Trigger Warning

Warning - this blog contains stories related to self harm and might be triggering to some individuals.

I struggle to know what stories I should include and which ones should remain untold. I pray I have found the right balance in telling the stories which will help those in similar situations know they don't need to feel alone. Also, telling stories that include my previous husbands scare me. They scare me because I want to be fair. I want to honor our relationship and especially my 1st husband as he is the father of those amazing sons. The following story is my story and I tell it because it matters to the overall theme of this blog - how incessant some disease is and how hard it can be to heal.

The inner battle between what I dreamed of and what I felt I deserved continued to rage through all the years of my 1st marriage. Every time my husband criticized me, I felt it to the core of my being. Every time he used a gruff voice, I cringed inside fearing it would escalate to violence. Every time he touched me, I recoiled and then took a deep breathe trying to remind myself he was safe. But I could also see all the good that was surrounding me. Our home, our family, my beautiful boys. I knew there was goodness in it and wanted desperately to hold onto it, to enjoy it, to find the peace I thought was possible.

I finally reached out to a therapist and had completed the initial visit and was unsure anyone could help, but was willing to try counseling because I was becoming desperate and I knew it.

Peace rarely came, but the arguments did. They were constant. We argued about how to make our relationship what we thought it needed to be. Looking back, I can see the 2 young adults wanting so badly for the other person to manage what was raging inside of them. "If only you would ......., we would be happy." It felt like every single argument, every single shouting match, that phrase would leave my husband's mouth and hit me square in my heart. I would argue that I was doing all that I could do and attempted to show him the error of his ways, but it never resulted in change, just more anger.

The boys were getting older, so we tried to keep our fights curtailed until after they were asleep, so many nights ran late as we beat each other up verbally. I was getting tired. I was getting emotionally exhausted and physically overwhelmed. It seemed to me that the only way an argument would end is by me conceding in a bucket of tears and begging for forgiveness. Each night, each argument would continue until I reached that position and each morning I would do the mental gymnastics to regain my sense of balance, my sense that somewhere inside me was goodness and strength. But it was starting to take longer and longer for me to regain my equilibrium.

One night, the argument got especially heated and my ability to handle it was waning. I didn't have the ability to stay in it and do the dance. I just wanted to find a place of peace. I attempted to leave by going for drive to gather myself, but he didn't want that and took my keys and wouldn't let me go. Our travel trailer was parked by the side of the house so I walked out to it, went inside and locked the door behind me. I took a few breathes and tried to gather myself.

The next thing I heard was him banging on the door shouting for me to let him in. I shouted back to leave me alone but that didn't sit well with him. I was sitting on the floor with my back to the door sobbing and wanting a reprieve from the shouting. The door had a small window above the door knob and with a single blow it shattered and came down around me.

I suddenly remembered a similar scene. I was a teen and my mother had decided it was time for my stepfather to leave our home. I'm guessing there had been a violent altercation that precipitated her bravery, but I can't remember the details. In the scene, it was night. We had all the lights off in the house and were sitting quietly as my dad shouted to my mother to let him in. She had locked the doors and had left him clothing outside. There was a large window in the living room that looked out onto the front porch and I could see myself sitting on the living room floor as he shouted and yelled "let me in" and other scary words. As he banged on the window my heart raced as I was sure he was going to break it. If he broke it, what would he do? Did he threaten to kill her? I couldn't remember the actual words, but I knew we were in mortal danger. Eventually, my mother relented and opened the door. We all ran to our beds and what happened next eludes my memory. As the scene played in my head, I picked up the plexiglass shards and started cutting my wrist. I needed it all to stop. The yelling, the fear, the incessant panic. I wanted to finally find the peace that was eluding me no matter how much I tried to find it. I don't have any memory of a clear choice, just the act of cutting my wrists. It was like a force inside me was making the repeated movement across my flesh and I was outside of my body watching it happen. My husband got the door open and saw the blood. He yelled and grabbed me and picked me up and put me in the car. "What have you done?" he shouted. All I could say was take care of my babies and I sobbed and watched from outside myself. I wasn't in pain. I wasn't scared. It was quiet. Was this the peace I had been searching for?

He drove to the hospital and I was taken into the ER and I heard the voices and clattering of equipment, but I wasn't back in my body yet. It was happening around me but I didn't feel anything. The stitches were given and still I felt nothing. The doctor came in and asked me if I was glad I hadn't succeeded in killing myself or was I disappointed? I wasn't sure. I couldn't connect to any feelings yet. I remember wanting the doctor to stop talking to me. I wanted to stay in the detached place I was in, so I got the energy together to answer the question. I said I was disappointed. I could hear my husband shouting, but couldn't really make out what he was yelling about and who he was yelling at. At one point, I heard my father in laws voice and knew he was there to "manage" the situation. He served on the board of the hospital and I could hear him telling the doctor what to do with me. There was a rule about making a patient who had attempted suicide to stay in the hospital, but he didn't want that for me. He wanted to me be released. I didn't care what I did, but was starting to connect to the feeling of being managed by my father in law and wasn't loving that.

My sister in law and her husband lived down the road from the hospital and they arrived and entered my room. They both attempted to talk to me and at some point, their kindness opened me up and I started to come back into my body and was finally able to respond. Between my husband, my father in law and the doctor, they had reached the therapist I had just started to see and they agreed that I could leave as long as I saw my therapist the next day. The appointment was set and I was released. It was arranged that I would stay with my sister in law and brother in law for the night and I found myself on their couch. My mother in law was with my boys and my husband went home for the night.

The morning came, my husband picked me up and I started therapy. The therapist was kind, gentle and took great care to make me feel safe. I remember the only choice for therapists at that time, in that place, were men. As I sit today, I have had several therapists that have helped me and I always chose women. It can truly matter for those of us who have been so violated by a man. But in this time, in the place, I was lucky to find some very kind, appropriate male therapists and for that I am eternally grateful.

The work began of teaching me all that I had not learned. It also included correcting things I had learned that were unhealthy. It wasn't easy, nor did it happen quickly, but I finally had someone who had knowledge and compassion that would assist me in managing all the pain that I felt.

As we dove into unpacking my life, I had to assess how I was feeling at the time of cutting my wrists. It wasn't something I had thought about doing, but I had thought about what it would be like if I wasn't on this earth. Would the pain go away? Would I finally find the peace I had only dreamt of? Would the pain I would force my family to feel be greater than or equal to the pain I was feeling? I never wanted to inflict any pain on my family, especially my sweet young boys. I knew that for sure. I was truly shocked at myself for the action I had taken that night. Still to this day, it's hard to realize that if I had been successful, I would have left my boys to suffer through such an awful legacy. I never wanted anything like that for them, even in my darkest thoughts. But I had cut my wrists in that moment and I had to come to terms with how and why I had taken such dramatic steps. I know now, that trauma is a cunning adversary and it needs to be dealt with or it will find ways to force us to deal with it. It won't stay hidden forever. If anyone reading this feels anything close to these feelings, hear me when I say, there is help! Call 988 at anytime for any reason and take the first step to getting the help you deserve!

It's hard to find an image to capture this story. First of all, I don't have that many photo's of myself as I was the one in charge of taking the photos like I imagine a lot of moms are. But also, because we don't pose for a picture and then think of how we can portray our sadness, our fear or pain. In this picture, I can see some of the sadness and some of the exhaustion. (you can also enjoy the intense '80's perm!) While it is fun to see myself in the younger body with less age showing in my face, it is hard to remember just how much pain I felt and wanted so much for it to dissipate. Time and work has healed those wounds and for that I am so very grateful.

I'll be honest and admit that I still feel a little bit of shame as I think of those actions and the potential pain I was risking. But it is quickly followed by giving myself grace because I was doing the best I could, with the knowledge and tools I had at the time. When we know better, we do better and as I began to learn and grow, I knew I would never take those actions again. My children deserved a healthy mom and I wanted so desperately to grow into the woman they deserved. Starting the intense work with my therapist was one of the best things I ever did. I needed it, I deserved it and so did my boys.

The journey to heal from my childhood and the trauma I endured would take decades. It wasn't a straight line from this moment to the healing I feel today. It was a long and winding road that even took me in circles at times. I've repeated mistakes more than once, hurt many people that I never wanted to hurt, and made decisions I wish I could redo. In the end, all I can do is share what I have learned in hopes that it helps someone shorten their journey from pain to healing. It is my prayer that I can use the mistakes and even the triumphs of my life to help those I come into contact with along the way. We are on this journey together and we don't need to tackle it alone. There is help for each one of us, in each step of our individual journeys and we can get the help we need at anytime. Reach out, you are not as alone as you might think. Together, we can find the peace we all desire and deserve.