“A stray bullet killed my husband 3 days after I delivered our son. His cousin Shelby was holding my baby boy moments before he died. She started sleeping with me that night and over the next year moved into the room with my son and I. For us, this PTSD was life. We couldn’t see past the blood, hear past the screams. Our brains were frozen in time, and the only way for us to climb out, was to be with each other.”
“I didn’t leave my bedroom for 7 months or my house for 11 months. Once every two weeks I was carried from the bed to the bath to be washed and changed into Pjs, then back to bed. This was my routine for 7 months.”
“Snnniiipppp. My doctor used scissors to cut me open ‘down there’ to make it easier to push the baby out. ‘What did you do?!’ I asked the male, 50-year-old doctor, with fear in my voice. Even the nurses paused. Just 30 minutes before, my doctor told me, ‘I have somewhere to be at 7 o’ clock, so you better be able to push this baby out soon.’ My husband’s rage was rising. I squeezed his hand. ‘We can’t do this now.’”
“He told me to cut my two closest friends out of my life. It felt amazing to wear my beautiful engagement ring, but I was crumbling on the inside. The life I so desperately wanted to live was never going to exist. It took 4 years to realize it.”
“Did I mention how she was kind of mean even when we were friends and I was always a little unsure if I could trust her, and some part of me was always concerned that maybe I should have run away as fast as I could in the opposite direction before she stabbed me while I was looking away? When it’s time to, you let them go.”
“My husband whispered, ‘I have got to run to the drug store.’ It was clear this ‘quick trip’ would turn into a night of me wondering where he was. ‘I beg you. Don’t leave. Stay here. We can figure this out. I love you.’ He turned away as he muttered, ‘No, don’t tell me what to do.’ The next thing I knew, I was awakened by 3 strangers pounding on my front door. I got a lot more than one answer that night. My husband was having an affair.”
“We began frantically looking in the houseboat, in cupboards, under beds. I called out his name, begging him to stop playing games, hoping he was just playing hide ‘n’ seek. Looking over the river, it was so calm, but you couldn’t see a thing under the surface – it was just too murky. My mom came to the realization that my father needed to be called, to be told his son is missing. ‘It’s going to be okay; we are going to be okay,’ my mom repeated, trying to put on a brave face.”
“He texted me saying he was going to pop in to say, ‘Hi.’ I was laying on the floor watching TV when he entered. The next thing I knew, I was holding my head with my hands and screaming. I thought he had had a PTSD episode and shot me while thinking I was someone else. I crawled outside and knocked on the neighbor’s door. ‘Please call 911,’ I asked him.”
“On my flight, I sat next to a father and his autistic son. Before it even took off, there was screaming, hitting, grabbing. The father repeatedly apologized, but did little else. He warned it would be a difficult flight. ‘Not to worry.’ I had experience with minimally verbal kiddos. By the end of it, his son was changed.”
“Every special occasion, my mom would make us our favorite pie. For my dad, it was lemon meringue. She always fretted until Daddy’s pie was made. She’d carry it, he’d make a big production, hug her and smack his lips. When I was 24, my mom passed away. As my Dad’s birthday approached, I began to fret. I went to the grocery store to find the ingredients, looking up and down every aisle. Later, I made a way to my Dad’s house to unveil the loveliest pie I’d ever made.”
