As the clock strikes 7:30 PM, I have a special name for this time: bath hour, bed hour, or the witching hour. My daughter dashes around the house, fueled by a sugary treat and an abundance of energy that makes sleep seem like a foreign concept. My partner, David, chases after her, urging her to use the bathroom and prepare for bed.
But, like most energetic four-year-olds, she ignores him, continuing her playful antics. Eventually, David’s patience wears thin. “Olivia,” he barks, “bathroom. Now.” After a brief whimper, she reluctantly complies, responding with a loud “okay.” Yet, while their disagreement comes to a close, a deeper battle rages within me. I start to sweat, tremble, and struggle to breathe.
I am one of five million Americans living with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and one of my significant triggers is raised voices. Many associate PTSD with soldiers and wartime experiences, but the U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs explains that PTSD can develop after experiencing or witnessing various life-threatening events, such as accidents or abuse. My trauma stems from a painful history of abuse.
As a child, I endured verbal abuse. My mother’s harsh words made me feel inadequate, like a perpetual disappointment. During my teenage years, I was sexually abused by someone I trusted—a friend who I mistakenly thought cared for me. Throughout my adult life, I have faced numerous traumas, including violence and neglect. Among my various triggers, yelling stands out as particularly jarring.
When raised voices pierce the air, my body goes into overdrive. My hands tremble, my legs shake, and my heart races to a point where I fear it might burst. I instinctively seek an escape, searching for an exit that may not exist. This heightened state of anxiety can last for minutes, hours, or what feels like an eternity.
Before motherhood, I had more control over my environment—when tensions flared, I could remove myself from triggers, take a walk, or call a friend. Now, though, I am confronted with my triggers daily, as parenting itself has become a source of stress.
I do not blame David or Olivia; it is simply my reality. The sound of my own voice can trigger me just as much as theirs. There are moments when I lose my composure, raise my voice, and in those instances, I am not only thrown into a PTSD-like state but also engulfed in guilt. I fear becoming a bad parent, an echo of the verbal abuse I once endured.
I am fully aware of the distinction between my experiences and those of my mother. I strive to ensure that Olivia never endures the pain I did. Every day, I battle against my past, working to heal and become the nurturing parent she deserves.
Will I ever fully heal? Perhaps not. I suspect my past will always be a part of my identity, and my triggers will remain. However, I am making progress—slowly and steadily—with patience, determination, and, importantly, therapy. It’s a long journey, but today, I choose to fight rather than flee.
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In summary, parenthood has dramatically reshaped my experience with PTSD, forcing me to confront my triggers daily. Though I may never fully escape my past, I am committed to healing and breaking the cycle of trauma for my daughter.