When I allow myself to think back to when my husband, Matt, traumatically died of an undiagnosed rare genetic liver disease called Wilson's Disease - I don't remember much. My friends and family re-tell stories from those long dark days and I don't remember being apart of any of it. Apparently, when you experience trauma and a significant life-changing loss your brain doesn't have much capacity to retain much else besides the bare minimum - remembering to breathe. I really did have to actively remind myself to breathe - it no longer felt natural.
I remember feeling like I was floating all the time, looking down on what was happening beneath me. It felt as if my soul was sent on an important mission with an end goal to report back any findings to Shira 2.0 (This is how I sometimes refer to myself post-trauma). Years later, I learned that this experience is called Dissociation. It is how our incredibly complex brain protects us from the unbearable pain that comes with such a loss.
The best way to describe how I felt after the initial numbness wore off, is to walk you through an analogy. (A technique I learned from my badass therapist), It felt like I regressed back to a newborn baby again - no longer feeling safe - everything feeling unfamiliar and terrifying. That feeling they must feel as they enter a world that is the total opposite from the world living in seconds prior. Dark turned into light. A small warm home turned into a large cold space. Quiet and alone (unless you are a multiple like myself) turned into unfamiliar creatures loud and crowded. Instantly they cry. Cry until they are swaddled to mimic the protective womb they just emerged out of and hear a familiar voice whisper in their ear, "Hi baby, this is Mommy. Welcome to the world." They stop crying because they feel safe again.
Do you know how badly I wanted to be protected from this new world I was entering without my person? How badly I wanted to just hear his voice and then instantly feel safe once again? When I was with Matt, I felt safe. I never felt alone. Loved beyond measure. Naively, as if nothing could ever hurt me because I had his love to protect me. Enough love to protect his beautiful baby - Benjamin - too.
It was as if there was this imaginary bubble surrounding him, me, and our little light. Unfortunately, it was just that....imaginary. The bubble burst and let in an unfathomable darkness in my soul that left me questioning everything I ever believed in. Nothing mattered to me anymore. I felt disconnected from all of my family...all of my friends... Matt...our 14 month old Benjamin...and myself. Love failed me. I felt betrayed. I felt alone.
This feeling was new to me. I was NEVER alone...even in my Mom's womb I was surrounded by 4 fetuses. I am a Quintuplet. I was privileged to grow up in a family of 7 - 4 of them brothers, lived with roommates in college, lived with roommates after college, and then moved in with Matt. Thanks to therapy, I discovered that I had a soul deep fear of being alone. At 33 years old, I was face to face with this fear and I did what I needed to do to survive...I ran and hid.
As I continued to run and hide, I ended up creating what I feared most. I was alone. So much love and support surrounded Benjamin and me but I couldn't feel it. I felt that nobody could understand what I was going through. Nobody else in my life became a widow and solo-parent overnight. How could I connect with anyone if I wasn't able to believe my own story MATTered?
Thus, started my healing journey guided by my "trauma specialized, sometimes brutally honest with just the right amount of brut, validator of feelings, and badass" therapist. First step for me...finding the strength to look in the mirror and say out-loud, "I experienced trauma. I suffer from PTSD. I am a 33 year old widow. I am a solo.-parent. I have to live this new life without my person. My best friend. My champion. My love. Unfortunately and fortunately I am still alive." Eventually, at my own pace with my unique set of mental health tools, I started to create my own light again.
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