A Note to Everyone Who Has Ever Told Me to JEST GET OVER IT!

Tracey Anne Hallberg is my Monday Guest Contributor.  She is a survivor of Family Crisis, and proof positive that there is light on the other side.  She shares from her heart, leaving very little to the imagination.

Her story is valid, important, and needs to be shared.  My personal journey is very different from hers, but on my journey, I have come upon many...many...who have had to live through horrors similar to the upbringing Tracey was forced to endure.  

Tracey is one of the most courageous women I have had the privilege to know, and I am honored to share Wings Like Eagles with her every Monday.

Tracey's account is graphic and raw, and is not suitable for young or sensitive readers.  I give her posts a strong PG-13 rating.

I have heard it all.  The past is the past.  Think about what you have now--a wonderful husband, two beautiful kids.  A home, two cars, your health.  JUST GET OVER IT! 

This is coming from people who either have no sense of what has happened to me--not jest ONCE or TWICE--but for 24 years straight. 

They go on, and on.  Everyone has traumatic things happen.  They jest don't spread it all over, telling people all about it.  They just GET OVER IT.  You are not alone, or special.

Let's just say, I do not share my complete heart with everyone anymore.  They have heard the stories. Sometimes I have repeated myself, trying to gain their understanding. Only to be left feeling worse, and misunderstood.  Rather than being admired for my strength, I'm pitied and criticized.

OK...Maybe their intent was to see me happy. Or help me find peace. But these words left me feeling more of a freak...and weird inside all over again. I have come to accept. Some people CARE...but they will NEVER understand. NOR do I wish them to. They would have to have felt what I have felt. Seen what I have seen. Now why would I wish that on anyone?

From the time I was on my own, I rode my bike to jobs. To college. Up a Huge hill. No one ever gave me a dime. I paid my own way. I didn't want to learn to drive. Could not really understand why for a long time. People would ask me. "What do you do when the weather is bad, not being able to drive?" I said, "I get wet. I get cold. I get hot. I survive. I am strong . I am healthy. I endure. Have you seen my muscles? Hello?" Hahaha!

They don't know what to think or say. I prolly wouldn't if I had come from a regular home. Been taught to drive. Bought a car. College paid for. I cannot relate with these people, nor can they with me. I CARE for their problems, jest the same. But I DON'T understand. Can't. Impossible. Both ways. 

People ask me. "Why didn't you learn to drive until you were 29 years old?" My reply, "I did not need to. I was perfectly fine."

For fifteen years. Riding my bike. Healthy and strong. Then at 29 years old, Trinity happened. It was a huge change. As I rode in the car with my husband, Jason, I noticed all the mothers sitting at the bus stops in the rain, the snow, the triple digit heat. I did NOT want that to be me. With a baby, I could not ride a bike everywhere. So, I decided to ALLOW Jason to teach me. 

The first time I got behind the wheel of a car. My hands began to shake. And sweat. The sickness rose inside like a long lost enemy. I grew nautious. I nearly fainted. I peed my pants. "JUST GET OVER IT," rang the words of the Brilliant.

I thought of all the drunk drivers that must be aching to jest KILL me. Where were these feelings coming from? If the past is the past, then how come I cannot jest FORGET. I thought of all the horrific things that could happen to me in an instant. I thought of the little control I had of other drivers. Their choices. My inexperience would surely cause me to have a lapse of quick judgement. I would surely die by car accident. FOR SURE. 

It took three or four months, for me to drive out of the school parking lot. Onto residental streets.

Yea...some people consider me rediculous. Trapped in my fear. Lack of trust for God. They got no idea what I have seen. Heck, I blocked out most of what I have seen in order to survive. I had to try to forget. But these memories would soon surface with a vengance. I had no idea how incredibly bad it would have to get in order for me to finally face my fear. No idea. Thoughts racing. Hands shaking. Guts wrenching, I inched out into the street.

Months went  by. I was becoming more secure with my skills and abilities. NEVER at ease. NEVER relaxed. Still to this day, I am an uptight driver. I don't trust anyone on the road. ANYONE. That includes you. So stay away from my car.  Haha!!

When Trinity was 2 years-old, I was a brand new mother, and a two year-old driver. I was taking her to Mommy and Me classes. Coming home one day, she was incredibly thirsty. Screaming for her juice cup in the back seat. I reached for it on the passenger side with my right hand, with my left hand still on the wheel. Big mistake. I turned to the back seat passenger side to hand her her juice. I veered the wheel to the right about a foot.  BAMMM!!!!!  I yelled, "JESUS!!!!!!"  I had popped a curb. Clipped a palm tree with my right front tire. Going about 25 miles per hour, my white Ford Focus flipped in mid air, about 20 feet, landing on the roof. CD's flew.  Glass shattered.  Trinity screamed so loud.  It happened so fast.

I didn't understand what happened, 'til we were upside down, hanging in our seat belts. I popped open my seat belt, pried my car door open, and ran to the back seat door.  I tried to open it. "Dear GOD! My baby!!!" I could not open the door!  I screamed, "Someone HELP ME!"

There was oil everywhere. Glass EVERYWHERE!  It was a residential street. Luckily, there were no cars on the sides. A little old Mexican man on a bike rode up. I started speaking in Spanish. "Mi bambina!!! Mi BAMBINA!!!" He went to the back seat door. Pried it open. Unlocked her seat belt and handed her to me. I thanked him and he road away. In shock, I sat on the curb.  A lady came out of her house and said. "What the hell?" I said, "JeSuS is alive! He is ALIVE! I called for Him to save us. He did. He saved us!" 

I am very grateful my baby was saved. God sent that little old man on a bike to save her. I don't even know who he was. I am grateful to be here. From then on, I DO NOT get distracted while driving. I pull over. 

After that happened, when I finally got up the nerve to get behind the wheel again.  I had to pull over A LOT.  I began to have flashbacks from the accident.  Then, from previous, PAST accidents I had buried in my mind. 

From when I was a child. Remembering how I used to hide my mother's car keys. When I was 7. Begging her not to drive. Her rants about  "I don't have anything I own exept my car, and I will be DAMNED if anyone is gonna take that from me too!!" 

So hearing, GET OVER IT, is kinda hard.

During stress, PTSD causes INVOLUNTARY physical reactions in your body. Involuntary.  This isn't what I want, or how how I want to react when I'm stressed.

I wish more people understood PTSD, and how those of us who have suffered terribly in life, are affected.

I can taste the blood in my mouth, see broken glass everywhere, hear crunching metal.  Bodies spread out over the highway. I see my mother in a drunken haze, getting back in the car.  She would seem to not even realize what she had jest done.

She killed a mother of three and one of her babies.

I see dead people.  Memories that no one should ever have to live again. And again.  And again.

I don't have these experiences on purpose, and I can't will them away, no matter how hard I try.

So, I went to a doctor. And I got help. Told him everything I was experiencing. He gave me the PTSD diagnosis.  And it was only then, that I was able to begin to gather the tools I needed to retrain my mind.

This is such a difficult subject for me.  I still feel myself getting angry at the people who have put it all back on me, like I was doing something wrong by having this disorder.  By not being able to jest get over it.  So that they could feel better, right?  Our loved ones do not like to see us hurting.

But, I understand that my PTSD comes from my journey.  How can I expect them to understand?  They don't understand.  They can't understand.

So, I concentrate on me.  Getting me healthy.  Not for their comfort, and definitely not in their timing, but I do it for my children.  For my husband.  For me.  Because I am determined to survive.