Trauma

Nanopoblano Day 30: Wrapping up the blog challenge

My worksite.

Well, I missed posting Sunday through Wednesday of this week. Life’s mundanities got in the way on Sunday. Then, on Monday there was a traumatic incident where I work. You can read about it here. I’ve spent the last three days just getting through the day. The math says, with this post, I completed 87% of the challenge. Good enough.

I wrote the following on Tuesday night and shared it with the Trauma Support Team at my work yesterday.

Close to Home
A friend of mine was violently harmed
where I work, yesterday.
Of course, I was sad
scared for his wellbeing
but what was there for me
to feel traumatized by?
It is a risk of living in America these days.
It is a risk of the system I work in.
It is a risk of the job he does.
I was fine . . . or so I thought.

This morning,
after my usual sleepless night,
I went to work,
walking in the cold,
not thinking about
what the day would look like.
We were closed to the public.
Many co-workers stayed home.
I was fine . . . or so I thought.

The more I heard people sharing
their feelings and thoughts,
the more I heard
the details of what happened
and what my friend had gone through,
the less fine I felt.


Dissociated mind
Disconnected thoughts
Disoriented self
Dissatisfied with life
Disturbed reality
Distressed emotions
Distorted beliefs

Unaware of what’s real
Filled with pain and confusion
All that matters is to make it stop
Stand up and fight for your life
Make the pain stop
Go to the source
Make it stop


I don’t know the words
to describe how full I feel
of the emptiness
inside my mind and heart.
I’m not filled with fear,
yet fear is not absent,
My safe place was never safe.
Safety was an illusion
that has now been shattered
the way a prism shatters the light,
refracting it into the multihued
spectrum of bright colors.
Only, here, there is no
beautiful rainbow to be seen
after the storm of yesterday’s violence.
This violence, so close to home,
feels like an extension of the violence
happening throughout the world.
I have no control over any of it.
Near or far,
the violence isn’t mine to control.
I can protest it.
I can appeal to the powers that be,
to change their policies,
to change their responses,
to change the infrastructure,
but I have no power over anyone else,
only myself.

lem 11/28/2023

Nanopoblano 2023 Day 9: From the archives – My story in verse

Photo by freestocks.org on Pexels.com

I signed up for this blog challenge before I knew for sure I would be going back to work full-time this month. So, I’m scrambling (just a little) to keep up. I’ve completed blog challenges when I’ve had nothing much to do other than write. However, I have several failed challenges under my belt with over 120 drafts that I started over the years to prove it. I’m determined to complete this challenge because I owe it to myself to follow through on the one commitment that I made at the end of 2022: To focus on my writing and build my craft. Therefore, I have decided that this month is about the consistency of posting, even if I’m not able to write the way I really want to. To that end, I’m reviewing the drafts and pulling some of my previously unposted work. This poem was written in 2018.

My Life in Verse

Lying here crying over you,
As I promised I wouldn’t do.
Forgetting to my own self be true.
Reacting like a kid without a clue.

I’m too old to be doing this;
telling myself, you I would not miss.
Forgetting as I remember your kiss.
Reminded by your ghost dis.

When will these voices cease?
How do I gain release?
My mind, I need to quiesce.
My soul is seeking deep peace.

You’re not what this is truly about.
You’ve triggered all my fear and doubt.
You’ve broken my resolve so stout.
I just want to scream and shout.

In my infancy it all began
when I thought my father so quicky ran.
Teaching me not to depend on a man.
Relationship was not part of my plan.

Then, a kiss, unbidden.
A “love” to keep hidden.
Right by wrong overridden.
In society ’twas forbidden.

Rejection turned to twisted revenge.
My mom sought avidly to avenge.
Her sanity began to unhinge,
darkening her spirit more than a tinge.

Understanding nothing at my age.
Inner pain turned to outward rage.
Her brokeness I could not gauge.
Her torment she sought to assuage

Burdened by her own embattled past;
that agony, that pain could not last.
A deep darkness so wide and vast,
Unburdended with a final blast.

All this before I was a teen,
shaped into a spirit so mean.
Attempting to affect a stoic mien
inevitably set the scene:

A life repeatedly caught in love’s mirage,
built entirely through self-sabotage.
I see each one lost in a montage.
Unsure if I can withstand the barrage.

Full circle…I’m back to you.
Missing what you say and do.
I fell, despite what we both knew.
My heart, stolen, lost to your coup.

lem 04/09/2018

My picker might not be broken anymore

My picker was broken. I just realized that might be better.

“What’s a picker?” you ask.

It’s the thing inside of me that picks the people I allow and invite into my life on an ongoing basis. It used to just refer to the men I’ve been in romantic relationships with but I’m realizing it is also referring to friendships. My romantic relationship history has been on a spectrum from dismal, at best, to harmful. My friendships have been a bit better, but still very problematic at times. I’ve been hurt a lot by both kinds of relationships, as I’m sure many of us have. It all started in childhood with the circumstances I was raised in and the people I was raised by.

TW: Trauma triggers ahead regarding childhood trauma and mental health issues

My mom was a teenager from a broken home who had never really been given stability and roots when she got pregnant, married her first husband, and had me. Additionally, she experienced undiagnosed and untreated mental health issues. My parents were married in November, I was born in June, and they were divorced by August. We moved from California and landed in Texas, eventually. She was married two more times by the time I was six and she was 22. Wow! I just did that math. I hadn’t realized exactly how young she was when she married my second stepfather…who happened to have been a pedophile. Now, I suddenly understand how I wasn’t the only one he groomed, manipulated, and took advantage of. I have some unpacking to do. I guess I have something to discuss with my trauma therapist later today.

Anyhow, moving on.

After the events that took place in her third marriage, we moved around a few more times until she found her family in Portland, Oregon. So, we moved up here to be close to her father and brother. Within a short period of time, my relationship with her deteriorated badly, as did her mental health (unbeknownst to me), and she signed guardianship of me over to my uncle (who was only 15 years older than me). I was 12. Subsequently, she moved back to Houston and, within a couple of months, killed herself. She was a few weeks away from her 29th birthday. Within a short period of time it became evident that substance use/abuse was an issue in my uncle’s home and within a couple of years his marriage broke down and at 14 I started taking on adult responsibilities, such as taking care of my infant cousin so much that people thought she was my child.

We moved several times within Portland until I landed back in the apartments my mom and I had first lived in when we arrived in Portland. That’s where I met my oldest child’s biological father. I was 16 and he was 30. It took me awhile to figure out that my first “adult” relationship was actually just another form of child abuse. We lived out of cars and hitchhiked across the country and lived out of cars for three and a half years, manipulating and conning people for money and survival. I had my son during that time. I was 17 when he was born. At 19, in a bout of domestic violence, my neck was almost broken and that was the last time I ever saw my son’s father.

From that point forward, my relationships were with men who weren’t available emotionally or in a materially supportive way.

Then I had my first mental breakdown at 22, had an aborted suicide attempt, dropped out of college, and spiraled out of control. I got pregnant with my second child at 23, and was a single-mom of two at 24. During the pregnancy, I met the best man who wanted to be supportive in all ways, but I wound up pushing him away because I didn’t want to need him so much on any level. I wasn’t ready to be dependent on anyone. I suppose I was afraid of losing something I didn’t think I deserved, so, I just chose not to have it in the first place. Two years later, I met the father of my youngest child. We had an 18 year, more on than off, relationship characterized by his anger and my depression. By that time, I was so traumatized I didn’t believe I could have or deserved anyone better and tried so hard to make it work that I developed complex PTSD to the point I still don’t remember the physical abuse my children tell me happened to us.

A little over eight years ago, within a few days of our child’s fifth birthday, I left him. It took me from December 2013 to June of 2019 to break from my co-dependence with him and be able to move toward independence and self-sufficiency. He just got married this past weekend and I finally feel free from him, except for the fact I still have to interact with him as the co-parent of our child.

I’ve spent the last eight years in therapy and working on my healing and recovery. I’ve discovered I have Bipolar II Disorder, cPTSD, and Binge Eating Disorder. It’s been a long road and, apparently, there’s still more to this journey.

I’m tired of doing it alone. Finding out he was getting married last week precipitated me getting an account on a dating app. I’ve been on apps before which resulted in passing in the night experiences. So far, this one’s different. I’ve made two matches whom I’ve actually met face to face.

Will I form a lasting romantic relationship with either? I don’t know. What I do know is that the caliber of human they are is unlike any of the men I’ve invited into my life before…other than the pastor and elders of my faith community. Open, honest, communicative, empathetic, non-judgmental, kind, and generous are the characteristics I’ve witnessed in both of these men. If nothing else, I’ve met two people I’m willing to bet are going to be good friends in the long run.

How can I tell this? I spent at least an hour in conversation with both of them before we even ordered our meals. Our meals took a long time to finish because our conversations continued and went deeper. After we ate, we chose to spend even more time together, in conversation. We learned about each other’s lives, current and past. We shared our beliefs, mores, and values with one another and found a lot of common ground. All together, each encounter lasted at least three or more hours. Even if we never encounter each other again, I feel like I’ve been seen, heard, understood, and accepted. I’ve never felt that way by any man or very many people at all throughout my life.

Not Alone

I seem to be straying from my original intent to focus on my job readiness journey this month. But, perhaps not. Today, I’m talking about mental health.

Here’s why: If you’re struggling with mental illness or emotional instability OR you have a loved one who is OR you have experienced trauma OR any combination of the aforementioned, you need to know that YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

I want you to know that, despite however weak, fragile, overwhelmed, and incapable you may feel right now, you are one of the strongest, most courageous people you know.

Feeling the way you feel, experiencing anxiety, depression, hyper-reactivity, mania, having compulsive self-harming behaviors, experiencing suicidal thoughts, or any other “wrong” thing does not mean you are “less than,” unworthy, insignificant, or “damaged beyond repair.”

You see, I’ve been there. Some days I’m still there. I have friends and family who have been or are there. I’ve known those who didn’t make it and know those who make it one day at a time, if not moment by moment.

Last night I had the privilege to speak with another mom, who is facing and navigating challenges similar to those I have experienced – some of which I’ve come out on the other side of and some that will ever be with me. A history of physical and mental trauma, mental illness, and parenting a child with mental health and behavioral challenges through childhood and into adulthood.

Feelings of loneliness, isolation, despair, and thoughts of permanently packing it in are all things I’m more than familiar with and gave me the empathy she needed. I was able to listen with understanding. I had knowledge of resources and professionals better equipped to help her than I am to offer her. I was able to share some of my stories, giving her hope and shoring up her faith.

By the end of the call, we had established a rapport and a bond borne of shared experience and the knowledge that neither of us is alone in our struggle. She seemed genuinely hopeful, a 180 degree turnaround from where she was when we first began talking.

My lived experience of surviving trauma and mental illness has equipped me to be of service to others who are living through similar things. Even though I still have my struggles and even though I’ll never be “fully” healed and recovered, I’m far enough along that I have something good to offer.

I have a friend who says, “God doesn’t waste a wound.”

While I am not of the belief that God punishes and wounds us by causing trauma and devastation in our lives, I do believe he is present in and with us throughout these things. Furthermore, I believe that, if we are able to participate in the healing process, he redeems our personal tragedies in ways that can bring good.

This is what I want to do with my life. I want to walk alongside others on this healing and recovery journey, bolstering them up when they’re walk is shaky and help them stand back up, dust off, and get going again.

That’s what it’s about, right?

We all stumble. We all fall. We all get exhausted, worn down, and overwhelmed. We all need a little help getting by.

Now, due to several factors, prior student debt to a private institution being chief among them, going back to college isn’t a feasible option. Especially if I want to start working ASAP.

What I CAN do is get a certification to be a Mental Health Peer Support Specialist.

I didn’t get into the certification training I wanted to, this go around. But, I’m only getting started and there are other things I can do while I figure out how to access the training I need.

Today I start a Peer to Peer class put on by NAMI – the National Alliance on Mental Illness. It will help me be less isolated on my own journey and add to my toolbox of coping skills.

Wish me luck!

Role Models and Changing Perceptions

Having grown up, essentially growing myself up, dissociated and disconnected emotionally from my mother, peers, and experiencing no sense of family or community, having role models has always been a bit of a hit or miss challenge for me.

My earliest role models were found in the books I read. I remember knowing that I was reading on fifth grade level in third grade because I was reading through The Waltons series of books. Now, I only recall what those books were about because of the television series, which can still be seen in syndication on feel good, vintage cable/satellite television channels. This series and others in the same genre, like the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder, where the authors were fictionalizing real life and telling stories of kids who were experiencing life in a slower paced, less industrialized, time of community, family, and positive character, taught me life and people were not always what my experiences seemed to be teaching me.

As I grew older and my reality got more and more difficult to cope with, I got into the childhood mystery series starting with Encyclopedia Brown, the Hardy Boys, and Nancy Drew. I loved the Bobbsey Twins stories. Child characters who were mostly left to their own devices, using their intellect to solve problems, figure out how to overcome threats, reveal truth, and bring justice to unjust circumstances became my obsessions.

As an adolescent girl in the 1980’s I fell under the influence and sway of pulp romance books. Dreaming of exotic locales by women who were caught in traditional roles and traditional thinking, but trying to discover who they were and wanted to be, swept up in the worlds and actions of the men whose lives, passions, and wills seemed to overpower their own. Often, these books became physical weight to carry in my little white wicker purse and use as a weapon to lash out and punish the haters, teasers, and bullies who enjoyed getting me discombobulated and emotionally off balance.

I escaped to the library and discovered the fantasy worlds of Xanth and Pern as created and described by Piers Anthony and Anne McCaffery. I immersed myself in Arthurian legend and alternative worlds melding magic and science, spiritual and secular philosophies. The characters I was drawn to and learning from were those who were coping with the displacement and confusion of not fitting into worlds they were thrust into but didn’t feel part of and/or living in worlds suddenly full of danger and conflict from things previously unknown or relegated to myth and make believe.

By the time I was a young adult, parenting my son from mid-late adolescence, I started identifying and connecting with people who had what I wanted and appeared to have overcome dire and drastic life circumstances, trauma, and drama of their own. Seeking people who I could meet and interact with in person, within my community through church, college, and community services.

Twenty years later, I’m still learning from everyday role models I meet and interact with, here online in the blogging community: writers, mothers, fathers, mental health professionals, persons experiencing mental health challenges, victims, survivors, and thrivers. Pastors, teachers, coaches, trainers. People who are in recovery and those seeking recovery.

Yesterday, I met a woman I am seeking a mentoring relationship with, because she is doing what I want to do. She is functioning and operating as an advocate and guide for people who have experienced abuse to help them move through the lifelong impacts and consequences of having experienced those things, to find their voice and move into growing intentional and authentic lives based in their own value and identity. She is doing this after having gone through her own experiences of trauma and brokenness, from a life of childhood trauma to professional success, to personal breakdown. She has what I want and she is freely and willingly giving of herself to help me, and others, build and grow into that place inside of myself and for my life.

Her name is Davonna Livingston. She is the founder of Changing Perceptions and author of Voices Behind The Razorwire: From Victims to Survivors, Stories of Healing & Hope.

In the meeting she and I had yesterday, she shared something with me I didn’t know about myself. She had spoken of how she had connected with the various subjects in her book, through seeing herself reflected in their eyes and recognizing the shared connections between her and them. She shared how these women who were convicted criminals, often serving life sentences, had become her lifeline and support network while she was working through her healing and recovery process. I noted what an empowering thing that had to have been for them considering the “class” differences between her professional and educational status and upper/middle-class standing being connected and relating to these women as personal peers. Toward the end of the meeting, I asked what she had seen in my eyes.

She told me that she had seen sadness and a sense of being lost, during the moments  when I was sharing my origins story. Then, she told me that changed and shifted to excitement and hope, that my entire demeanor had shifted and changed when I began talking about what I’ve already been doing, including starting and writing this blog.

This is the role model who is building into my life now, in the midst of many other role models who are showing and sharing their lives, their stories, and their courage every day in the forums we are connected with each other in online and in social media, as well as in the seats around me at weekly church meetings, group discussions, public transit, and walking down the street.

For more discussion on Role Models and the Molding of Personality, check out The Seekers Dungeon.