I had childhood trauma that included physical, emotional and sexual abuse. My parents too were traumatized, as were their parents. I was a horribly abusive parent to my children. I was addicted to alcohol, gambling and finding Mr. Right. I put my children through hell with my moods, addictions and new “daddies”. I learned I was part of what’s known as generational trauma.

I have few memories from my childhood, and those I do have I can’t really remember the age during the incidents. A summary of my traumas includes:

Very early on in my life I had a teacher stick his hand up under my dress and play with the edge of my underwear; there was this strange energy he had when he did this, and I was repulsed, but speechless—I never told anyone.

Later, I was sexually abused by a cousin who was six years older than I. And, I believe I was sexually abused by another man who was a friend of my father; we stayed over at their house at times, and my parents drank with him and his wife. I used to have this surreal trance-like thing happen clear into my thirties, and while his face was never clear, it seemed like him and their home. He is dead, and I am not sure if it was him so there is no sense in names.

Another of my earliest memories was when I was probably eleven or twelve. I was home alone and, in the bathtub, when the phone rang; we lived out in the country and I knew no one was around so I ran for the phone without a towel or clothes. I slipped on floor, got up and made it to the phone. When I answered, a man asked me what took me so long to answer the phone? I told him I was in the bathtub and had slipped. He said, “I know, you don’t have any clothes on.” I was horrified. I grabbed the drape and covered myself. As soon as I got it around me, he said, “That’s better.” I knew right then I would be raped and murdered; I had no idea how this could be happening. We were surrounded by empty fields, with no close neighbors, but he knew. He could see me. As terror filled me, I then heard this disgusting laughter through the phone followed by “Hey this is Uncle Red. Is your dad home?”

My Uncle Red lived in southern California, which was hundreds of miles away. I was in shock that someone would scare someone like that, and I swore that day I would hate him forever. He was referred to as the “family jokester”; I called him something else.

Another memory was when my father freaked out when we were hauling hay one afternoon. It was possibly my first harsh lesson about the dangers of a man’s anger. I was riding sideways in the truck seat with the door open with my feet on the sideboards as he drove across the field. Dad hit a ditch, and half the load of hay fell off. He went into a rage, crammed the gear shift into the big hole, popped the clutch and took off across the field. I hung on as I watched the ground speed by and everything that was loose in the truck fly out the door—the thermos, the rifle, tools, etc. I was sure I would fall out and be run over. He finally stopped, and I blew a gasket. I chewed him out and demanded he take me home. He apologized over and over and begged me never to tell my mother, which of course I agreed to. I never told anyone, and didn’t really remember this episode until I was in trauma treatment in 2012.  This memory and the next came back to me during that assignment of documenting the fear we had experienced in our lives.

When I was probably about twelve or thirteen, I was in our hunting camp alone. About five guys came into camp, and they were drunk. They demanded booze, but we didn’t have any. They looked around; I was sure this would not end well—I was terrified. After what seemed an eternity, they turned and walked out of camp. When my dad came back to camp, I was hysterical and told him what had happened. He told me he knew, that he had his scope on one of them the whole time and nothing would have happened to me. He then walked away without any comforting words or gestures. I believe on that day a false sense of security formed regarding my father. I truly believed up until his first heart attack in the late 90’s, that I would die without that man. During this experience, I got a confirmation that we don’t talk about feelings—ever—no matter how scared you are, or how hard you’re crying. It’s over, move on.

My mother and one of my aunts drank a lot. My mother was good with a green-willow “spanking”, and my one aunt was good with her sarcasm. I remember hating them both. My mother and I never had a good relationship and had many issues, none of these issues would benefit the understanding of my story so I will not go into them. I was around her with the exception of a few years that I spent in Alaska and down south, and was there when she took her last breath, which I will be forever grateful for. I loved her and had no hard feelings when she died. I also loved my father, but walked away from him two years before he died. I have no hard feelings toward him either; I just couldn’t stay sane around him. I have made peace with the family dysfunction that was often blamed on me. I have no contact with my living family, which is sad, but I believe at this time the way it has to be.

Another horrible memory was while swimming with cousins. Again, I have no memory of age.  One of them freaked out and pulled me under the water. I fought to get away so I didn’t drown, and to this day I cannot stand water on my face while swimming, and in no way will go underwater.

In another incident, a guy gave me a “ride” to my car one night from the bar; the friend I went with ended up taking another guy with her and had arranged this ride for me. He pulled over to the side of the street, tried kissing me and when I resisted, and he got pissed. I knew he was not going to stop. I managed to fling the car door open, and luckily it stuck on the sidewalk. He was so pissed about the possible damage to the door, that I was able to get out and run away.

In addition to these memories, I went through three domestic violence relationships, one in which I was held at gun point while listening to horrendous threats with my 6-month-old in the next room. I married and divorced four times.

I had a dear friend commit suicide, and besides the shock, the effects on the fire crew we worked with was devastating to watch.

A significant trauma happened on July 4^th, 1994; I was in a tennis court with a few other adults and a bunch of children who were ages five and under for an event in which a plane flew over and dropped ping-pong balls onto the court. Each ball had a prize written on it. The balls hung up, so the pilot tried a second pass, but the engine stalled and it crashed into the court.

I thought I was going to die twice: first as the plane skidded across the court toward me, then again when it stopped and gas started running all over—I waited for the explosion.  I watched the pilots neck whip back and forth, which I am sure is what killed him. None of us in the tennis court were physically harmed, but many of us walked away traumatized. For a couple years, I ducked if I caught a bird in my peripheral vision. The sound of a plane would terrify me, and I still stop what I’m doing and wait when I hear one close by.

Then on April 27, 2011, I was in an EF-4 tornado in Ringgold, Georgia. This would be the trauma that dropped me to my lowest point; I came close to suicide, and since then have healed in ways I never thought possible. On that night, I was staying in a motel while working at a near-by prison. I am not sure which caused the most trauma, the tornado hitting the motel I was in or the evacuation to the Red Cross shelter in Fort Oglethorpe Georgia.

The next place I lived, I ended up sleeping in the small walk-in closet because I was too afraid the trees next to the apartment building would crash in on me during a thunderstorm or perhaps another tornado. I hadn’t noticed the trees when I rented the apartment. I spent numerous nights sleeping in bathtubs when there were tornado warnings.  I was in a fetal position during many storms.

As I write this, I remember crying about a week ago when I read a weather report about a predicted tornado outbreak. The news report stated it would be “like the super outbreak on April 27, 2011.” Three hundred and twenty-one people died from tornados between April 25^th and the 28^th, 2011 in that area. A weather site posted, “April 27, 2011 marks the deadliest tornado day since March 18, 1925 when 747 people were killed by tornadoes.”

I had to move out of the south due to my inability to tolerate the storms and tornadoes. I believe this was my “worst” trauma in regards to PTSD symptoms and crippling my ability to function; but the progress that I have made since then is beyond measure. The question I was often asked when someone found out I was in a tornado of that magnitude was “Did you lose anything?” I would reply, “Yes, my mind.”

After losing the connection I had with my oldest daughter during this time, which meant I lost my grandchildren too, the first thing I learned about trauma healing is that we are not looking for someone to blame—not self or others. It’s often not about who is “right or wrong”, but rather how one or more minds come to blows in emotional head-ons. We are looking at the effects of our experiences to understand what happened, and seeing where there can be a new starting point. Often, that new beginning does not include all the old players. Understanding why people do what we do, can lead to changes that stop destruction.  We have to look at our childhood and adulthood experiences—all of them. If we get stuck, our horrible experiences either lead to more trauma, or to us becoming perpetrators of someone else’s trauma. We must seek the courage to face it all.

Many people say, “I don’t want to go back and have to relive all that stuff. It’s over.” Others say to traumatized people “Get over it. You have to let it go. You can’t let it keep affecting your life.” The effects of trauma are real—brain and body; if that “stuff” traumatized you, you continue to relive it over and over until it is addressed. Most of us learned not to trust when we were kids—either at home or in school, or both. My nicknames in school were “Wicked Witch of the West” (my last name was West), and then when I went to high school, it changed to “Flatsy Patsy.” Never good enough, and not big enough in the right spots. I hated my home life, and I hated school.

My dad used to tell me a story about trust. He said that a father put his son up on the roof, and encouraged the little boy to jump into his arms. He coaxed and coaxed, and finally the little boy jumped. The father quickly stepped back and let the little boy hit the ground. He then said, “Son, let that be a lesson to you. Never trust anyone.” I’m sure my dad’s father let him hit the ground more than once, and he felt it necessary to teach us the same.

There are phenomenal people writing about “what is wrong with us” as a human race; we just have to quiet our minds enough to be able to hear and take the leap into recovery—Gabor Maté said, it’s not about seeing what is wrong with us, it’s about address what is causing the pain. It’s a myth that people with substance use issues are the “ones” who need treatment. If you have one ounce of untreated trauma, unresolved anger, grief or loss, rage, need for pay-back or revenge, enjoyment when someone else fails, live off gossip and drama, or have a need to be “better” than others, you might want to look into some good therapy. Most people need recovery; it’s not just those of us who turned to substances.

Earnie Larson said “Hurt people, hurt people. And we’ve got to stop hurting each other.” Larson was an amazing Substance Use Recovery professional. His DVD “Unresolved Anger” is an amazing gift for recovering from both mental health and substance use; his talk also addresses trauma healing; he just didn’t use the word trauma in it. I hope the material in this book helps you find peace. While life will continue to be difficult at times, it does not have to be ugly. One of my friends used to say, “I still have really bad days, but I used to have really bad years.” The journey of healing is worth all the pain we have to go through.