Triggers

Triggers. A word I never truly understood until it became my reality a few short months ago. Something I had absolutely no idea what it truly felt like until I began to live the reality of daily life facing them. We throw the word around, much like other terms, without truly understanding them until it is our reality, our personal battle to face. 

When our journey first began I was in survival mode. There was no time to think. No time to act. Only survive, literally. I was allowed to stay with our child at the hospital and one night my husband brought Taco Bell for dinner at the request of our child. That was the last time I ate from there. Not because I don’t like it, rather it brings back memories. Terrible memories I don’t want to relive. 15 months later, I can finally drive past a Taco Bell without feeling panicked. 

Another trigger is a certain location. Unfortunately one of our children works here and this location is .25miles from my house. This location used to be a place of refuge and peace. A place I would go to clear my head. Now, I simply cannot go there. It is a place of fear. A place of anxiety. A place of anything but peace. 

Every time I hold a medicine bottle, a knife, or see a sheriff deputy, my heart stops. I catch my breath. The tears burn the back of my eyes. The anxiety becomes so severe I wonder if this panic attack will be the one that pushes me over the edge. Yet all of the above are parts of everyday life, including the latter as we live in a small town and I still have this visceral reaction day after day. 

The trauma we go through as mothers of suicide survivors is real. It is intense. It is hard. It is lonely, so lonely. It is unlike anything words can describe.

So…..

Mama, I hear you. Mama, I’m here for you. Mama, we’re in this together. 

XOXOXO

Mary