Trauma in a Box

 

[Box o' Trauma: source]

One of the things my therapist has suggested is to envision a box in which to contain my trauma when I can't look at it. This came pretty naturally because I usually bottle up my trauma. That's how I survive. I put my childhood trauma (neglect, physical, emotional, environmental, etc.) in the same box with the trauma that came from losing a child, 17+ miscarriages, nearly losing Alli in the womb to the Kell antibody, dealing with the emotional terrorism that came with the attempted framing for negligent homicide by the state, and all the other things I've suffered. It's a lot, and it would be easy to be overwhelmed. That box saved me long before I ever created an image of it in my mind. I don't like to think about boxes because that leads me to the obvious box, the little white coffin into which my waxen-faced angel was placed just over 15 years ago. But I'm thankful for this invisible box. But there's more to healing that keeping the trauma in a box. 

                                      

[Unpacking the box--one leads to another: source]

The hard part is pulling out that trauma and taking a hard look. I mentioned this last blog, the one from a couple of months ago. Unpacking it can be painful, sometimes, resulting in tears. It involves looking at how my trauma affects others and vice versa. The therapist gives me strategies to try to avoid sharing my trauma in unhealthy ways, namely, by breathing through it and grounding myself in physical senses. It's hard to remember to do it in the moment. It's a work in progress. She's also referred us to a family therapist to try to work on all of this together. I guess we'll see how that works. 

[Jack-in-the-box, when the contents of the box can jump out at any time: source]

And you'd think I could just unpack the pain once and be done, but it's still there. I still lost my babies. I still dealt with abuse by the state. I still have years, decades, of unresolved trauma at the hands of family, neighbors, governmental figures, and more. And I will never get an apology. I have to find a way to come to terms with my pain for my sake, to forgive and let go not for anyone else's benefit but to release the poison I don't need in my heart. The goal is to be able to be able to look at her pictures without the pain, to be able to cherish the memories without the anger at the people who have intentionally attempted to steal the things from me that were most precious. It's hard to discern how close I am to that goal. 

[How the box sometimes feels, but without the fun; source] 

Just after we lost Alli and started attending loss groups, the experts in charge laid out the five stages of grief, and I took comfort that the pain would be gone once I got to that last stage. I'd learned about stages of childhood development, and they were (more or less) orderly(ish) and predictable(ish). Then, through hard experience and reading further, I learned there is no scientific basis for those stages. They were created by Kubler-Ross to help people deal with their own impending deaths and had no basis in studies. There is no actual formula for pain. I could go through numbness, angst, anger, peace, etc. and countless other emotions all at once, one at a time, or in triggers that could shoot off unpredictably. Even a rollercoaster is too pat and planned for the experience of grief. Grief is an untamed bronco that could go any which way at any given time. Even that is misleading because there's a way off a bronco. Once a person is on the grief train, it's always part of life to varying degrees. Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but that, too, is a lie. I have acquired a scab that can fall off at any time. As long as I keep the trauma in the box, I can generally exist day to day. But can I do more than exist? Who knows? I'm not there yet.  

[The Box's true identity: source]

The box is lurking in my heart and mind. It's always there. It sometimes chokes me and makes it seem impossible to sense the sun or see a way forward. Sometimes, it feels like I can keep the pain in the box with no problem and continue to live my life. Sometimes, I exist in the box, in a world where everything is pain. I feel broken, kept together by a hodgepodge of chicken wire and duct tape that can fall apart at any time. Sometimes, peace of mind feels temporary, an illusion. But I know I can find lasting peace in knowing I can hold her again one day, in knowing she's still there. I just can't see her. That helps, but not all the time. One day, I'm hoping and praying for that peace to last and feel more substantial. In the meantime, I will live for those moments of peace given me from on high and pray for more. 

Angelversary Trauma Delayed

[Newborn Alli]

I have been so busy lately that blogging has not been a thing. I'm going to try to get back to it. A week ago today was the anniversary of her death. She would be 15. Every year for Alli Day, we try to be anywhere but home. Having an adventure keeps my brain on anything but my pain. A couple of years ago, when we went to Montana for a ghost town, I didn't even realize it was the day until the next day.

 

[Hiking: Source]

This time, we decided to head to a major hike up Mt. Timpanogos. One of the kids tripped a couple of days before, so we decided the strain of that hike would be too much. Instead, we stayed at a bed and breakfast and drove up the Uintas. Our end goal was a fossil museum in Wyoming and a shorter hike in that same vicinity. We spent the day busy and didn't arrive home until late. I thought in a distant way of Alli but didn't feel the pain. 

[3-way tummy time-a pic from Alli's baby book]

The next day, we went through Alli's baby book. I felt the standard emptiness, a few tears, but I didn't break down. Until I talked to my therapist. It's been good to talk through my pain with an outside set of ears. We've been working on trying to separate the joy we had from holding her for four months from the trauma of DCSF attempting to frame us for homicide. Usually, I can mentally close the door at the end of a session. This time, especially with how recent the anniversary was, I collapsed into an agonized puddle and felt gutted the rest of the day. It was also the day I had to do grading, a thing I changed classes to avoid. Grading eats me alive if I let it, leaving me very little time for time with my kids or anything else. The two events left me traumatized and wrung out. I survived, but it was hard. 

[mourning: source]

I know it's good to let myself feel it sometimes. It's good to push through the pain to find healing. But it was rough. It's not something I'm eager to experience again, but I'm sure it was therapeutic. Somehow. I'm just glad that day only comes once a year. 

Finally Seeking Help

[My baby came and left; source]

Just under 15 years ago, Alli, the much-desired little angel, came to us. Four months later, she left us, leaving us all reeling, especially her older sister who lived for her every breath, every sneeze, every smile. Her older brother resented her but was still terrified when Alli rolled into a pillow and suffocated.  He found his bed terrifying and wouldn't sleep in it. We took the kids to a therapist, state-provided because we couldn't afford other options. 

[Therapy...supposedly; source]

The kids' therapist scarcely talked with or even looked at the kids over the months we went to he. She was supposed to be their therapist, but it turned out she was just there to get into our heads and report whatever may help the state. It wasn't enough that DCSF had violated HIPAA laws to be in the room when we found out our baby died. It also wasn't enough that they violated other laws in trashing our house before taking pictures or falsifying pictures of where the baby died. It wasn't even enough to hide any evidence that showed us in good light. They also had to rub our noses in whatever information we'd entrusted to a therapist. They clearly were not satisfied with trying to frame us for negligent homicide or marking our records, so we could never adopt or work with kids. It wasn't even enough to verbally abuse us or falsify reports against us. They had to destroy our trust in everyone.

[Suffering alone; source]

Other than a grief counselor for us at the same time, it was a very long time before we could trust anyone calling themselves a counselor, a therapist, or a psychiatrist. They were traitors all. Or at least we didn't know which we could trust, so we didn't trust any.

[Trying again; source]

When Alli's bereft older sister showed ongoing emotional scarring in middle school, we tried again with a religious counselor, someone who we knew wasn't obligated to say anything to the state. But our child had a hard time speaking to strangers, which was foundational to the struggle. The appointments helped some, so we ended appointments when things seemed to stabilize. But stability and healing are not the same. 

[And again; source]

Again, we sent both kids to therapists in high school, but neither really made much if any progress. I've heard again and again that therapy is supposed to be magical or at least helpful. I still haven't seen it for myself, though my friends have shown progress with their own situations. 

[Seeking help; source] 

That "therapist" who had betrayed us had diagnosed me with being "normal." Over time, one person in my family after another exhibited emotional scarring and distinct mental issues, so I had to be the "strong" one. But of late, my armor has revealed its cracks. My friend, who is a mental health provider, has been helping us sort out our emotional issues over the last couple of years. She's helped us get meds figured out. Over the last couple of months, she has encouraged me to seek mental help for myself because I seem to be one short step from an emotional breakdown. In 15 years, I can't say I've healed. I've just borne enough emotional scar tissue that I could function without thinking about the pain. I've just kind of trudged forth, bearing the emotional and financial weight of the family because someone had to do so. Now that my youngest is over 18, and DCSF, our constant boogeymen/emotional terrorists for 15 years, have no power over us. So, I've opened the door to get counseling. I don't know what to expect, but I hope it helps. 

Approaching Her Birthday

[Alli's birthday comes again; source]

 Alli would have been 15 next month. She could have been studying to get her learner's permit. She could have been thinking of a crush, hoping for a date. She would have been a fully-formed human looking forward to adulthood. Instead, she's our angel, the first of many. All of the others didn't even make it to birth. She's still fully formed; we just can't see her. We lost her at just shy of four months. For almost 15 years, we have been members of the Empty Arms Club. It's a disconcertingly large club. It's always nice to be understood by fellow members, but I don't wish it on anyone. The dues are too high. I'm thankful to understand how to show empathy and understanding. I know that's one good thing that has come out of the worst time of my life. I just wish I could say that fifteen years have brought true healing. 

[The state of my shattered heart; source]

I truly don't know what healing looks like. I took a course on trauma writing, so I know writing can help. I've read about the five stages of grief, but I've also heard there is no reliable research to back them up. I can pass through most days without feeling the agony of loss, but I'm not sure if this is what's called healing. This is what fifteen years have granted me. When I really face the pain, it almost feels like no time has passed, and I'm in agony again. After watching me break down, my psychiatric healthcare nurse friend recently pointed out I could still use therapy for real healing. She also said the combination of a childhood of abuse, the loss of 18+ babies including Alli, dealing with the fallout of losing Alli--including DCSF attempting to frame us for negligent homicide--and all the other things I've suffered have left me with depression and PTSD. Yeah, pretty sure I'm just surviving instead of actually healing. But therapy costs money. It's never fit in the budget. Maybe one day. But I've always been the most fully functional of all of us. Everyone else's therapy always felt like a higher priority. 

[Research; source]

I did some research early on to find out what real healing is supposed to look like. I read books of child loss for the faithful, but none of them quite encompassed the kind of loss wherein a thought of the child also drummed up months of trauma at the hands of the state nor years of futile striving for a rainbow baby that would never come. I've heard you can tell you've healed when you can reflect on the joys and forget the pain when you look at the person's picture. I'm nowhere near that. Alli's pictures are still hard for me to look at and can even be a trigger. I usually do a pretty good job of not thinking of the gaping, bleeding hole in my chest. However, slight references to child loss or even babies have set me off more than usual recently. Maybe it is because the anniversary is coming up. The anniversaries and birthdays are always the worst days of the year. Maybe it's lack of sleep or an excess of stress. Little things also remind me of my late dad, who died a year ago this month, and my brother, who died the month before my baby did. But worst of all is when something reminds me of my baby.

[Source of Healing; source]

 I also know healing, true healing, comes from the Lord. I've sought that, and I feel like searching the scriptures and prayer have helped a lot. I've sought to understand what brings peace and what brings joy, and it all comes back to a relationship with the Lord. That is a work in process. Maybe one day, all of this will come together to truly heal my soul. In the meantime, I will continue to trudge through life, ignoring the gaping hole in my life and heart, hoping for a healing that may not come until I hold Alli in my arms again. 

Triggers and Snakes

[My angel]

I've been blogging about all kinds of losses. This one may seem trivial to most, but it so profoundly rocked my child's world that it shook all of us and brought up all kinds of memories and feelings about loss. I don't think my child ever recovered from losing a beloved baby sister. They were so close that when my baby died a few months after Cedar turned three, Cedar was devastated. Cedar was the first to tell us a sister was coming, the day before we found out we were pregnant and months before we found out for sure we were having a girl. After the baby died, Cedar told us how it happened because Alli came back and told Cedar. It was always clear they had a special bond that transcended the veil. We had not told our three-year-old how the baby had died., but the knowledge was there, as with Alli's coming. Cedar's whole life was about that baby sister, so the loss was devastating. 

[Three-way tummy time--a moment that would never happen again.]

We got a counselor for my kids, but the counselor's full agenda seemed to be ferreting out information against us that DCSF could use to destroy us. That counselor rarely even looked at little Cedar and talked little more to Alexander, mostly banter. And we didn't know how to help Cedar sort through such huge emotions for a little child. Everything I read said little ones bounce back quickly, but it's been 14 years. I don't think Cedar ever bounced, even as the big 18th birthday approaches. Our terrible experience with a counselor meant it took years, until Cedar's middle school years, to seek out another. It helped some but not as much as we'd hoped. The loss of a baby sister formed the foundation for the rest of Cedar's life. I would not doubt that depression, anxiety, and a host of other physical and emotional ailments all relate to that critical event. I'm sure all of those emotions were stirred up and triggered a short time ago when Cedar found out a beloved snake had frozen due to the failing of a breaker. 

[Sweet little boy]

A year ago a little before Christmas, Cedar expressed interest in a banana morph ball python. Cedar has always loved animals, especially baby animals. When Cedar loves is deeply loved, even without outward signs of that. Christmas morning came, and Santa had brought a 3-month-old banana ball. To say Cedar was ecstatic would be an understatement. Cedar had eyes only for that baby and very carefully raised little Sol with care and tenderness, feeding him little frozen rats when none of the rest of us could. With all the knowledge gained from Zoology classes in high school and all the enthusiasm of an aspiring zoologist, Cedar tenderly assembled a bioactive cage. 

[We had a ball]

Fast forward almost a year from that Christmas morning, and Cedar's struggles with school and life crowded out conscientious care of the cage and the snake. The plants failed one after another. The rest of the cage was safe, sealed, and spacious. Sol became a nipper. We're not sure why, but when we put our fingers near the entrance to his hide, he'd snap. Possibly, he thought we were offering a rat. Possibly, he just had a nervous disposition. Still, Cedar faithfully fed him first every week then, after he became a year old, fed him every other week, which seemed to be about as often as he wanted to eat. But it meant that the most attention the snake got was right around feeding time. 

[The culprit: source.]

One night, Sol seemed agitated, moving from one place to another. I figured he was excited feeding time was coming up or that he decided he wanted to explore his cage. A day or so later, Cedar expressed concern over the heater. I mentioned it to my husband, who is usually our tech guy. None of us checked right away, expecting someone else to do it. None of us was unduly concerned. But Cedar checked on him a couple of nights later, and it turned out the breaker had failed, and the snake had gotten too cold. He had died. We all felt bad we had failed him. We all could have paid closer attention to the heater, but no one did because everyone expected someone else to do it or didn't fully grasp the danger. 

[mourning: source]

Cedar was devastated and riddled with guilt to the point that sound sleep didn't happen that night. We all felt tortured, filled with empathy for the snake's last hours and for Cedar. At first, Cedar wanted to wait and work through mourning. Sobs wracked Cedar's frame, though Cedar isn't much of a crier. Mourning and pain are usually felt deeply, under a logical, businesslike exterior. Cedar spent the morning also brainstorming about how to improve conditions and begged us to haul off both snake and cage. Then, in a quick search, I found the perfect snake, an older one that would be more durable than the baby we got a year ago, yet another banana morph python called Minion. When I mentioned him, Cedar expressed hope for the first time since we had discovered the snake the night before. The tears dried up. That didn't mean the tears stopped for good. Cedar has had several bouts of remorse and sadness since. But hope was definitely present. Though my mental health nurse friend said she, herself, would need time to heal, I knew Cedar would do better with this snake. 

[Much bigger boy; source]

My heart dropped when I found out someone else was going to come look at Minion the Banana that night we were looking at snakes, the day after we discovered Sol's loss. I found backup plans in the form of other snakes now that Cedar was eager to try again, but most were either too far, too expensive, too young, or problematic (ate live prey that could harm the snake). We were poised to drive farther to pick up a young snake that ate frozen prey when I got a text that there may still be hope for Minion. After about more than an hour of indecision in Minion's prospective buyer, we got the text we'd been waiting for...Minion was still available. We went to the seller and found that he was an expert breeder with 26 snakes he was paring down. We watched his huge snakes slither through the house and even held an 11-foot giant yellow one. He gave us more techniques to keep Minion safe and offered his services as a resource if we had future questions. It was love at first sight for Cedar. Minion is now happily settled in, and Cedar is fully committed to making sure he's the happiest, safest snake and set an alarm to make sure they spend bonding time daily, so Minion gets to come out of the cage and explore the room. 

[Loss; source]

Loss has been such a part of Cedar's life since near the beginning and runs deeply. Cedar has lost multiple pets over the years. I've been through miscarriage after miscarriage since, which, for my kids, has meant that the kids would get their hopes up for a baby sibling only to have those hopes dashed. That means Cedar endured the loss of hope for another baby sister slowly over the course of multiple years. Caretaking and parental instincts have only strengthened in Cedar. Minion did not replace Sol, but Cedar, I think, sees this as a chance at redemption from mistakes of the past. I'm thankful Cedar gets this opportunity. I know, as with kittens and other pets of the past, I feel like this is my angel Alli fulfilling Cedar's needs, for which I will forever be grateful. 

What May Seem Trivial

[Painting out the Heart; source]

Recently, I was invited to an art exercise to work through traumas and dramas of the birthing process. I was reluctant. I felt like it was a waste of time. When I got there, the meditation-style pencil meanderings leading to random sketching and then coloring seemed kind of silly and trivial. Several of those in the class drew lovely art, brightly colored and vivid, only meaning something to the person who painted. It was supposed to be all about the delivery process and healing therefrom. At first, the aimlessness of the process of the art seemed silly, trivial. We were to select colors in reaction to each of the negative emotions in a list. It all stayed on the outside of my head and heart. 

[Dark Days of Death; source]

Then, one of the songs, Evanescence's "My Immortal," cracked me wide open because it's one of the two songs that automatically send me into a pain spiral. That song and Josh Groban's "A Breath Away" automatically drag me back to the dark days after my four-month-old baby rolled into a pillow and suffocated. Back to the days a DCSF agent and her sheriff crony trashed our house and tried to frame us for negligent homicide. Back to the days of terror and pain, when the two children I had were threatened by those who purported to protect them. Back to the days of miscarriage after miscarriage when hopes for a rainbow baby faded into darkness. When Christmas songs about babies and birth and angels ended in tears. Back to the days when anyone joking about or lightly sharing their ultrasounds triggered thoughts of pain and yet more loss. 

[A portrait of pain.]

That's when my art process that day went from trivial to dark, stark, and painful. I meant it to be lovely, displayable. Instead, black bubbles were shot through with seeping blood red, infectious greens, and tragic blues. There was no light or joy in this painting. When they passed around a color chart to help us translate, I didn't need that much help to realize it was a tribute to 14-year-old unhealed pain. A few of us shared our pain. The other two families who shared had pain much fresher, pains of loss but also the joys of holding babies that brought trials. My heart bled for them. It was good to talk out my pain. My friend who dragged me there insisted I still very much need therapy. It hadn't been quite so obvious to me as it became that day. Usually, I'm fine. I can trudge through my life and be the strong one for everyone else. But it's clear that it's more of a cover for pain that is still very real and present. 

[Reflections on Death: Source]

 I teach a class online. I don't create the curriculum. One of the assignments seems trivial to most. It's to write your own obituary. It doesn't seem like a big deal to the vast majority of students But to her, in her culture, in the place she's in, with her past traumas, it stirred up her heart and became an impassible boundary. She advocated for herself and told me what a hardship this was. And I could only empathize. I've been there, in a place where people throw around images, words, songs, and such without thought, these things can act as a trigger, can feel like a gut punch to those of us who have been through trauma. I hear that because after a year of death after death, my husband's father's, my brother's, and my baby's, funerals became unbearable torture. Things that seem like little to nothing to most can knock the wind out one's sails.

[Holding the candle for someone else; source]

What, to most, seems trivial can end up being a trigger to memories of the trauma beneath what seems like a healthy, happy surface. The best thing we can do is be understanding when others need to work through their trauma. To avoid judging when someone else's mourning process looks different than ours. To listen to others when they need to share about their pain. And above all, to avoid trivializing others' pain. 

Not My Baby

[My friend loved her Yorkie mix: source]

Several months ago, a friend of mine and I went to pick up a puppy for her. We both bonded with this little one on our trip. Her youngest human child is a teenager. This puppy, for her, was her warm and fuzzy comfort. Even as she struggled with the trials of carrying her family's burdens, working full time, being there for everyone, her puppy, Kiki, was there for her. She faithfully followed my friend around and lay her head on my friend's feet. 

[The highway claims another victim: source]

Then, one day, a family member let Kiki out but didn't make sure she came back in. They live on a highway, and they'd seen her play there before. So they always had to make sure that Kiki came back. One day, That family member didn't see Kiki come back but also didn't tell anyone else Kiki didn't come back. The next morning, they found little Kiki dead on the highway. 

[Gateway to loss: source]

It reminded me of my Harmoni. We live near her on the same highway. When we first moved into our house, we had a dog get hit on the road. After that, we built a security fence around the backyard to make sure no other dogs followed suit. But one day, we forgot to make sure the gate latched. It didn't, and Harmoni led another dog of ours on a merry chase onto the Highway. The only way I survived was through turning to prayer and listening to spiritual music. It was hard. 

[How to mourn with compassion; source]

But the compassion I learned from losing my little, gray puppy to the highway prepared me to be there for my friend when she did the same. I just listened to her talk and gave her a shoulder to cry on without judging, criticizing, or blaming. Kiki's loss hurt my heart for my sake, but more than that, for her. She was able to get through with my help but also with the help of foster puppies she took in soon after her loss. She very carefully avoided ranting at the family member whose actions led to Kiki's death. She set an example for me of how to mourn with grace and kindness even as she was hurting so badly inside. I'll have to remember to follow her lead if ever it happens to me again. I pray I nedver have to follow her example.