Trauma Reevaluation (VERY Long)

As given to my therapist on our second session:

I looked at the timeline I first put in the trauma diary I am keeping on PTSDforum.com and I’ve been thinking about the events I described. Since then, I’ve been able to put the events into proper perspective whereas they used to be jumbled into a sort of…well…general mish-mash.

So here it is – revised – though some portions of my life still run together. For the most part, here I can put them into sharp relief.

August 5, 1977: Born. Youngest child = target. But it's more complicated than that. I am my parents' youngest child, but their only offspring. I am raised with Mother's kids. Father's kids raised by his late wife's mother because of his career (military) and her maneuvering. Am I the youngest, or am I the oldest? Tug-of-war.

Indeterminate age, pretty early: Mother starts in on me with her special brand of self-esteem murder. I’m not good enough, I can’t do anything right, I’m clumsy (she yells at me for that)…I remember she once told me that she wished she’d aborted me.

Dragged along w/ Mother as she deals with my oldest sister's mental illness. Develop a decided distaste for (and fear of) the trappings of psychiatric "treatment".

Entire childhood: From one port of call to another: Australia, Germany, England, France, the Orient; moves, brief stays and visits to distant relatives. It all runs together. I get snatches of memory when I try to think about it now. My love of language is reinforced. I’m usually the one who will try to speak to the natives. How oddly trusting.

5yo: Move to FL. Meet mother's family. Unsavory. They've got money, and an attitude. They don't like me (my father isn't good enough for them, and neither am I because I am my father’s daughter), I don't like them.

6yo: Adolescent female cousin teaches me how to play Mommies and Daddies. She's Daddy. Always. I’m not supposed to tell. (I feel conflicted. What she does to me feels good, but it’s not right.)

Male cousins start with the sexual molestation; apparently I'm their favorite blow-up doll.

Snapshot from diary: “It started with a lot of teasing. A lot of "my brother thinks you're pretty", that kind of stuff. I was very skinny and tall for my age. I looked older than I was.

The first time it happened, I was at my aunt's house and my 2 male cousins (her sons) were there. My uncle was at work, and my aunt had to run a couple of errands. She left the older one in charge.

We were in the living room and we were watching TV. Some commercial came on, and the younger one said I was as pretty as the girl on the commercial. I was embarrassed and said I did not. He asked his brother and he said, yes, I was. I remember shaking my head no.

I had to go to the bathroom. When I came back, the younger one asked me if I wanted to sit on his lap. I said no and sat back down on the couch. When our show went off, the older one asked if I wanted to play a game. It was a variation on "Doctor".

The first time we played, nothing significant that I can remember happened, but I was still uncomfortable.

The first incident happened during one of our "games". The older one pinned me down on the floor while the younger one lifted the skirt of my jumper and opened my legs. I told them to stop, but they wouldn't. The older one said he'd tell my mother that we were playing if I didn't shut up. The younger one took off my underoos and stuck a finger inside. It hurt, and I started crying. The older one put his hand over my mouth while the other...manipulated me with his fingers…

I can't go on. I'm shaking, and I'm about to cry.

Okay...I've composed myself enough to continue.

I remember with later sessions, they would put their fingers inside me, or their tongue. They would touch me all over (I remember hearing the older one say I had "nice nips"), the younger one liked using his tongue...everywhere.

At first, I tried fighting, but eventually, I would just go limp and try to ignore it.

Those bastards would tell me I wanted it, otherwise I would tell, yet at the same time would threaten me if I told. I felt like no one would believe me, so I kept quiet and just dreaded being anywhere near them.

Towards the end of the period they abused me, the younger cousin wasn't involved as much, but the older one would just go after me whenever he had an opportunity. He made me suck his cock, he tried to penetrate me, but eventually gave that up, but always his fingers...

*SHUDDER*”

My good friend Jackie died. He had leukemia and I used to always be sad for him; he was in constant pain. He called me Chabacha and he was very sweet. I still miss him.

Between 6-9 (I don’t remember the age): There’s a boy who lives a few blocks from us (I remember the street name: Charlovix) in the corner house. He would try to get me to kiss him or touch him. I was scared to go anywhere near that house for fear he would come out and bother me. Even now, when I go back to New Smyrna and drive by that house, I get the creeps.

9yo: We moved to NC, right in time for both parents to become ill.

Mother - 1st major stroke: I remember sitting in her darkened hospital room. She was so helpless; couldn't talk, couldn't move her left side. I still loved her then, so I actually felt her suffering.

Father - Colon cancer - removed 3 ft of his colon.

I remember feeling fear. Cold fear. What would I do without parents?

We shared a house with a friend of my father’s and his family (wife, 2 sons, 1 daughter). The 2 sons used to take me into a room in the basement and play “House” with me. I didn’t like the way they touched me, but I’m afraid to tell. What we’re doing is bad.

10yo: Move to Ohio. The end of 5th grade, summer, and the beginning of 6th grade. Meet more of Dad's family. I like them, they like me. Cousin Debbie becomes my very best friend. Time moves like a slug traveling a mile, but it fazes me not.

11yo: Move back to FL. Hello, depression. Tears, tears, tears. I hurt and I don't know why. Mother "suggests" that I stop moping around (with a few well-chosen words about ending up like my oldest sister). Develop my phobia of going insane. Spend every day in my school guidance counselor’s office crying. Mother ignores or downgrades any concern shown on school's part. I’m just trying to get attention, apparently.

13yo: Enter the Cave. There's no turning back now. Darkness ahead of me, darkness behind me, darkness around me. "How can someone so intelligent be so sad?" I have so much for which I should be thankful, opportunities to travel and learn. More from Mother. A little piece of me dies - my love for her. From then on, it's war. Screaming matches almost every day. Maybe the world would be better off without me.

15yo: Attempted rape. Male cousin. I manage to get him off me and escape. I hide in the park’s public bathroom until I hear my father’s car horn. He was none too happy when I told him what happened. He wanted to rip my cousin’s head off. But nothing happened…

Adolescence: It all runs together. Debbie commits suicide. Leila (really good friend) killed by a drunk driver. Paternal grandfather dies. Buttons (golden retriever) dies. Try to kill myself often. No validation and school can only force the issue so much. Dad's kidneys fail. Graduate high school, leave for college. Come back to help Mother take care of Dad. More than she deserved. I didn’t want to share a planet with her, much less a house. Uneasy truce.

19yo: Work full-time, school full-time. Myself no time. Nervous breakdown. 1 night in mental hospital. I don't belong there. Mother makes me wish I'd stayed longer with some choice berating when she accompanies my father to pick me up the next morning. I’m going to become my sister.

Bacterial meningitis - my wish almost comes true. I come close to death, but not quite. Spend 6 months in bed.

20yo: Ding, dong, the witch is dead. My years of wishing finally come true. I feel guilt for wishing her death. Take on care of my father by myself. Work full-time, school full-time, Dad full-time. No time for me. Nervous breakdown.

21yo: I discover the booze. I love the booze.

Paternal-side half-brother shows up out of nowhere and offers to take on Dad's care. Fine. I can finish school without a burden. Not so fast. My dreams get lost in the shuffle. I don't want to be a forensic pathologist anymore.

21-25yo: Sexual research project in full swing (started @ 18). What I like, what I don’t like. Boring. 1 actual serious relationship (but I don’t want to get married), a bunch of 1-nights, and a few boyfriends. I’m confused. Am I heterosexual? Homosexual? Both appeal to me. I settle on pansexual, then decide to ditch labels. I have enough problems.

26yo: The nightmares start. Not so many as to worry me. My therapist tells me I have dysthymia. I don’t tell her about the nightmares. I just figure I’m stressed out.

Memorial Day, 2006: Well, well, well. Run into one of my molesters. Lovely. The nightmares and flashbacks go into overdrive. I don't sleep. I don't want to leave the house. The world is not safe. Not like I didn't believe that anyway, but, well.

July 20, 2006: Diagnosed with PTSD and GAD. I have "anxiety issues".

October 4, 2006: My brother dies. He’s the only sibling that I felt could really understand me. I miss him – terribly.

November 24, 2006: I’m coughing a lot, and producing phlegm. I just think I’ve got a touch of something. The ol’ bronch is going around, it’s just my turn. I figure it’ll be over in a few days. My brother-in-law is also not feeling too hot.

November 27-28, 2006: Spent the weekend coughing up enough phlegm to fill a medium-sized warming bowl. Threw up a few times. Sister asks if she wants her take me to the ER that evening. I tell her no; if I still feel bad by morning, then yes. I’m up the rest of that night. I start to get ready to go to the hospital – it takes me 2 hours to put on a pair of jeans and a sweater. Not good. I get to the ER and get a bed within 15 minutes (the magic word is “asthma”). I get a shot to stop the vomiting, one for my lungs to clear out, and 2 industrial-strength breathing treatments. Sent home with meds (oooh, codeine) and orders to follow-up with my doctor.

December 2006 - January 2, 2007: Sick with the bronchitis/asthma. Weak. Not able to do much. Don’t sleep well. Can’t breathe well. 3 rounds of steroid therapy, super-antibiotics, hydrocodone, etc. Wow. Voice starts to go.

March 12, 2007: Sent home because I can’t talk. Don’t get me started. No more sick time – taken up by the month I was out w/ bronchitis. I find out that in addition to asthma, allergies, high blood pressure, LERD, PTSD, and GAD, I have sleep apnea. Is there something not wrong with me? Start to be glad I have a MER account. Drugs cost.

April 2007: Go to one of the best ENTs in the country, Dr. Patel, for a videostoboscopy. He finally tells me what’s wrong with my voice: muscular dysphonia. He recommends speech therapy. Fight with Aetna to get coverage. Finally grant me 2 months. Because I don’t have a brain injury, nor did I have a stroke.

File ADA paperwork – they mail it 3 times to the wrong address, and I finally have to go pick it up from work.

May 2007: Start speech therapy. About time. I can finally go back to work on 5/18/07 -- but as a Claim Service Assistant, but off the phone to rest my voice (and my nerves!) Having trouble transitioning (I don’t really have problems with the other adjustors, but people outside of my division give me grief when I do things that I’m licensed to do, but my profile says something else). Not quite sure of my role anymore.

I am finally able to be back-paid for sick time since I was sent home before my work anniversary date (when PSL renews) but the time is FMLA-protected because it’s all related to time I took off in Dec. I send my HR rep a thank-you card for all his work. I didn’t know he likes Snoopy.

July 20, 2007: 1-year anniversary of diagnosis. I have done a lot of reading, a lot of research, a lot of self-analysis. I purchase The Courage to Heal and am working through it. I recognize myself. Big-time.

I have tried to put my relationship with my mother into some perspective. I begin to yearn for her, but not her so much as a “mommy”. I never had one, and I want one. The way I look at her is not so much black-and-white anymore.

I acknowledge my conservatism and embrace a religion. I decide that I can live with faith and skepticism in the same brain. I’m a questioner, but didn’t God make me that way? I still question, and I know my search may not be over. I’m a seeker. Always will be.