It’s 7:30 PM, or as I prefer to call it, the chaotic hour. Bath time. Bedtime. The hour when the house transforms into a whirlwind of energy. My son dashes through the living room, fueled by sugar and an unwavering belief that he’s not tired. My partner chases after him, calling out that it’s time to use the bathroom.
It’s time to prepare for bed.
But like any spirited five-year-old, he doesn’t heed the call. He continues to run, laugh, and scream until my partner reaches his limit.
“Lucas!” he barks, “Bathroom. Now.” After a few protest whimpers, my son responds with an obedient “okay.” While their brief fight is over, inside me, the real battle is just starting. I find myself drenched in sweat, trembling, and gasping for air.
As one of the five million Americans grappling with PTSD, or post-traumatic stress disorder, loud voices are a significant trigger for me. Raised voices send my anxiety soaring. While many associate PTSD with military veterans facing the horrors of combat, the reality is that anyone can develop it after experiencing or witnessing traumatic events such as natural disasters, accidents, or abuse, as defined by the United States Department of Veteran Affairs. My trauma stems from a history of emotional and physical abuse.
In my childhood, I endured verbal abuse; my mother ridiculed me, instilling a sense of failure and inadequacy. My teenage years were marred by sexual abuse from someone I trusted—a friend who I thought was my boyfriend. As an adult, I’ve faced violence in various forms: I’ve been beaten, pushed, and choked. Various triggers affect me—bath time raises my anxiety, and criticism makes me withdraw—but it’s the yelling that truly rattles me.
When screaming erupts, my body enters a heightened state of alert. My hands shake, my legs quiver, and my heart races, threatening to burst from my chest. The urge to escape overwhelms me. I frantically search for exits, and I remain in this hyper-vigilant state for what feels like hours, days even.
Before becoming a parent, managing my triggers was easier. I could go for a run or call a friend when stress levels rose. But now, I confront my triggers daily; parenting itself has become one of them.
In a way, my child is a trigger. I hold no blame against my partner or my son; it’s simply a reality of my life.
It’s not just their voices that unsettle me; it’s also my own. I occasionally lose my temper and raise my voice, which leads to some of my most challenging moments. I not only enter a state reminiscent of PTSD but also drown in guilt for being a bad parent—a verbally abusive mom. I fully recognize the difference between my actions and my mother’s, but the fear of inflicting similar pain on my son is ever-present.
So, I fight. Every day, I strive to be the loving, present parent my son deserves. I work tirelessly on my healing journey. Will I ever fully heal? Perhaps not. I fear my past will always linger, and my triggers will remain a part of me. Yet, I am healing—slowly and surely—through patience, determination, and a lot of therapy. That’s all I can do.
Today, I choose to confront rather than flee.
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Summary:
My journey through parenthood is intertwined with my struggle with PTSD, triggered by loud voices and past traumas. Confronting these challenges daily, I strive to be a nurturing parent despite my triggers. Healing is ongoing, but with therapy and determination, I continue to fight for my family’s well-being.