Two Words Triggered my PTSD and Changed my Life Forever
My childhood was beautiful in a lot of ways. My grandparents kept a seasonal camp site for their camper, as well as docking their pontoon boat. My dad was into speed boats, four wheelers, and jet skis. So was I.
We’d spend weekends or full weeks fishing, tubing, subbing the jet ski (you build up lots of waves and ride the jet ski under water), and roasting marshmallows. I’d buddy up with the kids who were visiting for a week with their grandparents, which was far too brief for them to realize how unlikeable I was and start bullying me.
Of course, there were other beautiful moments. But most of my favorite times revolved around the lake.
I’m not the only one who also experienced dark moments, obviously. But my mom’s diagnosed, but mostly untreated, Bipolar Disorder was often fueled by excessive amounts of alcohol. My dad too hit the bottle too hard. I saw a lot of ugly things that kids should never see.
My mom’s relationships with family members were rocky, at best. We’d sometimes go years without talking to or seeing my aunts, uncles, and cousins due to some disagreement that was never shared with me.
I was diagnosed with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in 2021, alongside a re-diagnosis of my bipolar disorder. I’ve talked so much here about how 2021 turned my life upside down. How I stopped caring for myself. How my episodes grew worse and more frequent. How I came face to face with some of my darkest demons.
It’s been almost a year since my life started to devolve, and I’m ready to dive into that story.
In late December, I started reading the fantastic book “Overdressed: The Shockingly High Cost of Cheap Fashion” by Elizabeth L. Cline. I’ve been concerned about the global impact of the fashion industry since 2015, but I’ve never read a more complete and well-formulated resource.
My obsessions usually start with lots of research. It’s a chicken or the egg moment. Did my mania begin before or after that book entered my life?
Whatever the case may be, I was inspired to change.
I began picking up visible mending and thrifting. These are not habits that I regret in the slightest. Rescuing clothing from the landfill helps me feel more conscious in updating my wardrobe. Visible mending brings a sense of peace to me, briefly, and allows me to feel closer to my Grandma who passed away in 2018.
However, I stopped sleeping. I could think of nothing beyond the horrors of the fashion industry. I read every book, blog, and reddit post I could. I constantly researched ethical companies, but found myself struck by how companies would focus on just one ethical issue, and avoid the others.
I began thrifting a lot. To the point that I KNEW something was off. I started hiding my Goodwill trips from my husband and mom. I told them about my newest scores, but didn’t highlight that I’d been back to Goodwill. I’d drive over an hour away to scour new racks.
Every item I bought almost felt like a high. I also knew that this was off. I felt far better than I ever had on any purchase. I wasn’t new to thrifting, as we’d bought a lot of our clothes from yard sales, thrift stores, and consignment stores as a kid. Nonetheless, the thrill I got with each new furniture peace, misformed rug, and damaged piece of clothing fueled me but concerned me.
I started buying supplies to repair things. I tried to source those tools as locally as possible. I knew this obsession would probably run the same course as every obsession before it. I would let this new topic or hobby take over my life, and then become disinterested for months or years. Ordering online meant that the tools and supplies might arrive after my buzzing brain had passed.
I would acquire a new item needing mended, but never do the mending. I would simply move onto the next purchase. My attention span didn’t allow actual work.
All along, I convinced myself that this was just me. Awakening and improving my life. The idea that any of this might be symptomatic didn’t occur to me. I’d been diagnosed 11 years ago, but had been in denial for 8 years.
One purchase changed my life. I bought a hand painting of a cup of coffee in front of a rising mountain. It wasn’t particularly good, but it was quirky. And my style and tastes were far from my normal preferences.
I talked a lot about hanging it in the kitchen, on our black accent wall. I’d make my morning cup of coffee and look at that painting and know that life is a beautiful blessing.
My husband stayed quiet about these conversations. I felt that, perhaps, he didn’t like the painting, but never asked. We threw around the idea of filling the wall with mirrors, baskets, or artwork from Etsy and friends.
One Saturday morning, we drove an hour away to buy an old trunk coffee table with matching end tables. The finish was a dark brown with various nicks and stains. But I loved it. We spent the afternoon rearranging furniture to make room for our newest additions. Then we set to hanging the three mirrors we’d thrifted.
After my husband mounted the mirrors, I started talking about where we’d hang my coffee painting. Once again, my husband stayed silent. I finally asked him.
“You don’t really like my painting, do you?”
I need to stress, this question was not a trap. I felt comfortable with him admitting that he didn’t really like the canvas. We would simply re-donate it. It was $1 and would probably be picked up by someone who could appreciate it more.
“Not really.”
I opened the back door and slammed the painting into our trash can. I yelled about how he’d lied to me. How hurt I was that I’d bought something with no function beyond beauty, and he’d decided I couldn’t own it.
Then I didn’t talk to him for hours.
Once we’d put the kids to bed, I broke down. I sobbed and snotted on the couch about how I couldn’t let myself connect and become attached to anything that didn’t have a practical use, because one day I may need to leave it all behind and the pain would be unbearable. I had to protect myself. I repeated stories of all the times that I’d needed to survive, while losing almost everything I owned.
I’m not going to dig deep into every instance of this. I’m going to briefly describe the times this happened, but delve further into a series of events that shook my sense of security and view of relationships.
There were often times that my mom would throw some of my things into a trash bag, with no input from me, and I would feel a loss for everything she hadn’t chosen. At times this was during a drunken fit, when she’d drop me off in grandparent’s driveway with nothing but a trash bag. This happened multiple times between the age of 7 and 10. She’d bring a happy meal and roses to school the next day, and I’d sit alone, eventually forgiving her because that’s what children do. I knew she was wrong. But I couldn’t help myself.
Other times, she’d pack our things and we’d take off across state during a manic episode. This always ended up with us in a police car headed to a station.
When I was in fifth grade though, I lost most of my belongings four times in a span of a few months.
I began sleeping with my parents when my mom got sick. I developed unhealthy habits like picking at my face in my sleep or laying still crying after showers due to incredible sensory pain. Sleeping with my parents was the only way I felt remotely safe.
Two nights before Christmas in fifth grade, my dad was traveling, and my mom lay awake in bed.
“Do you want to go to West Virginia for Christmas?”
The next morning, Christmas Eve, we skipped the traditional family dinner with my grandparents. My mom packed our things in trash bags, stuffed her Camaro, and we hit the road. By time we trekked up the West Virginia mountains, her car began to bottom out. We had to stop at a snowboarding and ski shop to wait for my Aunt and her husband to arrive.
When we finally got to their house, my mom was too eager to open Christmas presents.
What she didn’t realize was that our welfare Christmas wasn’t going to be satisfying. I opened the one thing I’d asked for first, a basketball. Then came cotton candy body glitter shaped like a giant gummy bear. Finally, a pack of white underwear 3 sizes too big. I opened these in front of family, began sobbing, and ran upstairs.
Weeks later, my grandma had all of my Christmas presents shipped to me. She often got mail order catalogs, in which I would circle gifts that I would like. She’d pick out what she thought I would like best. That year, I only remember one.
It was a lavender CD case. It was long, cylinder shaped, with a white door on the front. You’d push the door open and a long line of CDs would slide out.
Seemingly out of nowhere, my aunt kicked us out. She’d gone on a trip and my mom invited my 16-year-old cousin over. She’d ran away and moved out after a fight with her new step-father. I later learned that my aunt kicked us out for inviting her over.
Months later, my cousin continued to live from home. She died in a car crash once night.
The next morning, my mom and I packed what few things we could into the Camaro, and headed to southern WV where my other aunt, uncle, and cousin lived. I had to leave behind all of my Christmas presents except the CD case. They simply wouldn’t fit.
It seemed our fortune was improving once we arrived. My mom’s car broke down, but my aunt and uncle owned a van that she could use to commute to her new job as a stylist at the JCPenney salon. She used her discount to buy me beautiful and trendy clothes from the clearance racks. My aunt and uncle framed and carpeted us a bedroom with recessed lighting in their basement. It sometimes flooded during bad storms, but it was a huge upgrade.
I still don’t know why. But, one morning, my mom told me that a taxi was coming to get us and take us back up North to my uncle’s 1 bedroom apartment.
My aunt had kicked us out.
We could only take what could fit in the trunk. This time that meant parting with most of my new clothing and my beloved CD case.
Within a week, my grandparents arrived to take me back to Indiana.
We were running out of family to take us in, my mom couldn’t find a job, and the one bedroom apartment wasn’t big enough for the three of us. Almost as a blessing, I hadn’t acquired anything new in that week. So there was nothing to lose.
By Easter, my mom had given up and returned home. She’d sent me back to Indiana while she got her life together, but she wasn’t able to do that. She got a job 45 minutes away, splitting an apartment with a coworker and I lived with my grandparents.
I stopped allowing myself attachments to things that didn’t serve a purpose. I’d been taught, over and over again, that dropping nearly everything you own and suffering that loss was a normal part of life. Not only that, but this could happen at a moments notice and be completely out of your control.
Over 20 years later, and I haven’t been able to move past those beliefs. I keep a small wardrobe, becoming anxious if I amass more than what will fit in a small duffle bag or a carry on suitcase. I consider what of my ownings I’d pack if need be.
My Grandma’s old sewing kit is practical.
My ceramic skillet and stockpot would make the cut, but my stainless steel saucepans and skillet wouldn’t. The coffee pot and variable temperature tea kettles aren’t necessary.
Connecting with anything that isn’t necessary is dangerous.
Those two words, innocent to my husband, brought out that 10-year-old kid who lost control of her life and her possessions. I’d risked my security by buying something that wouldn’t make the cut if we were unexpectedly uprooted.
After a few weeks, my husband had me convinced that I needed help. I began therapy. but on our fifth session, she told me I needed medication and ghosted me.
I found a new therapist and a psychiatrist who re-diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder and PTSD.
I’ve spent the past year destroying myself, while claiming that I’m trying to get better. I have gone to therapy and taken my meds. But I’ve refused to practice self-care and drank to quiet the bees in my brain.
I wrote recently about how tired I am of my own bullshit and how I’m finally trying to get better. It’s going to be a hard, long road. I have trauma and pain to unpack and attempt to manage.
I’m coming up on a year since those two words triggered me and lead me to seek help. I’m hoping for a better year.
