rocked me to the core of my being and set me on a trajectory far different that what my parents had in mind for my life. The subconscious messages of never being good enough, of my body being bad, of only having one purpose in life – to fulfill men’s sexual desires, and of being of absolutely no value unless I was performing sexual acts, would replay over and over; echoing in my soul and causing me to seek out situations further expounding upon the damage you started.

Do you remember the first time you decided to act out your evil, twisted, perverse desires against me? We were at a family pool party, and I had just turned three a few months before. As I went upstairs to change out of my bathing suit and lay down for a nap, you followed me with your video camera. I did everything you told me to do, but you left yelling at me, telling me you’d tell my mom what a bad girl I was if I didn’t hurry up and lay down for my nap. I laid in that pastel daybed feeling more alone and confused any child that age ever should. Utter abandonment is the only way to describe it.

Or how about the many times you took your son and I out to do something like feed the ducks or ride the horses, and you’d send him back to the house for something you “forgot” so you could have a few moments alone with me? That sweet, precious child was violated in the most disturbing ways, and sheer rage at what you did followed me along, bubbling to the surface at inconvenient times. What about the time we had another family pool party, only this time I was a little older. I didn’t want whatever was being grilled that day, I was a picky eater, which infuriated you. When my Mom got me a McDonald’s Happy Meal but told me not to let the other kids see me eating it, it was just too much for you. I had to be punished. So you came into room where I was hiding out and did the unthinkable. I’ll never look at happy meal the same.

The deep shame that set in would take miracles to shake free. I could go on and on about all the times you took advantage of my innocence, gender, age, size, and body. I’ve had over 20 memories surface over the past three years. When we were decorating Christmas cookies, when you bought me lip gloss and gave it to me on the tractor ride, when you promised me candy. When what you did frightened me so badly, I lost control of my bowels and had an accident, which really wrecked the mood for what you were doing, and you berated me, dragging me back to the house by my arm, telling me how disgusting I was. No, I had a very normal physical reaction to severe trauma, YOU are the only one guilty of anything disgusting that day. But each time left something similar, something too big for me to process then. Intense feelings of fear, confusion, shame, anger, and despair. All trapped in a teeny tiny body, buried so deep it would take years of establishing safety before I could begin to feel secure enough to let them out.

While processing through this the little girl that was hurting so badly would come to the forefront of my personality, and I would feel everything she felt. Through counseling and prayer these fragmented pieces would begin to heal, but throughout this process there were times that the hurt little girl would be able to talk, about the memory and how she felt. Not me in present age, but actually the part of me that was broken because of you. Do you know what the three year old little girl said when working through just one of these terrible memories? She said she wanted to die.You caused a three year old little girl to want to die. If there is anyone who should be wrestling with fear, shame, and despair, it’s you.

I can only imagine the things that were done to you in your childhood to cause you to become such a monster. While the saying “hurt people hurt people” can be true, at the end of the day we all have a choice. And you chose multiple times over the worst case scenario your sick mind could come up with. I’ve seen my parents wrestle through guilt during this journey, wondering how they could’ve not known. But the truth is they loved me to the best of their ability, and when I was with them I felt safe, valued, loved, and secure. I too often wondered why didn’t I try to stop you or say anything? The truth is that I was the epitome of powerless and helpless, being still very much a baby that was paralyzed by the fear you instilled. Intimidation is your greatest weapon and you used it well.

But I am no longer a little girl, and I refuse to be silenced. I’m sure there are many in the family who would love nothing more than for me to keep quiet. In many ways it looks like I have torn apart our family. But that is once again a lie as there is only one person responsible for what has happened and that is you and you alone. Those who wish I’d keep quiet need to check their hearts and recognize the evil they’re trying to conceal and know that while this has been an extremely painful journey, I am without a doubt doing he right thing. Painful, difficult truth is always better than a comfortable, convenient lie.

You can continue to deny, I wouldn’t expect anything else. But all anyone needs to do is look at your character, and mine. Jesus says that a person will be known by the fruit they produce, and while I’m far from perfect, the evidence of good fruit in my life is clear; while you continue to live in pride and not many people can come up with anything nice to say about you. You can keep running and hiding from who you really are and what you’ve really done but you can be sure your sin will find you out. What’s hidden in the dark always comes to light eventually and it’s only a matter of time before others start speaking up. I know I’m not alone in this, just the first to have the courage to speak the truth. I can’t imagine living my life that way, always pretending.

I pray you fall to your face in repentance and admit to what you’ve done and accept the consequences. You should WEEP over the destruction you’ve caused. What you have done is nothing short of despicable. I pray you humble yourself before it’s too late as none of us is guaranteed tomorrow, and I wouldn’t want to face the King of Kings and Lord of Lords in your condition. Your only option is repentance, but I question whether you’re capable of feeling remorse, cold as you are.

One thing is for sure, you shattered me to pieces. The journey to become whole again has been the absolute most difficult thing I’ve ever had to face in my life. But as I have allowed Jesus to shine His light on every hidden and terrified corner of my heart, I can confidently say that every piece belongs to Him. And I pray you find Him too, before it’s too late.

Your niece,

Bethany

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.

Rest

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Immediately following the birth of my son, I spent a rough three days driving back and forth to the NICU as his oxygen levels were not where they needed to be. While three days is nothing compared to the heart-wrenching journey many parents face when it comes to the NICU, I was devastated. I really thought that God was going to give me a perfect birth experience after everything I had battled during my pregnancy. I had cried out for him to protect this baby so many times in the months leading up to my home birth, and my faith had already been so tested and stretched, that I had this high expectation for how the delivery would be. To say I felt let down would be an understatement. I didn’t want to be disappointed in Him, but I was. Hadn’t I been through enough already? Couldn’t You just make this turn out right?

Aside from the toll this took spiritually and emotionally, I also wasn’t able to start recovering from birth right away. While most mom’s who deliver at home get to stay snuggled up in their cozy bed while their family nurtures them, and mom’s in a hospital stay for at least a couple days after the delivery while nurses and Dr’s look after them, I was traveling back and forth from home to the hospital. Now to be fair, my husband, family, and midwives were amazing during this time, doing all they could to help me. It’s just that it was exhausting, mentally, physically, and emotionally. And to be perfectly honest, I felt cheated out of an experience I was sure I deserved.

During this time, the stress, anxiety and intrusive thoughts were rearing their ugly heads. Can you picture it? You just gave birth naturally, in a pool in your living room, after struggling with intense panic and anxiety for the past 8 months. You’re sore, tired, and drained. Your sweet new baby who you’ve longed to hold, snuggle, nurse and who basically was the only thread of joy you held onto throughout the whole ordeal, is now in the NICU. You already have this thing about not trusting Dr’s. You just want more than anything to be home with your new little one, in safety and comfort. You’re trying to keep it together and be strong but you feel like you’re at your breaking point. I know in the grand scheme of things, three days is not long. It just felt REALLY long. It was solely His grace and strength that got me through.

While I was disappointed that things didn’t go how I had hoped and imagined, I feel as though I was given back seven-fold what was missing once we finally came home. The joy and relief I felt to be at home with my family was overwhelming. I was so thankful for this new baby. We had been through so much together, and now he was here, in my arms, nursing what felt like a million times a day, as it should be. I would cry just looking at him, thinking about everything we’d just endured.

The next few months were nothing short of wonderful. I was beyond grateful for all the quality time we were having as a family, and that I felt normal. I can now see this time for what it was, a precious gift. A break in the agonizing journey of healing from trauma, so that I could enjoy my sweet baby and just get some much needed rest and relief. The downside is that I didn’t know it was a break. I thought it was done. It was hard for me to recover from it all, and feel hope again. But after a lot of prayer and reflection, with His spirit at work in me, I found myself once again excited for the future He had for our family. I didn’t know that everything I’d already been through, was really just the beginning.

Surrender

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By June 2017 I was utterly exhausted from the daily battle of incessant panic attacks and never ending anxiety. Every day for several months I was pleading and begging for it to stop, crying out to the Lord to help me understand why this was happening to me. Why was I so afraid all the time? Why were these terrifying thoughts replaying over and over? Am I going to be okay?

Being pregnant, just numbing my emotions by going on medication wasn’t an option for me, but I was desperate for some relief. I just didn’t know how much longer I could take it. Even in the scariest of moments, I held onto hope that somehow, I was going to make it out of this. That my Heavenly Father knew what was going on, and He had a purpose for it. Even if I didn’t understand.

It’s like the more I ran away from it the worse it got. If I ever wanted this nightmare to end, I was going to have to face the truth. I eventually accepted that something did happen, I just didn’t care to know what that was.

The fear of the unknown and remembering what it would be like held me hostage. Will it be scary? Am I going to feel like it’s happening? What if I remember wrong? There’s something really difficult about knowing something devastating happened to you, when you were in the most innocent and vulnerable of states, but not really knowing the details.

So it was, that after months of being like a child who writhes and squirms and kicks and screams against their parent who is just trying to help them, I wore myself out in the fight, and I gave in. I collapsed into my Father’s arms, the very arms I’d been wrestling against all this time.

And I saw it. I saw myself in bed, staring at the green and yellow border on the wall, tractors, I think. I saw how the small sliver of light from the hallway slowly got bigger as he entered the room. And now I know why I haven’t been able to let my husband come to bed in white t-shirts. I was told we were going to play a game but quickly found out this game wasn’t very fun. All those glimpses and pieces from before finally came together in a cohesive memory. It was strange, like I was watching it in the third person.

After I saw it, I thought, wow, that’s really sad… but I’m okay! Remembering wasn’t nearly as scary as I thought it would be. A peace fell over me as I walked through the steps of forgiveness, and the Holy Spirit connected all the dots as to just how much this impacted me. From my self esteem, my promiscuous teen years, the birth trauma, it all had roots in this incident. It’s like everything clicked and made sense for the first time.

So, it’s over right? I thought since I finally let that memory come , walked through the steps of forgiveness and let the healing in, that this nightmare was over. I was wrong.

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.

Fear

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Monday, February 13th, 2017: Only a couple weeks had passed since the Lord told me to trust Him with what was next. I was enjoying a hot cup of coffee and taking notes on a Francis Chan sermon I found on YouTube, savoring the quiet moments alone before the kids woke up. I knew they’d be up soon and our morning routine of breakfast, devotions and homeschool would begin, so I decided to take a quick shower. As I was getting ready to get in, still listening to Francis Chan on my phone, a sudden and intense feeling came over my entire being that I had never experienced before. (At the time I had no idea what had happened, but would later learn that with just one word, I could have what’s known as a “trigger” that would send me into a tailspin only Jesus himself could get me out of).

I quickly shut the sermon off and jumped in the shower. Feeling absolutely bewildered by what was happening in my mind and body, I tried to ignore it and think about something else, but whatever was going on wasn’t going away; in fact it intensified. A rush of panic swept over me and I got a metallic taste in my mouth. I can only describe this scene as though it felt that something was trying to kill me. I jumped out as fast as I could, having only shaved one leg, and text my friend, Tiffany.


See in my mind, this was a spiritual attack. The feeling of absolute evil upon me was so strong that it couldn’t possibly have originated from anywhere but hell itself. Little did I know, that this was actually coming from within. Somewhere buried in the deep recesses of my subconscious mind, a dark traumatic past was rising up and taking over. This state of hyper-vigilance remained for the rest of the week, and the only plausible cause I could come up with was that perhaps, I was pregnant. I had heard that the hormonal changes in a pregnancy can make a woman anxious, but could it possibly be capable of causing it on such an extreme level?

On Friday, February 17th I got my answer. I stood in my bathroom astonished to be looking at two pink lines. I wanted so desperately to feel joy, didn’t I want more kids anyway? Hadn’t I been praying about this? I should be thrilled! But the only thing I could feel was fear. My mind flashed to how just months before while praying I thanked Jesus for the birth I had with Mia, that I was finally able to deliver a baby vaginally. I heard him say, “do you want to do it again?” but I couldn’t answer that. Thinking of the intense anxiety I had after her birth left me feeling paralyzed.

Apparently, pregnancy can be one of those things that trigger and reveal a traumatic past. I tried really hard to focus on my excitement over having another baby, I loved this baby so much already and I had no idea why I was struggling with such intense anxiety, I truly just wanted to enjoy this pregnancy. After another week went by and I was still having daily panic attacks, Tiffany invited me over so she could pray with me to help ease my anxious mind.

Only 5 weeks along, I sat down in her living room as our kids ran off to play so she could pray with me. She had barely gotten out but just a few words when I burst into hysterical tears, “I was molested when I was four, I think it was my uncle.” She was trying to calm me down but I was, for lack of better words, freaking out. “I don’t understand why I’m saying this, I don’t remember,” I bawled. I couldn’t understand why these words were coming out of my mouth and I really didn’t understand how something like this could be true if I didn’t remember. I hadn’t connected that all this panic and fear was because I was remembering. And I certainly didn’t know that there was such thing as dissociation, or DID, or that I had it, or that these fragmented pieces that contained memories could rise to the surface and speak, in something they call “switching”. All I knew was something terrible and unexplainable was happening to me, and I was powerless to stop it.

Warning Signs

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In the fall of 2016 I was practically living my dream as long awaited prayers to be a stay at home mom and begin homeschooling my kids were answered. This was a very exciting time for me and I felt closer to the Lord than ever before. I could tell that I really had changed so much, and was loving who I was becoming and all the work the Holy Spirit had done in my heart. I was experiencing what it was like to be in an intimate relationship with Jesus, and loving every minute of the time I spent daily in His presence; I just couldn’t get enough!

This is also the time I was baptized in the Holy Spirit, and if you know anything about how this works you also understand that darkness and light cannot co-exist; anything hidden in the dark will be exposed by the light as Jesus begins to occupy more of our hearts.

During this time I began having tons of dreams with my aunt and uncle in them, but I never knew why. I also kept having this strange occurrence where every time I would lay down and close my eyes, I would see myself in their house, but it was so specific. I remember this! I remember being on the couch with my cousin, watching TV before bed. I remember how as a little girl my pajamas were often nothing more than an over-sized baggy t-shirt and underwear. I remember being on the stairs and turning to say goodnight as I headed up to bed, for some reason before everyone else. I remember my aunt in the chair rocking the baby, I think maybe she was nursing.

“Lord, why do I keep seeing this? Are you trying to tell me something? Why does it feel so strange? There’s such an eerie feeling about it.” I would ask each time, but not receive an answer. I really didn’t think too much of it, or even the dreams for that matter. As a first time homeschooler of three kids, I had enough on my mind to keep me occupied.

One night that fall stands out in particular. My husband was on third shift at the time, and I had just sent my older two kids to bed as my three year old laid passed out in my bed after falling asleep to Frozen. I felt peaceful as I laid down next to her and started to drift off to sleep, but that was quickly interrupted. I heard a voice very clearly, “your uncle molested you when you were four.”

My eyes popped wide open as I took in the words I just heard. Knowing what I do about spiritual warfare, I immediately thought this was the enemy trying to scare me and was all, “get behind me Satan”, rebuking this monstrosity of an idea and declaring that I had a great childhood. I would not even for a moment consider this could possibly be true. I was absolutely sure the devil was just trying to mess with me and never thought about it for a second more after that night.

As the New Year came, I began really pressing into prayer for the promises I was believing the Lord had given me for our family. As my prayers grew bolder and bolder, I started to grow impatient waiting for these promises. I heard the Holy Spirit whisper clearly, “whatever I give you, trust Me.” I naively giggled a little at that, thinking “of course I will! That’s easy!” I thought I had so much faith, but I had no idea what was coming.

Looking Back

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For a long time it seemed as though this storm of remembering came suddenly and out of nowhere, and in a way that really is the case. Though it seemed that life was going well in several areas, looking back I now have a better understanding of just how much this has impacted me all along, without me realizing it at the time.

I’m going to be documenting my story from when I perceive the “storm” to have hit, that is when my life took a sudden detour into the unknown of flashbacks, memories, C-PTSD, and the discovery of dissociative identity disorder. Before doing that, I want to start by sharing how now, after learning so much about these conditions, I can see how it was affecting me even before the memories came back. (I will discuss the controversy of recovered memories and how that fits in with DID in another post).

Even though I didn’t acknowledge,accept, or address my childhood trauma until 2017, I can see the evidence of it bubbling up to the surface before that. In 2013, I found out I was expecting baby number 3. This was a very exciting time for our family, but this was the first time in my life I ever experienced a panic attack. Now, I’ve had anxiety before but a panic attack is much more intense than general anxiety, though neither are particularly enjoyable.

It was during this pregnancy, that I would out of absolutely nowhere, feel as though something was terribly wrong. It only happened a couple of times, but I would rush to the Dr’s and ask for a non-stress test on my baby because I was just sure something was wrong. Something felt wrong. Something was wrong, but it wasn’t with my baby. I fought very hard to deliver my baby via vba2c (vaginal birth after two cesareans). While my labor was going beautifully, something changed when I hit transition. Transition in labor is described as when a mother is going from 7-10 cm dilated, and is about to get ready to push. Any momma whose gone through natural labor can tell you this is extremely intense and typically the part of labor where a woman just wants give up.

It was during this time that my peaceful demeanor quickly vanished, and I was left feeling terrified. Panic and adrenaline surged through my body, and didn’t leave for months after. I had no idea what was happening to me, only that I felt this awful sense of foreboding as though something terrible was going to happen, specifically to me, physically. When I hit transition, it unlocked a hidden beast. As soon as I no longer felt in control of what was physically happening to my body, it triggered an extreme state of fear. I think what made it worse, is that I didn’t recognize it for it was, I had no idea it was connected to something that had already happened to me, and it was a terrifying feeling.

Though this eventually faded to the background, I would still experience odd and unsettling things in the next few years. Feeling dizzy out of nowhere, suddenly feeling very alone and depressed (which I would later find out was actually something they call “switching” in DID), a compulsion to turn to food for comfort, and a deep sense of shame in who I was. I couldn’t pinpoint it at the time, but the evidence was there all along. I won’t even begin to dive into my teen years right now, but that’s a telling story as well.

Not so coincidentally, these are also the years I really started to grow in my faith. Though I had grown up believing in Jesus, I had no idea what it was like to have a personal relationship with Him until my mid 20’s. Looking back, I can see how it was His grace and mercy that my memories and healing didn’t come before it did. I needed that firm foundation before I would be able to withstand the storm, and so it was during these years that I grew in the Lord and thought that I had an unshakable faith, but all that was about to be tested.