PTSD, Non-Linear Grief, a Cracked Heart, and a Locked-Up Back

When I go quiet around these parts, it's usually for one of two reasons.

1) I am doggy-paddling through the beautiful chaos that is my life, or

2) I have crawled inside of my soul, finding myself in a struggling place mentally and emotionally.

The reasons I have been quiet around these parts lately is a little bit of both.

Truth is, since school started back up, the kids and I have been absolutely nonstop.  Single mama + third grade teacher + 2/3 of my kids in extracurricular activities (+ + + + so many more things) means my alarm goes off at 4:45am and I pretty much don't stop moving, thinking, planning, teaching, making decisions, making meals, going going going until I collapse into bed at night.  BUT, the beautiful chaos of our everyday lives is pretty good right now.  CK, Everette, and The Caboose are all loving school, CK is rocking soccer, E is getting the hang of coaches' pitch baseball, and (though the teacher workload is on FLEEK), I am absolutely obsessed with my third grade class this year.

So the truth behind the above truth is, I've been a bit of an internal mess lately.  Which is why I've been all up in my feelings and far, far away from writing.

If you follow me on social media at all, it probably hasn't been hard to figure out that I've been in a bit of a valley lately.  We all know I'm quite transparent... so when I am in a valley, I don't hesitate to let it be known.  I thrive on transparency, and through lots of counseling I am realizing that my tendency to be so open and honest and raw and real is likely a result of being so in-the-dark for so long in my marriage.  When I found out that there were many secrets -- secrets that broke my heart wide open -- my reaction to that was to move forward in the complete opposite way.  Put it all out there, always.  No matter how scary, or vulnerable, or hard, or honest.  It's almost freeing for me, and has been a big part of my recovery.

On that same note, as I've previously mentioned, I was diagnosed with PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) when things came crashing down for me.  Yes, the same PTSD diagnosis often given to war veterans.  You see, when something life-altering flips your world upside down, when there are images that you can't ever forget and words you read that you'll always remember and everything you believed in is ripped away -- it can cause the psychological impacts of PTSD.

I've been through several different therapies to work through it, including EMDR (so, so good).  And we all know I see a counselor regularly (and I'm not ashamed and will probably see her forever and ever amen).

But the thing about PTSD is that it knows the seasons.  It knows the change in the air, the turning of a calendar, the dates, the colors of the leaves.  So the body starts to feel, remember, ache with the changing seasons and the air and the turning of a calendar page and the falling of leaves.  And it can feel like the healing I've worked so hard to accomplish essentially abandons me.

If I've learned anything over the past two years, it is that grief and healing are not linear.  There may be a starting line, a time at which it all begins because of a traumatic event, a loss, a heartbreak; however, there is never a finish line.  Grief swirls around, it comes and goes, it carries you through peaks and valleys, down and up and down again.  Over time, the cracks in your heart let the light in, but the cracks are always there.

This time of year, as my PTSD swims through my veins and into those put-back-together pieces of my heart, I am also dealing with some "stuff" that has ignited it all even further.  I have tried to be strong -- often too strong -- and positive and hopeful and everything-will-work-out-just-fine.  And I believe in that mentality.  But also?  Sometimes things just suck.  And it's okay to not be Suzy Sunshine 24 hours a day.  Sometimes there is no silver lining, sometimes you just need to wallow in your feelings, sometimes you just need to commiserate and have someone to commiserate with you, rather than constantly hearing "it'll all be okay" and "you should just focus on the positive."

It's okay to sometimes just let yourself feel all of the hard feelings.

And as I've finally been allowing myself to feel, I realized I have been trying to be super positive and take the high road always and carry the weight of the world on my shoulders over the past month or two.  And my body literally gave up.

Like, I woke up in the middle of the night last night and couldn't move my head and neck.  Crying out in pain, alone, I tried everything to ease the misery that had taken over my neck and upper back.  I almost took myself to the ER, scared to death about what was going on, but managed to stay calm until Urgent Care opened.  A shot, two prescriptions, and what the doctor likely thinks is some kind of pinched nerve/pulled muscle + extreme stress causing my back and neck to literally lock up - and now I'm lying on the couch on a heating pad, reflecting on how all that I've been trying to navigate has manifested itself into my body telling me to STOP.

I sat on my therapist's couch two days ago, tears streaming down my face, working together to come up with a plan to navigate my reignited PTSD (thanks to this time of year as well as all of the "stuff" that has come up, making it that much worse). She emphasized the importance of self-care.  And how right now, and always during this time of year until about February, I'm going to have to be very intentional about taking care of myself.

"I do," I thought... reflecting on how much time I make sure I sneak in "alone" moments every other weekend when the kids are with their dad.

But what I realized last night is that even when I am alone, thinking I'm practicing self-care, I am still going 90mph, checking off to-do's and exercising and doing laundry and cleaning and catching up on all the things that get pushed away when I'm balancing being teacher and mama.

Last night's locked up neck and back was like WOAH....  A big wake-up call for me, a reminder that sometimes, I am not okay, and it's okay to admit that. A reminder that I am and always will be grieving.  That I experienced a loss like no other, a loss you can't understand unless you've lived it.  A reminder that my healing is not linear, that it's okay to still have hard days, hard weeks, hard months.  A reminder of what I deserve in life, because of all that I've battled and the ways I've worked to climb out of my valleys.  A reminder that somewhere in the beautiful chaos of my life, I have to learn to say yes to me. I'm still learning what the "yes to me" looks like, but I do know that it means navigating my PTSD in a healthy way, accepting that my grieving process is not linear, and embracing the ways my healing heart will always be just a little bit cracked. 

1-2-3

Brooks,

You, 'Boosey, were one of the biggest and best surprises of my life... a baby in my belly when I was told getting pregnant without medical intervention was essentially impossible.

You were one of the most well-timed, most intentional gifts God has given to me in my 36.5 years of life.  Like, He knew a storm was coming, and He gave me the promise of sunshine in you.

Just a couple months after your arrival, I was hit with the most heartbreaking, heart-wrenching, devastating news of my life.  My world was turned upside down, a life I loved ripped away.

Which also meant life as you knew it, even as a newborn, was gone.

One of the hardest parts of the first year of your life was me feeling like I brought you into a world and into a family that was supposed to be so different than it ended up being.  It felt wrong, that at just a couple months old, you didn't have all I dreamed of giving you in this beautiful life.

But.

From your first breaths, to your first months, and through your first year -- the toughest times of my life -- you remained so perfectly steady and joyful and sunshine-filled.  You were always so go-with-the-flow, blissfully (and thankfully) unaware of what was really going on around you, always promising me the sun would continue rising.

I remember vividly when everything happened... I could not get out of bed.  I stayed in a dark room, and my sister would bring you in so I could nurse you, and then she'd take you away so I could continue to let myself feel awareness and truth and grief I so desperately had to process.

For a very long time, I felt so guilty that a large part of the beginning of your life was stamped with so much darkness.

But.

I now feel with absolute conviction that God placed you into my world because you would be exactly what I needed to sit up in that bed, and eventually stand up out of the bed, and finally take steps forward, steps toward finding my light again.

You were and always will be the promise of a new day, God's promise that though there will be hardships, joy comes in the morning.

It doesn't take long to look into your eyes and see that you just get it.  You just know that life can be so, so good.  You feel happiness from the top of your blonde head to the tips of your tiny toes.

Toes that, today, are THREE years old.

Yesterday as you snuggled with me in bed before the sun came up, you practiced holding up three fingers over and over again.  And then you talked about how your nose was almost three, and your eyes were almost three, and your ears were almost three, and your hair and your tummy and your toes were almost three.

And it's so true... I remember seeing your nose and your eyes and your ears and your hair and your tummy and your toes for the first time, three years ago today.

Since you were born, and all through the valleys, you have been JOY.  You truly bring a smile to everyone who crosses your path.

You are silly and love being the comedian of our family.  Oftentimes, around the dinner table, you will put on a show and CK, Everette, and I will just laugh and laugh.

You are messy in everything you do.  Your shirt is rarely clean, and neither is your face.

You have a love/hate relationship with your brother, and you guys spend about 95% of your time together wrestling.  You absolutely adore your big sister, and your favorite thing to do with her right now is pretend like you are her baby -- which pretty much makes her world go 'round.

You have a big appetite and will eat most anything I put in front of you, and you will often eat more than all of us combined.  As soon as your feet hit the ground from the dinner table, you'll tell me you're hungry. You especially love cheese sticks and starbursts and "sandwiches with turkey in it and cheese in it."

You think superheroes are awesome (especially Captain America), you adore your "Laney-girl", and you love going to preschool and have the best time with your friends and your teacher.  When I pick you up each afternoon you immediately say, "I wanna talk about my friends!" and you'll tell me about playing with Julia and Hannah and Bennett and what Ms. Carolyn read to you that day.

You love to wear your "faster shoes," you always want me to point out the moon in the sky on the way to school in the mornings, and you're sure to let us all know when it's a "bootiful day."

I believe you always have and always will see the beauty and joy in all things - which is what I needed so desperately two-and-a-half years ago, and also how I know God placed you into my world so intentionally.  For which I will always be so, so grateful.

I will never know how I got so lucky to be your mama while you live life here on earth, but I promise you that I will do all I can to give you the joy and beautiful life that you give to me, each and everyday.

Thank you, Brooks, for the past three years.  There were valleys, there was darkness... but there was always you, my sunhine-filled, energetic, silly, blonde-headed, spirited caboose.  The essence of who you are reminds me that I am not walking away... rather, I was and always will be walking toward something beautiful.

I love you enough, I love you SO big.

Happy, happy birthday.

~Mommy