Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Birds made their rounds around the clock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You awaken from a brief sleep. The clock shows 3:15 AM. You hear HE yelling, obscenities again. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It’s way too early for this, HE must have stayed awake through the night again. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You can hear HER running up the stairs, her muffled pleads overshadowed by HE’s fit of rage. You hear the faint sound of glass breaking, the sound becoming more clearer with every step you take towards your bedroom door. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Your grandfather’s clock seems to stop in the moment of time. You wish it all would stop. You wish your dad was still here. Your real dad. The dad you’ve never known, he died protecting the country… a single gunshot wound to the heart, the obituary read. So senseless, and short, that damn obituary. All he did for our country, and all the favors he did for people he thought were his friends, no one even bothered to show up. No one, except my mother and I. Holding HER hand, I did not yet understand that when I lost him, I lost HER too. Now he’s buried in a vat of dirt in the ground. I was three when it happened. I recollect a man in a bright blue suit, knocking on the door and giving HER a letter. I remember her tearing the crease, to a single piece of parchment paper reading over it with her trembling fingers, and then falling to the ground. I remember HER being hysterical. HER was pregnant with my baby sisters at the time, as she rolled on the floor, a carticuare of her own body. I could not help but giggle, for I could not understand what was happening. It was then that my mother shooed the men out the door and then ran up our spiral staircase and locked herself in her room. I could remember it was days of isolation for I fed myself with what was in the pantry, and when I had eaten the last piece of bread, I walked towards the nearest house I could find with my stuffed bear in hand, knocked on the door and asked if I could have something to eat. I remember the sound of flashing lights, the blue and red sirens seemed like they were dancing in my eyes. The men in suits came and took her from me. I was just five years old. Just a few years ago, when I was old enough to understand, I learned that she had tried to kill herself the first night she was stolen from me.
If you're anything like me, you've heard "you've got such an old soul" since you were old enough to hold a conversation.
I’m ready to go in. I dip my toes first, then I let my body slowly sink in the cold water of August. I find myself floating gently while the water is dancing around my neck. I was absorbing the heavy smell of the lake, invading my soul with appeasement. I was thankful for the silence of the water: the seal of the confessional.
For the sake of having a dictionary definition: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is a psychological reaction that occurs after an extremely stressful event. Some of the common symptoms are recurring memories, anxiety, feeling afraid even in the absence of danger and/or nightmares.
Acceptance is the phase that takes the most effort. And by that I mean, you've really got to work at it. It doesn't come naturally. For me, the acceptance came when I finally had to name my experience. That was the single step that started the journey. Saying it that single time emboldened me to take action over what I could do in the aftermath.
My name is Jodi-Lynn and this is my story.
Today I am a week away from the anniversary of my assault. I’ve spent the majority of this month quietly reflecting on what happened to me and what has transpired in the twelve months since. I’ve found my brain in a place that I would describe as “trama adjacent”—I am not reeling in the out-of-control trauma brain I once was, but that place seems much more tangible to me now than it has in months. I know that seems difficult to understand if you haven’t experienced this, so let’s take it back to the beginning.
There are many situations when someone has been through something, and as they are telling their story someone goes, 'well, I would’ve done this, or it couldn’t have been me, etc...' Although it doesn’t seem offense as it’s coming out the person’s mouth, it very much is, depending on the situation, especially when it’s something traumatic. Since the age of six to 14, I went through years of sexual, physical, emotional, and verbal abuse. A lot of the things I have been through are horrific and I wouldn’t wish these things on my worst enemy.
Right after an accident, your most pressing concerns are usually related to the health and safety of everyone involved, dealing with the medical insurance companies, and worrying about how the accident will affect you financially. Once you’ve secured your Toronto injury lawyer to help with the financial aspects, you’ll need to begin collecting all receipts for medical bills related to the accident. People don’t always realize in the early stages that they might benefit from speaking with a counselor or therapist until much later, when the claim is settled, and the time to submit medical expense reimbursement requests has passed.
When you suffer a life-changing accident, you’ll begin to notice some changes. Not only will you need to recover from whatever physical injury you have suffered, but you’ll need to recover mentally and emotionally, as well. You may begin to notice some personality and behavior changes after you experience an accident.
Revisiting trauma can be an important step in healing, but is it really necessary to heal?