A Life of Trauma

It is my hope that one day the world will see suicide differently, and that by changing the stigma around suicide that more people will be willing to not only admit that they are not okay, but that when they do, the people around them will have better resources to help them. Why is this so important to me? Well, I’d be happy to tell you. But please be aware, this story might contain triggers and be a little intense for some.

So, let’s start at the beginning.

The first time I ever thought about killing myself I was 16 years old.

Up until that point I had already experienced many things others hadn’t, such as parents who went through a crazy separation process while each struggled with different types of their own addictions which included: me breaking up a lot of fights, physical and otherwise; watching my mom fall asleep at the wheel drunk or attacking us in her belligerence; my dad not being there or not having money but always having smokes and alcohol; and stepping up to take care of my brother, and my dad, at ages I can’t even really remember.

Then came the traumatic loss of my grandmother who got killed accidentally by my grandfather, and who I considered to be my guardian angel. She was the ONLY one I knew I could call no matter what, and she was always there.

Let’s not forget losing my virginity to who I thought was my best friend. The only downside is it happened while I was asleep. And couldn’t say no. Oh, and he was dating my actual best friend at the time. But don’t worry, there’s a bright side. When I came forward and told her what happened, I was attacked and ridiculed because there was no way the rich handsome boy would ever go after the white-trash fat girl, especially when he had a dime of a girlfriend like her. Sure, I had already rejected his advances several times, got away from him the best I could, and confirmed that he had tried to do the same thing to other girls. But, yah know. Obviously, it’s my fault for drinking with my friends. You ever been walking out of high school and have all your “friends” waiting outside to scream obscenities at you? Or shatter glass bottles at the end of your driveway? Or crush your mailbox and write “slut” on your bus shanty? Or not get invited to a single graduation party your senior year?

People make it easy to leave when they make you feel like you don’t matter.

The second time I was 19.

I decided to escape the small town that knew too much and nothing at all, joined the Marine Corps, and sought to become something more. Little did I know I was joining a culture that treated women as if the only thing that mattered is what was between my legs. I worked twice as hard as all of my male counterparts, only to have all of my accomplishments equated to the fact that I was a woman and there must have been someone in my chain of command that I was soliciting to make that happen. In fact, every one of my promotions got chalked up to that, even resulting in the uploading of my picture on a public site so that people could tear me apart. Despite the fact that I always had the highest scores academically, physically, and on the range, there’s no way a female could ever be “better” then a male.

It was also here that I learned my “brothers” only considered me a sister when it was convenient, and had not 1, not 2, but 5 of my fellow Marines either TRY to assault me, or succeed in doing so. As it turns out, being outnumbered 40-1 isn’t great odds. But the best part is, no one will ever believe you. I once sat in a sexual assault prevention brief with three of the guys who attacked me, watching as they joked and laughed with their friends.

Let’s not forget my marriage to my first true love at the ridiculously ripe age of 18, which ended due to the continual addition of gasoline to an already roaring house fire. I don’t know if you’ve ever woke up after a night of drinking with your husband wondering “why am I in so much pain” to hear him laughing about what he did while you were incapacitated with his friends, got a text message saying that he threw your dog through the wall at 4:30 in the morning, aborted your husbands baby because you were afraid of his temper and not ready to be a single mom, caught your husband trying to meet up with his ex when you go home for your wedding ceremony, or found yourself gasping for air while unable to see through your own tears collapsed on the kitchen floor with a knife to your wrists, but let me be the first one to say, its not great. Que divorce numero uno.

The third time I was 23.

After my first divorce, I got married a couple years later to my best friend, or so I thought. I decided to get out of the Marine Corps, with absolutely no help from the ultimatum he gave me between him and military life, and I got a job working for the DoD. Not too shabby aye?

One day I’m walking into work, when one of my old Marines approaches me and tells me that one of my Marines and best friends killed himself. Which sucks for so many reasons, but mainly because him and I had talked about it. Several times. And he always told me I didn’t have to worry, because he thought it was selfish and he would never do that to all of us. “It’s the pussy way out” he’d say. But maybe he realized it wasn’t selfish. Maybe he was just tired of being in survival mode. Of being numb.

About 6 months after starting my new job, my husband was insistent that when he got out, we were going to move back to Texas so he could go to school. Not really wanting to stay in Cali because of high prices anyways, I bought us a house in Texas, handled the whole move, got a job and started going to school. Unfortunately, little did I know, the life I was working on for my partner and I was not what he envisioned, and apparently marriage is “hard”. Who would have thought? 5 months after moving there and weeks of him not speaking to me and acting like I don’t exist, I laid in bed as he told me that he “didn’t see me in his future”.

Why stop there. Why not mess with my head a little more and make me believe we were going to figure it out. Made it to the night before the Super Bowl. Yah know, the one where the Eagles beat the Patriots. Said he felt bad leaving me during the holidays, what a guy. I don’t think he had spoken to me in two weeks. I finally snapped. Drank myself to sleep in the bathtub with a concoction of pain killers and whatever else I could get my hands on. On the bright side, that was the first full night sleep I had in months. Que divorce numero dos.

I moved out of the house I bought 2 weeks later, after starting a new job an hour north training service dogs for veterans with PTSD. I loved it. I thought I had finally found where I belonged. Nope. I found myself under the management of a woman who cared more about image and money then she did the dogs or the vets. Bummer. I didn’t vibe with that and ended up getting wrongfully terminated. “Stand up for what you believe is right” they’ll say, see where that gets yah.

Meanwhile, I befriended one of the Marines I met through work. But it turns out, friends are usually the ones that hurt you the most. Or at least that’s what I thought to myself as my tears soaked my pillow and I gasped for every breath while he held me face down by the back of my neck and I waited for it to be over. Want to talk about a crappy way to be woken up? I’ll take an alarm over that any day. Yet people tell me “Just go to sleep, it’s not that hard. Just close your eyes..” oh, okay.

The fourth time I was 25.

I met a man. THE man. By the end of the second date, I knew it. He was going to be the greatest love of my life. Everything about him was perfect, even the parts that weren’t. I have never felt more myself then when I was with him. It was like he was an extension of me. That is, until I got a little tipsy on date night and told him I loved him. Everything flipped, like he had turned to cancer cells set on destruction. Apparently, once again, I was much more invested in us then he ever was, and as it turns out, getting suplexed off the side of a truck onto Texas asphalt in the middle of summer really hurts. So does getting thrown into a TV stand, dislocating your shoulder, and getting choked against the wall, knowing that the man you love is about to kill you. But you know what hurts even worse? Trying to get them help anyways, because you know that everything they do is coming from their own pain and unresolved trauma. Setting up, then driving them to the first appointment, and sitting in your truck waiting until they are done. Holding them on your chest while they cry themselves to sleep. And then them taking a job across the country and leaving without even saying goodbye. Leaving you like you’re nothing.

I still remember the moment I realized what happened. I collapsed. I was consumed by this overwhelming flood of emotions. Anger. Hate. Betrayal. Self-doubt. Denial. Pain. All consuming, steal the air from your lungs knock you to your knee’s kind of pain. I’d only felt that pain one other time in my life, when my grandmother passed. It was like this hole opened in me, and I’ll be honest. Still to this day every time I take a breath it feels like half of it gets sucked into that void. I think its because some wounds never actually heal, you just learn to live with the pain.

Or maybe it’s just because you can’t work out how they would find your body. Should you write a note and call the police? Surely you can’t let your sister be the one who finds you, she’ll never be okay again. But then, she probably wouldn’t either way. Or your brother. Who knows about your mom and dad? Is that what you want? These are the questions I asked myself, as I swallowed a couple pills with my vodka-wine mixture and lit up a bowl. Maybe all I needed was a good night sleep.

The fifth time, is every single day that I wake up.

I’d be lying if I said that things magically got better for me one day. That suddenly all the things that have happened to me got erased from my memory and I got to start over with a fresh slate. But, that’s not the case. Every day I wake up questioning my existence on this planet. Wondering if all the hurt is worth it, and if I will ever live a life free of all that pain. But honestly, that’s okay. I think it is good I’m constantly questioning, and constantly seeking more. Because that means every single day, I get to remind myself of the blessings that I do have in my life, and I constantly try to help others see the blessings they have in theirs, and I make time every single day to do things that remind me why I am glad that today I woke up and chose life.

I make my morning coffee. Nice and strong. Partly because I like that little high you get. The adrenaline, the coffee sweats. Sexy right. But also, partly because I love listening to other people complain about how strong it is.

I spend time with my dogs. If you need something to make you a better person or you need a lesson in unconditional love, get a dog.

If I could spend all day everyday outside, I would. There is literally nothing more beautiful to me then being outside and being part of an entire ecosystem just functioning in perfect harmony. The wind blowing. The trees and plants rustling. The animals moving all about with bugs humming and the birds chirping. The water flowing and rushing over and around the rocks. Then you add my dogs running about and exploring every inch of it with me. Bliss.

Listening to music and dancing have probably saved my life more times than I could ever tell you. Find music that makes you feel something, and let those feelings rush over you. Self-healing at its finest my friends. I’m convinced that people who hate country music and how sappy it is also have a lot of unresolved traumas, seeing as their alternative is generally rock and rap music that highlights trauma, depression and addiction.

I work out, half because it makes me feel good, and half because I like to eat. Like a lot. Food has always been a crutch for me. You’re looking at a textbook binge eater my friends. But, I gain weight super easily and I like to look good naked so, I work out. And I mean, the endorphins aren’t bad either.

Finally, I help people. I find that if I can use the things that have happened to me and my experiences to help other people not feel the way I do, and have, then maybe its all worth it. Or, maybe that’s just something I tell myself to keep a grip on reality. Who knows really? But for now, it seems like a better option then the alternative.

I’ve come to find that sometimes life is just periods of survival, in hopes that one day things will get better. Each day you wake up and work a little more. A little harder. You adjust.

You leave behind the things that don’t bring you peace.

Happiness is a choice, remember, so make an active effort to surround yourself in things that make you happy. Places. People. Things. Dogs. Foods. Music. Whatever it is, make it a priority.

Live your life for you, and no one else. Because when you find yourself in the darkest of places, you might be the only one there to fight the demons. And I promise you, the more you fill yourself with the things that make you feel whole, the harder it will be for them to pull you apart.

So anyways, this little book here is for everyone who has ever felt this way, or maybe feels this way right now, or people who may have missed the signs and are trying to understand what happened.

Hopefully you’ll use it to find a little peace, and do a little healing.

Or maybe you’ll recommend it to a friend who needs a little healing of their own.

Either way, thanks for reading.