As evening descends, I find myself in what I refer to as “bath time.” It’s the hour when my daughter, brimming with energy and sugar, races through the house while my husband chases after her, urging her to use the potty. It’s time to prepare for bed.
However, like any spirited four-year-old, she ignores him. Laughter and chaos fill the air until my husband reaches his breaking point. “Ella,” he commands, “bathroom. Now.” After a few reluctant whimpers, she finally relents, responding with a bright “okay.” But while their brief struggle comes to an end, my internal battle is just beginning. I feel the sweat pooling, my body shaking, and my breath becoming shallow.
I am among the five million Americans who contend with PTSD, or post-traumatic stress disorder, and yelling is one of my major triggers. Raised voices send my heart racing, putting me on high alert.
When people hear “PTSD,” they often picture soldiers returning from combat, grappling with the horrors of war. However, according to the United States Department of Veteran Affairs, PTSD can arise from any number of life-threatening experiences—combat, natural disasters, car accidents, or sexual assault. My own trauma stems from the latter, compounded by a long history of abuse.
Throughout my childhood, I faced verbal abuse. My mother’s harsh words left me feeling worthless. As a teenager, I endured sexual abuse at the hands of someone I trusted—a boy I called my boyfriend. My adult life has been marked by violence; I have experienced physical abuse that has left lasting scars. While many situations can trigger my PTSD—bath time often brings anxiety, and criticism can make me retreat—yelling is the most distressing.
When I hear someone scream, my body goes into a state of panic. My hands tremble, my legs shake, and my heart races so violently I fear it might burst. I long to escape, to find a way out, and I remain in this heightened state of distress for what feels like an eternity.
Before motherhood, I could manage my triggers more easily. When things became overwhelming, I could step outside, go for a jog, or call a friend. Now, however, I cannot avoid my triggers; they are woven into the fabric of parenting itself. My child has become one of my triggers.
I don’t place blame on my husband or daughter—it is simply a reality of my life. Yet, it’s not just their voices that affect me; it’s my own. There are moments when I lose my temper, raising my voice in frustration. Those instances are agonizing because, not only do they send me spiraling into a PTSD episode, but they also engulf me in guilt. I worry that I am a bad person, a bad parent, and a verbally abusive mother.
I understand that there is a distinction between my actions and my mother’s, yet the fear of repeating her mistakes looms large. I do not want my daughter to feel the pain I experienced. Every day, I strive to be a better parent, working diligently on my healing journey so that I can be the loving, present mother she deserves.
Will I ever fully heal? Perhaps not. My past is an integral part of who I am, and my triggers will likely remain. Yet, I am making progress—slowly but surely—through patience, perseverance, and lots of therapy. Today, I consciously choose to fight against my fears rather than flee from them.
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In summary, the journey of motherhood is intertwined with the complexities of my PTSD. While I grapple with triggers daily, I remain committed to healing and providing my child with the love she deserves.