One of my many mental health diagnoses is posttraumatic stress disorder. It's a result of childhood abuse, crime victimization, sex industry exploitation, and some very bad relationships.
Every day I experience "triggers"—events that cause me to physically and/or emotionally re-visit a former traumatic experience. The sorts of triggers are numerous and usually involve my feeling violated, invalidated, or powerless in some way. Doctor’s exams, injections, blood being drawn, surgery, haircuts, rude people, criticism, rejection, being ignored… Anything that reminds me what an unimportant "thing" I am, can trigger me.
The sight of blood reminds me of when I saw my mother’s blood smeared on our walls and car while my father beat her. Every time I hear an animal or small child crying, I think that someone is hitting them and I’m taken right back to my childhood beatings or hearing my sister yelping as my mother whipped her with a belt. The sound of someone merely yelling at a child can be a trigger. I can’t tolerate watching any acts of violence in movies, on TV shows, or on the news.
When a car goes by with a bad muffler, my heart begins to race because my mother’s car had a bad muffler also. We could hear her coming when she was a few blocks away. It gave us time to look around and see if there was anything that would make her angry. If there was, we had a few moments to quickly straighten up.
I have to force myself to get into the shower every day because it was in the bathtub where I endured some of my mother’s abuse. Also, I think there may have been inappropriate goings-on with my father in the bathroom. But my memories are still hazy about that.
I’m triggered if I see an abused or injured animal because I empathize with their helplessness.
Certain smells can trigger me also. The aroma of baby oil and latex brings me back to the trauma of working as a sex surrogate at the age of eighteen (I had only had a couple of sexual experiences beforehand). Gosh, that was awful.
In general, anytime when I’m feeling stressed or lacking control I can become triggered.
I can react in a variety of ways once I’m triggered…
I may re-experience the trauma and dissociate to the point of actually being there all over again.
My body may go into a "fight or flight" response—heart racing and pounding, perspiring, shaking… I can’t control it. Sometimes I remain like that for hours.
I may get nauseous, dizzy, or even faint.
I may feel like someone is punching me in the face, head, and gut. Sometimes they kick me in the stomach and back too.
I have nightmares. Being stabbed, attacked, chased, publicly humiliated, trapped, and falling from a great height are all common themes.
Once I’m triggered, the negative voices begin and won’t let up—sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks. They say things like: "You’re disgusting," "No one will ever love you," "Why would anyone love you? You piece of garbage! You little sh*t!" "Who do you think you are?" "You’re nothing—nothing but a burden—nothing but a mistake!," "You don’t deserve love."
I believe ALL of my mental health diagnoses are just PTSD reactions. My schizophrenia, depression, anxiety, phobias, obsessive compulsive behaviors, binge eating and other self-destructive behaviors, borderline personality disorder, insomnia, etc.—all of it is a result of my past traumatic experiences.
The same can be said of my physical ailments—my spinal issues (nerve, joint, and muscular), chest pains, abdominal discomfort, pelvic pain, dizziness, eye problems, etc.
You may ask, "What does all this have to do with fathers?"
Well, this past Friday, I spoke to my father on the phone. As usual, he rejected me in a variety of ways. Once I hung up, I wanted to hurt myself. I was so angry with myself for being so darned unlovable. Why was I so bad? I wanted to inflict pain on myself. I knew that was wrong, so to resist the temptation, I made tight fists, digging my nails into the palms of my hands as hard as I could. It wasn’t helping. I couldn’t punch pillows as I sometimes do, because my spine was hurting too much. The urge to self-inflict bodily harm was overwhelming. So I chose to binge instead. Certainly it was better that hitting myself in the head or jumping out my window! So I binged and binged and felt horrendous (mentally and physically) afterward.
More than anything I want to forgive my father.
I once looked up the word "forgive" in Webster’s. It said to forgive means to let go of anger and resentment. I think many people use this word so easily without really knowing what it means. "I’ve forgiven so-and-so, even though they had the nerve to do such horrible things to me," they say with anger permeating their voice. Or they’ll say, "I can forgive, but I’ll never forget." Well, that’s what forgiveness means—a letting go of anger and resentment. It’s easy to just mouth the words; it’s much more difficult and complicated to actually feel forgiveness from the heart. True forgiveness is a process and a gift that can only come from the Holy Spirit.
Saturday, I went to Confession. I told the priest I’m having difficulty forgiving those who have abused, neglected, and/or rejected me (my father, mother, five siblings, grandparents, uncle, and ex-fiancé). He proceeded to deliver quite an attack against me, telling me I can’t forgive because of my own weakness and sin.
I felt invalidated, powerless, attacked, and very, very angry. How dare anyone tell me how to feel? Only God and I know what I’ve been through in my life. I think it’s normal to feel angry after experiencing 17 years and 9 months of physical and emotional abuse by your own mother! It’s normal to feel angry after being a victim of crime and the sex industry! It’s normal to feel angry with a man who proposed marriage despite the fact that he’s gay! It’s normal to feel angry with a father who has rejected you decade after decade and with siblings who reject you as well! I wish I could be like Jesus and feel nothing but love for all of these people—but honestly I don’t. I love them, but at the same time I’m very, very angry with them. Maybe I will truly forgive them in the future, but right now it’s hard to forgive when I'm enduring all the after-effects of abuse on a daily basis and no one is sorry for what they did. I wish I was a spiritual Wonder Woman, but I’m not—I’m just a normal human being who’s trying her best to get through each day in one piece.
I simply wasn't heard by the priest. After I left the confessional, I felt nauseous, dizzy, tearful, and overwhelmed by negative voices.
I felt the same way after a couple of other recent confessions. Once, I told a priest about my chronic depression. He said, "Don't be depressed. Do what I do—every morning I look at myself in the mirror and say, 'I'm happy,' and then I'm happy!" If only I knew before the cure my clinical depression was in my mirror all along.
Another time, I told the same priest my agony over not having any family. He said, "I don't have family either—they're in South America. I miss them." Now how can having a loving family in another country be the same as being rejected by every one of your relatives right here in your own backyard? Again, I wasn't heard.
And here it is Father’s Day. Another one of those blasted holidays that remind me how my family has rejected me. So I sit here, with 78 cents to my name, spine racked with pain, dizzy, and fighting voices and disabling sadness. And I know my father is in his mansion (located on 20 acres and next to his stables) and surrounded by his loving children—his pampered children, his clean children, his real children—the ones who aren’t stupid, filthy mistakes like me.
Please Lord, just help me get through another day.