As evening falls, I find myself in what I refer to as “bath hour” or “bedtime chaos.” My daughter races around our home, fueled by a sugar rush and the relentless energy of a four-year-old who staunchly refuses to acknowledge sleep. My partner, Mark, chases after her, trying to coax her into the bathroom for her nightly routine.
“Time to go to the potty!” he pleads.
Despite his gentle reminders, she continues her whirlwind of giggles and shrieks until Mark’s patience wears thin.
“Ella,” he raises his voice, “bathroom. Now!”
She responds with a half-hearted whine but eventually complies, shouting back “okay.” Yet, while their dispute concludes, my internal struggle begins. My body is drenched in sweat, shaking, and I find it difficult to catch my breath.
I am among the millions in the U.S. grappling with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). One of my primary triggers is loud voices. When most people think of PTSD, they often picture veterans returning from combat. However, the U.S. Department of Veteran Affairs states that PTSD can arise from various life-threatening events, including natural disasters, car accidents, and sexual assault—my triggers stem from the latter, intertwined with a long history of abuse.
As a child, I experienced verbal abuse; my mother would belittle and ridicule me, instilling a sense of failure. In my teenage years, I faced sexual abuse from someone I trusted—the very boyfriend I thought I could confide in. Throughout adulthood, I endured further trauma, encompassing physical violence. While various experiences can set off my PTSD, it is the sound of yelling that truly unsettles me.
When voices escalate, my body goes into a heightened state of alert. My hands tremble, my legs quiver, and my heart races so furiously that I fear it might burst. The instinct to flee surges within me as I scan for exits. This heightened state of anxiety can linger for minutes, hours, and at times, it feels like days.
Before motherhood, I could somewhat manage my triggers. I had the freedom to avoid them—taking a walk, calling a friend, or simply stepping outside for fresh air. But as a parent, those triggers are now unavoidable. The very source of my anxiety is my child.
I harbor no resentment towards Mark or Ella; it’s simply a part of my reality. Yet, it is not only their voices that unsettle me, but also my own. There are moments when I lose my temper and raise my voice, which becomes a double-edged sword. Not only does it trigger my PTSD symptoms, but it also engenders immense guilt. I grapple with the fear of being a “bad” mom, echoing the very experiences I wished to shield Ella from.
I am acutely aware of the distinction between my parenting and my mother’s abusive behavior. Nevertheless, I strive every day to ensure that my daughter does not endure what I did. I am fighting to be the nurturing, present parent she deserves.
Will I ever fully heal? Perhaps not; my past is an intrinsic part of who I am. Yet, I am on a healing journey—slowly and steadily, with the aid of therapy and relentless determination. Today, I choose to confront my struggles rather than flee from them.
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