A Brief Look At PTSD, Covid And Motherhood

Happier times on a night out with my spouse    “Honey, did you hear the zoo is open?” My spouse calls from the kitchen. I look around our two-bedroom condo cluttered with toys and think, Oh, to leave this house! But there’s panic, always panic, even before the onset of this pandemic. Can I manage? I’m groggy. In fact, I’m dizzy. Maybe it’s the strong coffee I gulped upon waking or the common symptom of my autoimmune disorder. I can feel the Synthroid lodge in my throat (a magical pill that kicks my thyroid into gear) and worry that I might have accidentally taken one extra. Pills make me nervous. Overdose is a continuous fear. My short-term memory loss is no joke. I forget what I've done the second I did it. I'm going to pass out! Am I dying? Do I have Covid?  The room spins and the corners of my vision turns black, just like when a loved one strangled me, long ago. This is diagnosed Complex PTSD. Trauma.  Life. I’m going to puke.  Maybe I just need f


    Yes, that girl is me, wearing my Sunday best . I was very different then from the woman I am now, and not just in the ordinary ‘I grew up’ sort of way. I’ve crossed mountains to get here, suffered the darkest of childhoods (don’t let smiles fool you), and almost lost my life countless times in the chaos that followed, and yet somehow, I made it to safety. Here I am, in a simple quiet life with my spouse and young son, spending many valued moments close to the ocean waves. I’m a stay-at-home mom, a memoirist, and well - a blogger. I was hoping to get back into the film industry, one job above all others that I loved, but Covid struck right when this mama was ready. Poor timing, go figure. The beauty of it all is that I’ve instead become laser-focused on what I believe is part of my life’s purpose - to share a story that’s origins go back three decades. My story, The Girl Who Lived To Tell.  I was born into Branhamism. Have you heard of it? No, probably not, unless introdu