Identity

I'm participating in a PTSD research study looking at the concept of self / identity as it relates to PTSD. It made me start thinking about how my sense of identity has helped or hindered my ability to learn how to cope with this disease.



In some ways, I think I was pretty lucky to have PTSD strike me during my daughter's birth. There's a huge change in identity that comes from having that squalling child placed on your belly. You're not just responsible for you anymore, you're responsible for that little person as well. For a lot of people, just that change from individual to parent can change your concept of identity. You're never quite the same person that you were. For me, those changes were just more extreme due to the PTSD.

It's also made it easier to accept that I will never be the person I was before this happened. It was easier once I realized that just by giving birth I wasn't supposed to be the same person I was before. It's much easier to accept the more extreme changes once you accept the basic ones.

Calming myself down

Last night was a better night - at least until my husband woke me up in the middle of the night because he was ill.

I called my best friend, and she reminded me of who I am, of what I believe, and what I know deep in my heart that I have to do, even though I don't want to do it. It brought me a measure of peace that I haven't had since I realized what had happened.

The sleeping part of last night was rough simply because everyone in my house decided to wake up in the middle of the night. I had a really hard time quieting my brain to go back to sleep, but I did manage it around 3:30 am.

I've wanted to do some artwork to try releasing my emotions, but I haven't been able to bring myself to do it. I guess I have a hard time with things that are not concrete. I'm always looking for a grade, and art is so subjective that I haven't been able to let myself just create. I may try that again this weekend. It's just that I look at the blank page and freeze.

Struggling

I'm really struggling right now. I'm finding it difficult to control my edginess and irritability. It's creeping into my interactions with my daughter and with the dogs. Usually, I can find my zen when I get home, but the last couple of nights the dogs have ended up in timeout, and the peanut has been kicked off of my lap for squirming.

I'm not sure how to deal with all of my feelings right now. I don't know how to stop the edginess from manifesting itself in my life. My husband knows something is wrong. I disappeared to the computer last night after the peanut went to bed. He knows I'm disconnecting, and so do I. I probably need to think about counseling again, but I kind of want to wait until I receive the records.

Just when I think I have this thing under control, something makes me feel like the PTSD has smacked me in the face with a baseball bat.

What do I do now?

I orginally got a copy of my medical records from my daughter's birth just a few months after she was born. At that time, I read them, discussed them with my family practice doctor, and decided to enter counseling to learn to cope with my experience. I put the records away, and completely forgot about where they were.

Last summer, things were really getting to me again, and since I couldn't remember where my records were in addition to them being somewhat incomplete, I requested a new more complete copy of them. By the time I received them, I was back in counseling, and I'd relaxed enough that I didn't really feel the need to read them.

When I was sick over Thanksgiving, I found the new set of records. I paged through them, re-read the narratives, and threw them out. I noticed that they specifically mentioned me "consenting" to procedures. However, I didn't remember that being in the original set of documents. However, the other day, I noticed the original set of the records was buried at the bottom of a drawer in my daughter's changing table. I made a note of their location in the back of my mind, and went about my business.

Yesterday morning, I woke up a little bit before the alarm went off. As I was laying in bed, it suddenly hit me. They'd changed the original records. It bothered me a bit, but I had work to do, so I put the thought aside.

This morning, I grabbed my original copy of the records, and re-read the notes on my daughter's delivery. In the original narrative, there's no mention of the doctor obtaining consent for the D & C, manual removal of the placenta, or fixing the uterine inversion. However, I'm positive that the current records have been altered to include "consent" issues.

What do I do? I don't know if I should request another copy of the records. I'm not sure if I should file a complaint with the hospital, state medical department, or find an attorney. I had registered a complaint with the state medical department a couple of years ago, and I'm sure my records were altered to avoid punishment at that time.

I don't know. I'm perplexed, frustrated, and angry right now. I feel like I've been re-violated because they're unwilling to face up to their own actions.

I'm Doing It!!!!

Since my last post, I've managed to not do any birthday party planning. It's amazing how far I've come on this PTSD journey. I can now right about what my problem / trigger is, and I can work out a plan to cope with it. I never thought things could get this good.

I'm doing it AGAIN!

Three years ago, give or take a couple of days, I reached the halfway point in my pregnancy. At that time, I went in for the "big" ultrasound. That test kicked off the complications I would experience through the remainder of my pregnancy.

Since then, as soon as Christmas is over, I start obsessing about my daughter's birthday party. What should the theme be? Where should it be held? Who should we invite? What kind of cake? What kind of gift? The baloons, tableware, and gift bags are scrutinzed and accepted or rejected.

It didn't click the other day when I searched for Dora the Explorer party invitations for over an hour. It didn't click when I started investigating venues. However, today my sister-in-law posted on facebook about her baby's "big" ultrasound. The light bulb went off, and I realized I'm trying to once again take back control over my pregnancy. Since my pregnancy is over, the next best thing is the birthday party.

I'm going to try to control it a little bit better this year than last year. I'm going to try not to get too caught up in the details.

Here we go again, but I see improvement

I was triggered yesterday. I have to admit that I was struggling a bit before I set foot in the door. Once I left work, and started to drive out there, I found myself having some intrusive thoughts about running into my former OB. My concern with every new doctor is which section of the clinic they work out of, I'm terrified that I may bump into my former doctor on my way to an appointment with a new doctor. Anyhow, I saw the only doctor at my clinic that does the essure procedure. (Thank God, it was a woman.) We were discussing my candidacy for the procedure, and she went back through my hospital notes in great detail. That was a sure-fire way to make me feel like a freak of nature. Then suggested having another child by c-section - since no one would blame me for making that decision after my difficult first delivery. When I turned that suggestion down, she suggested I bring my ipod along to "relax' me during the actual procedure. She had no way of knowing that my husband and nurses used my ipod as a distraction for me in the first couple of hours out of surgery, so I wouldn't ask a lot of questions about what had happened. (I had a brief flashback in the appointment over this one.) And, followed all of that up with a quick exam to analyze my anatomy for the procedure.

By the time I left, I was really struggling. I was shaking, edgy, anxious, and having intrusive thoughts. I was planning to take the rest of the afternoon off, but I made the decision to go back to work instead. Within a half hour of getting back to work, the worst of the intrusive thoughts had gone away, and the shaking had subsided. I was still a bit edgy, and anxious, but those symptoms take me longer to deal with than the others.

Overall I was better in a couple of hours because I've learned to read my body and symptoms. I've learned how to deal with them - acknowledging them, and switching them up. And, finally I've learned to cut myself a little slack when it happens. I still find an occasional new trigger, but the disease itself is becoming manageable in a way I never believed that it could be managed.

By the way, I also managed to advocate for myself during this whole encounter. I was upfront with her about my PTSD diagnosis, and I made her aware of my need for a great deal of communication to cope with medical procedures. I also made her aware that my daughter's birth caused the PTSD, so she was really trying to be sensitive of my needs. She didn't quite make it, but she definitely tried.

Giving Birth Online

Dear Radio Station Host-

I know that it's "news" that someone in our community chose to broadcast their child's birth live on the internet. I can understand choosing to play the end of this event on the radio once to encourage conversation. However, I do not understand choosing to replay it over, and over, and over again. Just because you found the experience of giving birth to be the best moment of your life doesn't mean that every other mother or father feels the same way about their children's birth.

The sound of a newborn's cry can be amazing, but it can also be terrifying when it doesn't happen. Just stab the knife into every mom or dad whose baby was rushed to the NICU by replaying those sounds over and over again. What about the mom who gives birth to a stillborn child. That's a knife in the heart to those moms as well because they didn't and will never hear the sound of that baby crying in those moments. What about moms who have complications after the baby is born. The sounds of a baby's cry can shove them back into the delivery room where people are flooding the room trying to save mom's life.

I know society chooses to portray giving birth as joyful, fulfilling, amazing and miraculous, but that isn't every woman's experience. I work as a moderator on a forum for moms who are struggling with birth trauma. They've had experiences that leave them with mental health issues like PPD, PTSD, and other postpartum mood disorders. Everyday with their new child is a challenge. Listening to your broadcast replaying those moments can cause a mom with PTSD to have nightmares, flashbacks, and other anxiety issues. I know because I suffered from them yesterday and last night.

Women who don't have the great birth experience often feel isolated. They're not allowed to talk about their child's birth because society doesn't accept these experiences as valid. When a woman tried to talk about it, she gets shut down. She's told not to share her experiences with other women who are pregnant. Trust me, talking about hemorrhaging at a baby shower will get a woman verbally shot down in less than 30 seconds. The last thing they need are more reminders that "they did something wrong" or "they failed".

Please consider that not everyone experiences things the same way before you decide to replay a soundtrack of a very emotional experience over the air.

Concerned Listener

Humpty Dumpty

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
couldn't put Humpty together again.

I caught the last 20 minutes of Trauma last night. One character told the other that he needed to go get help. The other character responded, "what if once I let it all out I can't get it all put back in?"

That's the way I feel now about my PTSD. In the early days, I talked about my trauma. It gushed out of me on a daily basis. It was like I had to find a place for it to go that wasn't inside me, so I talked, and talked, and talked some more. I had friends tell me to let it go, and still I talked. I had people tell me it didn't matter what had happened to me, and still I talked. I thought that by talking, I could get it all out.

Now, I know that there's more to it than that. Talking about it was like opening the vent on a pressure cooker. It allowed me to open the appliance safely. However, now I worry that I might let something out that I don't want to have to put back inside me.

PTSD became the filter that my thoughts were processed through. PTSD became the glasses that I saw the world through. PTSD became my dirty little secret. It became my binky.

So, now I have to find away to allow myself to break enough that I can re-assemble myself into the person I want to be. I guess I'm ready to take that fall.

Facing Forward instead of Looking Back

My daughter was in her rear-facing carseat for a long time. Most kids turn around at a year, but she was so small that she didn't hit the minimum weight requirement for an additional 7 months after that milestone. We looked forward to the day that she'd be facing forward, that she could see out the car window, and that we could hand her things from the front seat. The day she turned around was a celebratory day! She was finally a big girl.

PTSD is the same way. You have to find ways to look forward instead of backward. We have to fight to live in the present, and not the past. It's hard to accomplish this, and once in a while we all fall off the wagon, but you have to get up and try again.

The month of September was hard, very, very, very, very hard. I was finding myself starting to slide back down that slippery slope of looking backwards. So, I've started trying to re-focus myself on the present and the future. I've made plans to take my daughter to the pumpkin patch this weekend. I'm trying to make plans for Halloween. I'm looking at November, and trying to see what I can line up, and I've made plans for a weekend getaway just before Christmas.

The past is gone. I cannot re-live it. I cannot change it. I must find a way to move forward into my future.

33 weeks of memories

I had an email from my sister-in-law yesterday. She’s pregnant for the third time. In my head I know this is a good thing. They want this baby. They’ll do their best for this baby. However, it’s making me anxious, edgy, and upset. I chickened out of calling her yesterday. I sent a brief Congratulations e-mail. I didn’t put it together until this morning, but her baby is due on the same day Peanut was due.

That’s what has me freaked out. They have the same due date. Each week I’ll be thinking about my disintegrating pregnancy and birth. There’s no reason to suspect that her pregnancy will go the same way that mine did. It’s incredibly rare for that to happen, but for the next 33 weeks I’ll have that reminder of ickiness.

I have to find away to break my association between those dates. It’s not my pregnancy. It’s not my birth. It’s not me. But it hurts. I’d love to have another child, but I know that neither my husband nor I can face another pregnancy. We’ve decided to have the big V performed this year. I know this is the best decision we can make. But I’m still sad that I will only have one child, one pregnancy, one birth.

Thirty three weeks of memories…

The value of routines

The last month has been difficult, trying, and chaotic. I have Bell's Palsy, my husband has a cracked tooth with an abscess, my daughter switched daycare centers, one of my dogs has an ear infection, the other dog has a nose infection, my grandmother passed away, and my water heater fan needed to be replaced. We have been flying by the seats of our pants for the last month. As a result, I'm edgy, anxious, and irritable. I've been triggered by my health issues. I feel like everything's out of control. However, October is a new month, and we're hoping to get back into the swing of things.

I've found that having a flexible routine is key to my ability to cope with the PTSD. There's something comforting about knowing, in general, what's going to happen next. I don't feel the need to plan every minute of the day. I don't obsess over eating dinner at 6:30 pm instead of eating at 5:30 pm, but I've found that following my routine makes it easier to stay on track. It keeps me in the present and looking forward. It reduces my anxiety levels which I desperately need after the last month. Reducing anxiety means less irritability which makes life better for my entire family.

I can't wait to get back to my routine. Get up, get dressed, get peanut to daycare, go to work, pick up peanut from daycare, cook and eat supper, play with peanut, have an hour or so with my husband, and go to bed.

Is birth women's war?

I’ve been thinking on this post for a while. I’ve started writing it, and put it away because I couldn’t find the words. However, after reading this blog post, I decided to pick it up and try again.

Is childbirth women’s war?

When I was pregnant, I asked my grandmother about my mom’s birth. At 85 years old, she could still vividly remember that day and her experience. My mom can still relate the stories of my and my sister’s births. My best friend can pull her memories of each of her children’s births at a moments notice. When you get together with a group of women at a baby shower or a wedding shower, it seems like birth stories come out of the closet.

I believe that we’re genetically programmed to remember the experience of giving birth. The combination of the hormones, the pain, the fear, the anxiety, the joy, and the love imprint those memories deeply into our brains. It’s not that big a stretch to believe that those memories can sometimes be improperly stored causing PTSD.

All over the internet, on discussions of PTSD after childbirth, you’ll see an argument stating that this cannot be a mental health disorder because it’s a natural occurrence in a woman’s life. However, no one debates the validity of PTSD in soldiers returning from war. Men have been going to war for thousands of years. Why is their experience considered to be out of the norm, but a woman’s childbirth experience is dismissed or trivialized?

Men have found some interesting ways to cope with the fallout of the experiences long before the PTSD diagnosis was made during the Vietnam War. They formed and joined groups like the VFW or the American Legion. They go, and hang out with others who have had similar experiences. It’s a safe place to discuss the horrors of what they saw, the feelings they had, and they can process the events.

Yet, women don’t have these types of places to go. In today’s society, new moms are often isolated from society. We’re left to navigate this new terrain by ourselves. Our parents are working, so we frequently don’t have our moms or dads to rely on in those first few days. Our husbands go back to work typically a few days or a week after the baby is born. We struggle to establish breastfeeding, caring for the other family members, and try to get enough sleep to function. There are days when just getting a shower seems like an insurmountable task. Is it any wonder that those memories can get hung up under those conditions?

I’ve heard some people wonder if PTSD after childbirth is a rich nation’s problem, but I don’t think it is. I think no matter where women give birth, that they’re at risk of developing this condition. Women in third world countries know that childbirth isn’t safe. Their entire pregnancy is spent in an atmosphere of anxiety. Will I survive? Will my child survive? If something goes wrong can they get me to a doctor or a midwife? They live with those fears for months. Those months of anxiety set them up for developing this condition when their childbirth experiences go awry. Just because they don’t have the resources for diagnosis and treatment doesn’t mean that they don’t develop the condition.

Others have blamed the medicalization of childbirth on the development of PTSD. However, I know that medical procedures don’t cause PTSD. It took months of counseling to admit this, but my PTSD had nothing to do with the medical procedures that were performed. They were entirely the result of the way that I was treated while I was in the care of the doctors and nurses at my daughter’s birth. The PTSD was a result of a lack of communication, a lack of understanding, a lack of consent, and a hostile birth environment.

Yep, I did call it a hostile birth environment. This is something that doctors, nurses, midwives, doulas, and support people can change. Medical professionals can choose to treat a birthing mom respectfully. They can choose to speak to her with honesty. They can accurately, and without coercion, discuss her options. They can choose to allow her to make a choice, so that she can own that decision. They can choose to make sure she understands the positive and negative consequences of her choice.

Rage - the Drug of Choice for PTSD

Personally, I kind of like the way that righteous, justified anger makes me feel. When I'm angry I feel powerful, not weak. When I'm angry I feel invincible, not helpless. When the anger is justified, those feelings seem even stronger because I'm "standing up for the little guy" or "showing the man".

I allow myself to fully experience it. I relish it. I wallow in it. I'm almost seduced by it. I don't let myself let go of it, because I like the powerful way it makes me feel. Justified, righteous, and powerful - it's like a drug to my brain. It feeds the PTSD. I burn with the emotions.

The problem is, when I'm angry there's no room for happiness. There's no room for remembering or appreciating my daughter's joyful laugh. I lose so much if I let it take over. I don't appreciate a bouquet of fresh flowers, a beautiful garden, or a sunny blue sky. I hate what I lose when it has me by the throat, so I'm trying to teach myself to let it go.

My boss told me once that I needed to forgive the doctor to heal. Sometimes I wonder if he's right. The anger shouldn't be a security blanket that I hold close. I should hold my family close.

I had a dream

I had a PTSD dream last night. It was odd for several reasons:

1. I was a man.
2. I had conquered PTSD.

In the dream, I was a motivational speaker. I went around speaking to other people about what it’s like to live with PTSD, how to work with PTSD, how to be more than you were because of PTSD. It was amazing to see myself as healed, as more, as open as I was in the dream. I viewed PTSD as a mountain to be climbed, a wall to be scaled, a battle to be fought, or a war to be won. It was a part of me, and yet not THE defining part of me. It was simply a fact like having brown hair. In the dream, I considered myself stronger, wiser, and more powerful than I was before the trauma.

I hope I’m on my way to that being my reality.

Snapping Turtles in Truck Beds

One of my most vivid memories from the year I started first grade, is of a huge snapping turtle in the bed of a pickup truck. One of the men on the indian reservation had captured this turtle, and he'd brought it over to the church to show it off to all of the other families. He found this big stick, actually a good sized tree branch, and was poking it at this turtle. I remember watching the turtle snapping at the branch, he was angry, scared, and trapped. The turtle just kept spinning around in the bed looking for new threats.

The year I turned six was a crazy year. I lived in 4 houses and 3 states, one of those houses was on an Indian reservation. I attended three different schools, and I was physically attacked by my little sister nearly every day. My family went from being solidly middle class to living in subsidized housing because my father decided to get out of the military and go back to college. There was so much instability and upheaval in my life.

Using EMDR yesterday, I was 5 again. The fear, the anger, the hatred, the pain, and the feeling of being dismissed that I’d bottled up so many years ago, erupted from their hiding place as a result of my daughter’s birth.

I felt like that snapping turtle – everyone poking at me, no place to go, no place to hide. I was trapped, angry, fearful, hurting, and confused by all of the changes in my life. At 5 you have no control over your parent’s choices. You live where they tell you to live. You wear what they tell you to wear. You act the way you’re told to act.

I don’t want to be that scared 5 year old anymore.

I am a 38 year old woman. I am a wife and a mom. I own my own home. I have a career. I have friends. I am only trapped by my mind. I no longer live in an abusive home. I no longer have to worry about a roof over my head, food on the table, and clothes on my back.

I am not a turtle fighting to get free.

Begin with the End in Mind

At work, when starting a project, my boss and I try to think about how we think an application will be used in the future. Right now we’re working on a project that will revolutionize, at least for our company, the way we collect and track subcontractor data and performance (safety, quality, and earned value). Our initial goal is very simple; however, we can both see that this has the potential to morph into something much more involved than what we’re trying to accomplish right now. We’ve been trying to make sure that this application has the flexibility to change as our company’s needs change. Every time we meet to discuss it, we’ll say “begin with the end in mind”.

So, when I read this blog post, it made me start thinking about the way I am inconsistent in applying it to my PTSD journey. When I started counseling, my counselor defined some goals to achieve – no more nightmares, being able to look at my daughter’s baby pictures, and not crying every time I talked about the experience. We accomplished all of those things, at least most of the time, but I’m still having problems. The problem is that I didn’t define me. I simply defined a change in the symptoms.

Now, I’m heading back to counseling to deal with this again. I’m trying to get all the way down to the roots, so I can free myself from this burden. I have to redefine my image of me. In some ways I’ve accomplished it. I’ve actually become more accepting of my body since my daughter was born. I now own a swimsuit, something that had been missing from my wardrobe for at least 10 years. I bought a slinky dress that had my husband salivating (according to him, I’d never looked sexier). I’ve made peace with my cantaloupe sized boobs, and will actually wear deeper v-neck and empire waist shirts than I ever did before. I’ve learned to ride a bike – I mean trike, but it’s still a big change. I love work. I’ve always felt safe there, and despite the sleepless nights, the anxiety, the edginess, my performance remains stellar. So, what’s left? I don’t know, but obviously something is still missing because I’m haunted again. I’ve had three nightmares in three nights, this isn’t normal anymore, and I don’t like it!

Weeds On My Mind

My husband has been working on a major landscaping project for the last few weeks. Actually, he’s finishing up a major landscaping project from when we first moved into our home 5 years ago. For some reason, despite the use of landscape fabric and rock, the weeds have overtaken the landscaping around the front of our house. The weeds have even taken root in the tiny area between the pavers of the front sidewalk. Every year, it’s a pain in the butt to go out and weed the area. We’ve lost plants / shrubs to the ever increasing weed population. The sidewalk has started to spread wider as the weeds have pushed the pavers apart. This year, we’ve had enough. We’re pulling up all of the rocks, the landscape fabric, and the pavers, and starting all over with new fabric, mulch, and rebuilding the sidewalk.

So, how does this relate to my PTSD?

The weeds are the thoughts from the past that keep intruding into my present. They’ve been choking the life out of me for the last two years. It seems like every six months, I go through and yank them all out, but pretty soon they’ve taken over again. I have one passing thought, I don’t acknowledge it, I don’t challenge its validity, and I just let it hang out. The next thing I know, there’s another one, and another one, and another one. They grow huge, the roots dig down deep into the fertile soil of my brain, and they begin to take over.

I have to find away to turn my hyper-vigilance inside myself. I need to use it to root out the weeds / thoughts when they’re tiny instead of letting them grow big and strong. I need to finish my landscaping project, and free myself from the weeds in my mind. I want to be able to spend that time having fun, focusing on my family, being ME instead of dealing with the garbage of the past.

It’s not easy. I know it will take a lot of work, but I’m done with this… just like I’m done with fighting the weeds in my yard.

Acknowledging Irrational Thoughts

Wow!

I feel so much better. Putting a face on why I'm feeling the way I do, acknowledging my feelings instead of stuffing them makes them so much easier to deal with on a daily basis. It's completely irrational to be afraid of a billboard, a piece of mail, or a tv ad. I know that in my head. It's why I was stuffing everything down. It's too irrational to deserve being voiced. It's much easier to be angry. To blame everything except what's happening in my own head.

Denying irrational thoughts doesn't eradicate them. It reinforces them. Getting rid of them means accepting that the thought is real, and debunking it. I know this, but sometimes I get caught up in the feelings and stop listening to myself. I just feel.

Change requires constant monitoring of my thoughts. I requires that I debunk untrue thoughts and that I reinforce accurate thoughts. That's the only way to get past this.

I was never in danger driving to work, well no more danger than anyone else on the road is in on a given day. I was never in danger while watching TV or getting the mail. I must remember to reinforce those accurate thoughts to make it harder for the irrational ones to get through.

Clogged, Stuck, Trapped

So, my PTSD has been flaring up over the last several months. I know that my first trigger was the ER episode. I thought I had handled it well. I thought because I could watch the episode later that I was better. What a crock, it was just my brain faking me out again.

Then, the billboard was put up on the road I take to work. Every morning, I see that sign on the road. A few weeks later, a new billboard was put up on the road I take home from work. Great, now they've got me coming and going. Then they started their direct mail campaign. It's looking me in the eye from my mailbox when I get home. Then they started the TV ads. This week, it made the front page of the local paper. I feel bombarded and trapped. I can’t get away from the reminders.

"It's a suite experience!"

All I can think is its dangerous.

Watch out.

Don't go there.

It's NOT SAFE!

Run!

Trapped!

Hide!

Fear!

Escape!

Pain!

I'm anxious, edgy, and fidgety. I’m not sleeping well at night. I had still been keeping the nightmares at bay, but last night they came back with a vengeance.

I realized things weren’t quite right back in May. I told my husband that I NEEDED to go away on vacation. I thought a change of scenery, a change of routine would help, and it did for a while. But, like always, it was a temporary fix. A few weeks ago, he told me, “you just don’t seem like yourself”. The warning lights started flashing bright green and red. I’M BACK!

I don’t want you back. I want ME back. I thought I had conquered you. Why won’t you leave?

I’ve lived with PTSD my entire life. My father is a Vietnam Vet. I was born only two years after he completed his second tour of duty. I didn’t know what it was called, but my memories are loaded with memories of my father’s struggles with PTSD. I watched him have flashbacks. I watched him fly into a rage over something that should have been trivial. I lived with his skewed perceptions of the world, of safety, of his belief structure.

And, now I struggle to make sure I don’t create the same environment for my daughter. I’m in counseling for her and my husband. I sought help to break the cycle of this illness. I will not allow my home to be a place of fear and anger.

My counselor thinks that this is old stuff. I have to find a way to get past the state of fear that I lived in as a child that the trauma of my daughter’s birth dredged up from the depths of my mind. I must find a way to find safety within myself because the outside world will never be 100% safe.

I must not fail.