When you have CPTSD, each day is “thin ice.” For years, drinking was the only way I had the strength (beer balls) to make it through another 24 hours. I was running at warp speed: from my past, my present and what I thought to be a lack of future. I had no self esteem, and the drunken dialing, quitting jobs and going in the next day, not remembering you called your boss the day before and read her the riot act, can we say stress? I once worked as office manager for a doctor. I had to beat her in every morning, so I could make sure I checked the voice messages for my own voice, saying God knows what.
I couldn’t bare an iota of criticism, and I attribute some of that to my troubled relationship with my mother. I remember the day I confronted my father, at age twenty-one, about the fact that he never told me he loved me. It took all of the courage I had to say the next few words:
“I love you, daddy.” What had I done? What if he didn’t say “I love you too, honey,” in that way he had of comforting me with the certainty that he would keep me safe, no matter what? Where had this come from? Who are you and what have you done with Michele? Don’t get me wrong, I was a pretty ballsy chick, despite my mother’s best attempts at terrorizing my life and ensuring I was afraid of everything: from getting killed in a horrible bike riding accident on a suburban road, during the day-when the only driver on the road is the kid next store with the Big Wheel; to driving on the turnpike, (where you just know that you’re gonna blow a tire going 65 mph, or an eighteen wheeler named Christine is going to ride your sweet ass for six hours,-and that is if she doesn’t ride right over your dumb-ass self; to the tragedy that all three of us kids thought we were terminally ill well into our thirties. Mom was petrified of dying – the first sign of a cold and she ran for the hills man. She had real, devastating illnesses (cancer, emphysema, bone breaking osteoporosis) and we lost her at 59 to a tumor on her ovary.
My father, putting his arm around my shoulder said, “I love you too honey.” And it would have been a perfect moment to look back on years later, if my mother’s voice (we had no idea she was at the door of the deck) hadn’t dulled the sound of my father’s.
“It looks like the f***ing whore got to you, Steve. Thought you were smarter than that…….”
But here’s where Yahweh comes in and saves the day. If you are smart (sadly, I was not) you will give your life over to the one who gave it to you. If you have wisdom, you will give all of these burdens and bruises to God, and ask that his will be done. And if you’re a genius? You will not take them back, ever, ever again.