I looked out over the south rim of the Grand Canyon and thought about the epochs of time it took to shape such a place. I always heard everyone say pictures don’t do it justice. They were right. No matter how panoramic I tried to make my camera, I simply could not capture the essence of the place. It was so vast, so deep, so timeless; beyond any picture I could take.

I happened to be at the Grand Canyon on a particularly beautiful day in August. To the right, a rain storm had risen and turned the clouds into hues of periwinkle and purple. The rest of the canyon lay under a bright blue sky and fluffy white clouds. Because we were in high desert, the horizon is broad. You can see several skies at one time.

I planned every detail of the funeral all the way down to the headstone. I could make one out of styrofoam like people use as yard decorations at Halloween. I knew what words I wanted said, what scriptures I wanted read and what songs I wanted sung. Years of pent up emotion meant it was going to be difficult to keep the ceremony under an hour. I wondered how the other attendees would feel about that.

When we were young, my husband was a pilot for the United States Air Force. One of our first assignments was Ramstein Air Base, Germany. While I loved living in Europe, we were there for three years and often times, I grew homesick for the United States. One of the most comforting events happened every evening on the Air Base at 5:00PM. You see, when the United States has a military base in another country, it is just as if all the territory of that base is the United States. The US has total jurisdiction and the freedoms enjoyed in our country are also enjoyed on that base. No matter where in the world it is located. Whenever I got homesick, I made sure to be on Ramstein Air Base at 5PM. Why? What happened at 5PM that was such a big deal?

I met a new friend on my late night walks with Tiny, my chihuahua. Her name is Baby and she’s a six pound tan and white chihuahua. She is really little, even compared to my ten pound, so-named Tiny. In general, Tiny likes those of his own kind, so the owner, who was traveling in a golf cart around our retirement community, stopped to say hello. There was Baby riding high in her own little crate on the front seat. She had the brightest eyes and sweetest face I ever saw. Almost as if she were smiling. The owner put her wriggling body on the ground and that was when I noticed something was wrong.

Tiny, my black and tan chihuahua jumped up and down in anticipation of a walk. He knew that every evening at sunset we would gear up to wander outside into the greater world beyond. We crossed the street and headed down the road that led to the town cemetery. Lined with oaks and maples, their leaves fluttered in the breeze on a September afternoon. The last wisp of summer on the wind, you could smell Autumn coming. Pumpkins, Halloween, Thanksgiving. It was all just around the corner. And I wanted to die.

Long ago, a boy found himself frozen in fear as he clung to the rigging of the top mast in an old British sailing ship. A terrible Atlantic squall had blown in and there was no way down. Terrified he would lose his grip and be dashed to pieces on the deck, he hung on for dear life. The faint words of the captain could barely be heard over the wind. "Boy, the next time the ship lurches, throw yourself into the sea." Looking at the sailors preparing a life ring for his rescue, the boy’s eyes then flitted to the threatening waves. If he stayed where he was, death was imminent. He decided to take a chance and let go.

In the home I grew up in, narcissism reigned supreme. There was only one voice and that was the voice of the head narcissist. All others were subservient. Institutions such as church were manipulated and incorporated into the system. We enjoyed the perception of community participation and leadership. In reality, we were terrorized and isolated.

In coming to understand how The Dread, (the anticipation of anxiety, fear, stress or threat) plagues survivors, we must first understand the techniques a narcissist (abuser) uses to put The Dread in place.

“I am my mother’s daughter... and although it’s been twenty years since I left home, her sayings form a perpetual long-playing record on my inner-ear turntable.” -Carol Shields, American Writer

Carol Shields wrote that as a tribute to her mother. If I had written it, it would be an accusation. The voices of my parents roll across the years, perpetually repeating the lies they put in my heart and soul. They were the authors of The Dread in my life. That is their legacy and one I will continue to try and end.

The Dread is the anticipation of anxiety, fear, stress or threat. So named by author, Stephanie Foo, this is the second in a blog series on The Dread—that terrible sense which follows childhood trauma survivors, telling them the end of all things is near. It whispers during the day and shouts at night—stealing sleep and bringing nightmares. What lies does it tell?

The Dread. That sounds rather odd doesn’t it? It makes dread personal. Like a living thing that comes in and out of my life as it pleases. Well, that’s exactly what it feels like. In author, Stephanie Foo’s excellent book about recovery from CPTSD, What My Bones Know, she coins the phrase, “The Dread.” It struck a chord in me. I can’t think of a better name for this life altering, nagging suffering than, “The Dread.”

Add wings to your trauma recovery by using The Three C’s.

Choice- coming to believe you have the power to choose.

I stayed in a relationship with my abusers for over fifty years. You don’t think they maintained that kind of power by telling me the truth do you? They never said, “Hey, Rebekah, by the way, everything I’ve been telling you is a lie. You are the one who actually has all the power—and, as a separate person, you have the right, even the obligation to say no to me. Abusive people aren’t going to give you that gift. You have to take it.

For two more C’s plus an obstacle to recovery, go to the article.

As we struggle with the psychological and neurological effects in our lives, there are many things about CPTSD we cannot control. So the things we can control have even more importance. I have many habits that make CPTSD symptoms worse. The following are just a few…

In preparing the blog this week, I thought about the outrage survivors often feel. We are told to “move on,” “forgive,” “hurt people hurt people,” “why can’t you just get over it?” and a host of other minimizing comments. The outrage is there for a reason, and you should listen to it. Your soul is talking to you and you need to hear what it has to say.

I sat in the graduation ceremony surrounded by thousands of proud parents and friends and watched as my son marched in to receive his college diploma in civil engineering. It was a crowning achievement not only for him, but for me. Not because I had anything to do with his accomplishment, but because I had survived my family of origin and lived to see this day.

I stood on the platform in front of a three tiered candelabra. I was 23 years old. It was my wedding rehearsal and like many weddings of that time, part of the ceremony was a unity candle. “When you come down the aisle tomorrow and up on the platform,” said the coordinator, “you will take the candle on the right and Matt will take the candle on the left and together, you will light the unity candle. Make sure you blow out your candle once the center one is lit.”

What? You mean just because I’m getting married I’m going to be extinguished?

Conflict panics me. Okay? There...I said it. I am the first to run for cover at the smell of conflict. Why? Because childhood trauma taught me to confuse the two. To me, having a conflict with someone means trauma. And so...avoiding conflict becomes the goal for survival.

What is the difference between conflict and trauma?

Trauma is an emotional response to an intense event that threatens or causes harm. 

Conflict means to clash with someone or something. An example of conflict is to disagree with someone over opposite opinions.

Survivors have been damaged by relationships and it is in relationships by which we heal. What a terrible statement. The thing that did us so much harm is the thing we must have in order to get well. This is the dilemma for a survivor of trauma. In addition, relationships are the point of deepest hurt and the point of deepest longing. The longing to connect. To love and be loved. To belong, to matter. All people desire these things, but only survivors come against this paradox: all the things that make relationships possible are the very things that threaten our survival.

How to Break A Trauma Bond

I could hear the yelling outside despite the fact that I was in the house with the door closed. My husband was on a cell phone with my trauma bonded abuser. They weren’t on speaker either. I could still hear every word. Cultivated over many decades, this was the “mother of all trauma bonds” pun intended. I had reached a point of such desperation, there were two choices left. Die or go no contact.

Scaly grey snake heads with the dead black eyes of a reptile weaved back and forth. Bright red tongues darted to and fro. They covered the Uhaul. I couldn’t look away. Out on my daily walk with Tiny, the chihuahua, I pulled my wheelchair next to the truck and stared. The snakes were only a picture on the side, but they were so creepy, I could not look away. What the owner of the Uhaul rental said next was worse than the picture.

“Have you heard about the gathering of snakes in Manitoba, Canada? They go there by the hundreds of thousands.”

Trauma changes the bonding mechanism of relationships. It changes how we are wired and it changes our ability to attach to other people. When the primary source of relationships is rooted in abuse, a core wound is created. In my case, both parents were perpetrators of manipulation, intimidation and domination. Abusers use these techniques to gain power over their victims imprinting all kinds of destructive beliefs on a person’s heart.

Bessel Van der Kolk notes: “Trauma is not the story of something that happened back then. It’s the current imprint of that pain, horror, and fear living inside people.”

An autumn wind blew dry leaves across the old Victorian tombstones. A hundred-year-old oak shaded the resting places of people long dead, from another time, another place, another century. The funerary art was interesting, but it was the inscriptions that intrigued me most. “Beloved sister,” “He was the light of our home,” “Ever faithful,” the sentiments were quaint and at times inspiring. The dead had served in civil wars and world wars. Died in the home town where they were born and in battlefields across the sea. They were young and old, newborn and in the prime of life.