September 29, 2011; The day that will forever be burned in my brain. This day marks the most significant change in my life. On this day, I was 34 weeks pregnant with my first child. October is National Domestic Violence Awareness Month; and for a lot of people, that really doesn't mean a whole lot. 1 in 3 women and 1 in 4 men have suffered violence at the hands of an intimate partner. But that is a very generalized statistic. You also need to include the children who witness the abuse, or are even subject to it themselves. What about pets? They're very sensitive to noise, tension, violence... The effects are so much further reaching than we realize. The implications of violence in the home extends far beyond the moments of abuse. The scars, whether physical or invisible, can last a life time and then some. There was study performed on pregnant women after the events of the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001 in the United States. Those women who were pregnant during the attacks, particularly in the third trimester that developed PTSD symptoms, showed a marked drop in saliva cortisol levels. A year after the attacks, their children were also tested and showed the same drop in comparison to their peers. This showed scientists and researchers that not only does PTSD and trauma cause physical reactions, but they can be passed to the developing child. These, my friends, are called epigenetic changes. (1) And they can be passed down through multiple generations. So what does a terrorist attack have to do with domestic violence? Trauma. Trauma comes in many forms and what may be a traumatic experience to one may not affect another. But the one thing a traumatic event has in common with us all, is it's ability to CHANGE who we are; on a cellular level. So if a woman is pregnant during a traumatic event and develops PTSD as a result, she can pass the PTSD on to her child. And her child can then go on to pass their PTSD on to THEIR child. Not trying to be a Debby Downer here, guys. But this is real life. See what I mean when I say the effects of domestic abuse are far more reaching than we realize? It is a ripple effect. It was a Thursday. I remember getting up early. I couldn't sleep. I had been planning on talking to him about some hard things. I was told by two professionals to just leave while he was at work. But I couldn't do that...I still had hope. Hope he would change. Hope he still loved me enough to see how much he was hurting me. And if not me, his daughter. Hope he would stop drinking. I made arrangements for a place to live if it didn't work out the way I wanted it to. I sat on the couch waiting for the inevitable. The tv was on but I wasn't watching. He woke up in a better mood than normal. Maybe this would work?! He poured himself a bowl of cereal and sat next to me on the couch. I was rigid. He noticed. He asked why. I shrugged, the words burning the back of my throat begging to be released. He started to get agitated. My window was closing. I asked him to eat his breakfast. I knew he wouldn't keep eating once I started talking. He refused. Despite rehearsing the words in my head over and over, the ones I had so carefully compiled so as to not anger him, something else left my mouth entirely. "I think we both know that this isn't working very well." That is all I was able to say. I do not remember most of the words that were screamed back. The fury. I remember feeling like I was in a hole. I was numb, paralyzed. I was dissociated. Have you ever watched a nature show where a lion hunts his prey? When he catches the gazelle, and the look on his dinner's face is blank. Completely glazed over. Like his mind is no longer a part of his body. Like his ability to feel is gone? This is what dissociation looks like. The events that occurred over the next few hours were some of the most terrifying moments of my life. Some of which I didn't even begin to delve into for several years. I thought I was going to die. I thought my baby was going to die. More than I had ever feared before, during the months of abuse leading up to that day. A few weeks later, I met with my OBGYN for a typical checkup. I was 38 weeks pregnant. I had lost everything. All of my dreams were gone. My home I had carefully built up, was gone. I was living with family but didn't feel welcomed. Rumors were even being spread about me and my circumstances, by people I thought cared about me. I hit the low of lows and I remember sitting in my car after the appointment and sobbing. Just crying uncontrollably. All I had left was my baby, but even she felt so far away. I felt so utterly alone. As I approach the due date for my second daughter, these feelings and emotions are all so palpable. My due date is the same as it was when I was pregnant with my first daughter, six years ago. And although my life is totally different than it was back then, it is hard to navigate the emotions I feel as the days pass and I remember.
In the beginning of this pregnancy, upon learning my due date was the exact same day, I became struck with fear. Numbers are my downfall. I remember details in dates and numbers. Events that would have otherwise been forgotten or pieces lost, are crisp in my mind because of the connection with the numbers. So having the same due date, I knew it would effect my PTSD. It became so engulfing, I asked my husband for a blessing. For those not familiar with the LDS faith, we believe that God speaks to us still. We believe that one of the ways He speaks to us is through the power of the Holy Priesthood, given to those worthy of it's keys. It was during this blessing that I was told this pregnancy was to heal me. Emotionally, physically, and in every way. I don't know when I will feel as though this was a healing experience, but I do know that I have felt a significant change within myself as the anniversary of the day I left my abuser has come and gone again. For the first time ever, I thought of who I am today. I would not be this person had I not endured that trauma. And while that could be a bad thing, depending on how I look at it, it can also be a positive thing. I have gained an understanding for others in a way that I otherwise could not have, especially my own daughter. When I read about the study on PTSD during pregnancy, I felt so horrible. Guilty. I have worked so hard to protect her but look, see what she has to deal with? But then I watch her grow up and see how loving she is to others because she FEELS so deeply. She has anxiety, just like me. But she is oh so wise. And I am so incredibly thankful for her, just the way she is. One day she will learn about the day I left her biological father. One day she will be old enough to ask why. One day she will be able to understand why I am the way I am and why she is the way she is. And maybe one day she will be a catalyst for change. That sunny September morning wasn't one I would consider to be "happy". So why would I say "Happy Traumaversary"? Because I am alive and my life is beautiful. I still remember. I still fear. I have nightmares and flashbacks and I dissociate more than I care to admit. My therapist probably wonders why two years isn't enough therapy to fix me enough to function. Maybe it's just because I'm pregnant but anniversaries come and go. Might as well eat ice cream and bake cookies. (1) https://www.theguardian.com/science/neurophilosophy/2011/sep/09/pregnant-911-survivors-transmitted-trauma
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