Category Archives: trauma

There’s a dog in my life

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There’s a dog in my life who came by way of his own trauma. Thurman is a Maltese who spent the first 7 years of his life in a cage breeding. His hair fell out from neglect, and when the owners took him to the vet the vet took Thurman from them and placed him in rescue. When I heard that story I remember thinking I wish I had a vet who would have told my parents you’re unfit I’m taking this child from you because that’s essentially what happened to Thurman. 

Thurman languished in foster care because his hair took some time to grow back, and he was extremely aloof. He’s not the kind of dog that cuddles or licks people. We took one look at him, and we told his foster mom, “Oh we understand his situation, we’re happy to have him.” And true to form, he ignored us for months. He would just eat, potty, and sleep and give us sideways suspicious glances. It was cool to see him discover blankets and sheets and comfort. Though he didn’t like us seeing him bask in comfort. If Thurman saw us glancing at him while he rubbbed his face in the blanket he would stop and I swear he would look a little embarrassed. 

If you pet him too long, or heaven forbid, if Letty hugs him too long, he takes off. And forget having him cuddle with you or even nestle into you. That was just not something in the cards for him, until it was. We got him December 2019, right before COVID. For all those years he never came to me or snuggled with me until that Saturday last month when the first memories fell out of my brain. 

That Saturday night I was on the couch crying when Thurman got up from his corner of the couch, climbed on top of me, and then just settled into me like it was something he did every night. I was so in my own hellspace that I hardly noticed it. In fact, my wife brought my attention to it by her own reaction, “The dog, baby! He knows you need comfort. Look at that!” In my own fuzzy universe I finally truly felt Thurman on me. And you would think my reaction would be something like, “Oh Thurman, I love you, too.” Instead, I remember thinking to myself, “Really, Thurman, now I’m going to remember this moment together with one of the worst moments of my life.” 

And sure enough this morning I found him cuddled up next to me on the bed, and I had a moment of joy followed by sadness that just sticks and doesn’t let go, and I think it’s going to be that way for a long time.

Maybe sometimes it’s better not to know

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I now know what I didn’t know last Saturday before noon. I know so much more, and yet I know I probably know only a small window, but that small window is plenty to hurt the heart. I came to this dissociation journey with parts first, and just hazy memories that really didn’t compute for me how they led to the parts I have. When the question would come up if I am a survivor, I would say, “I guess?” in that not so sure, questiony, wishy washy answer that would annoy me because it’s not like me to be wishy washy with answers.

And the memories keep coming like a flood, a freight train. So much crying and so much pretending. Pretending because I have to work. Thank god for remote work. Thank god for parts. I’ll cry, and then my part that loves to work will emerge like magic for a meeting. Then, when it’s done, we’ll cry for a spell. I’m thankful that I’m not called upon all too often for a sudden or unplanned need for an on-camera meeting. Usually, if something comes up, I just get a Teams message. I can read a Team message through tears. Sure, I welcome work distractions while my brain is flooded with images. For a spot of time, I can pretend I don’t have images in my head, and I can work on something someone needs from me.

On a good day, my work part will completely take over, and I’ll feel like I can do anything because this part is, quite frankly, awesomely confident and unflappable. I have a new therapist, and he called me this week on one of those good days. He caught on right away that a different part was talking to him on the phone. He said, “Hmmm, who am I speaking with?” The next day he said to me, “She’s so articulate!” I said, “Yes, I wish she was here all the time.”

I’ll get a respite from the memories, and I’ll mistakenly think it’s over. And I’ll feel almost like myself again. But, it’s a trick. They come back. I asked my wife, “Do you think it’s over? That’s it?” She just looked at me with so much love, and I don’t remember what she said, but I know it was an answer I didn’t want to hear. And, yes, later that same day the memories were back, like they never left.

I thought, wrongly, that I knew all there was to know about that place and time. After all, I knew what I knew, and nothing more.

There it is, in print

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Since Saturday afternoon, I have seen my hometown in print every day. I grew up in El Paso, and was stunned to have the city pushed into my awareness by a tragic event. And I can’t help but wonder if tragedy is a feedback loop onto itself because this tragic event has thrown me back into my own trauma history with the daily reminder of where I lived as a child. It is not lost on me that an argument can be made that this can be seen as self-centered with the real loss of life that just happened.

And, yet, I still find myself stuck in some way every time I see the news since the weekend. I’ve lived in the Northwest and the Northeast of this country since I left El Paso many years ago. By design, I’ve endeavored to be as far away as possible. It’s truly not the city’s fault that I am not a fan. Though I can’t help but associate my feelings with El Paso as it is where a lot of stuff happened. To be clear, I am not aware of the entirety of my experience. But I know enough to know that it was traumatic.

This past weekend I was at an event where I was asked about my family with insistence that I must have support from family members. I responded by saying, “Certain family members-I regularly look up their arrest record to keep track of them as it is public information in Texas.” That put an abrupt end to the inquiry.

And now I have to stop writing because it is too much.