The commitment of healing from childhood trauma

Secure attachment is the healthiest form of attachment. Securely attached children feel protected and have someone to rely on. In adulthood, secure attachment develops high self-esteem, long-term healthy relationships and an increased ability to trust others for support.

I lay in bed with my eyes shut tight. At five years old, my fear of the dark was like a living thing—inescapable and all-consuming. The old farmhouse of my childhood creaked and groaned adding a strange, threatening sound to the dark. Too frightened to open my eyes, crickets marked the passing minutes while the smell of damp grass wafted through the open windows. There was nowhere to turn and no one to ask for help. If I got out of bed, no matter the reason, punishment would follow.

“My older brother was like a navy seal. Intent on drawing any rage my parents might be brewing, he crept down the hall as I followed, carefully placing each tip-toed step in silence. Together, we moved through the house without a sound.”

I smiled to myself as I watched my therapist read the above words. Coming to the end of my true life story, he looked up. I took the opportunity to fish for a compliment. “It’s well written don’t you think?” I was sure he would be impressed.

“There’s one problem,” said my therapist.

~Healing from dissociation

Ice and snow whipped past the windshield of the aircraft. I was sure we were going to crash. I glanced out the window and watched the wing dip down then back up again. It was as black as pitch outside. My stomach dropped along with the airplane as it shuddered and swooped against the pilot’s efforts. Surely we were going to take a nose dive into the runway. I closed my eyes.

Years ago, I attended a support group for survivors. I was there for childhood trauma, but there were many types of abuse represented. I shall never forget the lovely young woman seated next to me. When it came her turn to share, frustration spilled over.

“My boyfriend can’t control his rages. I don’t know what I’m doing to cause all this. Afterward, he leaves, and we don’t speak for a week, but then, he always comes back. What am I doing to make him treat me like this?” To any outsider the answer is obvious. You and I can see it. Why couldn't she? “What did I do wrong?” she kept repeating over and over again.

Blurry shapes floated in and out as I lay on the operating table trying to wake up. The smell of antiseptic burned my nose and the bright white lights of a sterile operating room pierced my eyelids. Beep...beep. I was surrounded by machines and unintelligible conversation. The raw pounding in my throat made it impossible to swallow. Flexing my fingers, I placed my hands on my neck and found it wrapped by a heavy bandage. A mask-covered nurse bent over my face and brushed my hair from my forehead. 

“It’s all over. It’s all over now.”  

I sat on the floor practicing my trauma techniques as I rubbed my hands across the thick bedroom carpet. Grounding myself in the present, I took a deep breath. My eyes rested on a favorite painting. I relaxed my body then closed my eyes. My churning anxiety grew louder. The old feeling of panic closed around my throat. “I am not in the past,” I said out loud. “I am here in my bedroom, and there is nothing threatening me in this moment.” The quiet whisper of peace entered my heart but instead of feeling better, the sensation only increased my anxiety. It’s a strange phenomenon. When we first begin to dismantle hypervigilence, our fears and anxiety often grow worse. Why would this be? The answer lies rooted in childhood experience.

My best friend is moving away. She’d been dropping hints for months, but I decided to retreat behind a wall of denial and hope for the best. The best was not to be. Ellen is moving, and there isn’t anything I can do about it. We had our share of joyous events over the time we had together. Once, a seafood company sent $300’s worth of prime, unreturnable Maryland seafood by mistake. Arriving in dry ice from across the country, the first person I called to join in on the windfall was Ellen.

~Healing from the death of a narcissist

My mother died this morning. I knew it was near but didn’t quite believe it would actually happen. She had lived for so long and did so much damage—I had grown accustomed to her shadow. I thought she would live forever. Institutionalized for over twenty-five years, her violence, manipulation and abuse forced me to walk away decades ago. And now, it was finally over. How do you sum up a lifetime of sorrow? Of what might have been? What do you say about the longing of the heart no matter what has happened or how much time has passed?

When I heard she was close to death, I found myself calling the hospice number. “Hi, um, you don’t know me, but I’m Sharon Smith’s daughter. I was wondering if the hospice chaplain assigned to her case could call me?”

The whole world was reeling. “I can’t fill out this paperwork,” I told the assistant. “My hands are shaking so badly, I can’t hold a pen.” I didn’t mention that I couldn’t see past the tears in my eyes. Because of early childhood trauma, any type of medical appointment was so distressing it was nearly impossible to cope—but none more so than this one—the dentist.

First grade was the first time in my life I felt understood. I loved everything about school. The snacks, the smell of mimeographed worksheets, learning how to read and write, the playground, and most of all, I loved my teacher Mrs. King. She was the first adult I had ever met who loved me back.

As the school year drew to a close and I prepared for second grade, I overheard my parents talking in the den.

I stood in the hallway and stared at the black and white tiled floors. On the other side of the emergency room doors, my mother’s screeches were louder than the PA system. “Let me go! I don’t want to be here. It’s their fault!” Screaming at the top of her lungs, the hospital bed she was tied to squeaked and groaned. My brother was back with the doctors trying to make a decision regarding my mother’s care. I couldn’t bear to walk through those heavy swinging doors. Exhausted from decades of her behavior, I just couldn’t do it anymore…