My PTSD support group was on the same day as Oldest’s high school open house. I thought going to both might kill me. PTSD triggers were everywhere, like any day as a parent who has post traumatic stress disorder.
Really, I thought that continuing to go to the PTSD support group might kill me. Yes, I’m being dramatic. The PTSD support group is not full of ninjas or anything. However, it reminds me a bit of Fight Club, in that outside of PTSD Fight Club, we don’t talk about PTSD Fight Club, and I feel beat up after each session.
I was only on the second week of a ten week series, and I thought seriously of not going back. Going to the meetings themselves involved a lot of girding of the brain and loins. The baring your soul with other people. The learning more about this bitch of a disorder. The diarrhea right before the support group meeting. The homework (that I completed in the clinic bathroom ten minutes before group started). The being accountable for the new information I was learning. The agitation and restlessness and weepiness.
The sheer fatigue after each meeting. The support group only met for an hour and a half, which left me feeling like I’d been hit by a truck. The idea of attending Oldest’s High School Open House the same day was overwhelming, sending me straight to bed for the afternoon.
Preparing Oldest for High School
It wasn’t just that I was adjusting to the new PTSD support group and learning so many new things about myself that I thought my brain would explode. A big part of my preparation was just realizing that my oldest child who was born only two pounds, 12 ounces almost three months early now stands six feet tall and is in high school.
I have been in denial about this all summer. Guess what? Just because you feel numb about something doesn’t keep it from happening. As I lay in bed that afternoon trying to sleep, I kept thinking over and over again, my oldest is in high school. I can totally do this. I am totally getting hardcore PTSD triggered right now. (What’s a PTSD trigger? Go here for more info)
It would be an understatement to say that high school was traumatic for me. Going to high school in and of itself was actually a safe 
place, but the rest of my life was a shitshow. It was not surprising to me that the idea of being in high school was triggering to me.
And even though my entire life basically fell apart while I was in high school and I was completely triggered by *my* kid being a teenager, I had to support him.
I knew I was strong enough to do that, but I wasn’t sure how that would play out. Should I ask someone to come with me for support? Could I plan on leaving the event early? Could I talk myself through the difficulties of the evening? What about meditating? What self care skills could I use?
Showing Up Through PTSD Triggers
There would be many friends of ours at the high school open house, including a few I could corner and ask for help if I needed it. Plus, I could always call a friend on my phone. I decided that I was going to do this, and I had a plan.
After we had arrived at the Open House, Oldest took me on a tour of his typical day. We went to the auditorium and listened to opening remarks by the administration. We visited his classes, which were each five minutes in length. Other parents with their oldest kids entering high school looked as shell shocked as I felt; I found this comforting.
Parents perched on the edge of chairs usually occupied by their kids, looking nervous. A series of teachers explained their syllabi and expectations and best ways to communicate. I kept saying to myself, my oldest is in high school. I can totally do this. I am totally getting hardcore PTSD triggered right now. Until we were almost to the end of the evening.
It was “sixth period” of the Open House during which Oldest’s English Teacher with a ponytail kind of slapped me in the face.
Yes, I’m being dramatic, he didn’t *literally* slap me in the face. He sat facing us, the group of nervous parents, looking us each in the eyes and saying, “It’s okay. If they show up and do the work, they’ll be fine.”
My whole body flinched. I realized in a moment that I had shown up not just once, but twice that day. I was doing the work.
I was going to be okay.
[Tweet ” I had shown up not just once, but twice that day. I was doing the work.”]
Oh Yeah, I Can Do Hard Things
As we headed home, Oldest mentioned that high school, while certainly more fun, was a bit intimidating. How would he keep up with everything? What if he missed something or made a mistake?
“Well, it’s like Mr. English Teacher said,” I reminded him, “if you show up and do the work, you’ll be fine.”
For a little while, I had forgotten. I can do hard things. I’ve done hard things, over and over again. Also, that’s what she said.
This scrappy English teacher reminded me that there is value in putting feet to the floor and being willing to move forward. Triggered or not, I had shown up for my kid.
I had shown up for myself.
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A Funny and Poignant Grief Book
For twenty years, I thought that I had been marching through the stages of grief in a straight line. I had been following the formula, crossing each processed grief experience off my list.
Except that I was totally deluded. And I didn’t discover that until Jim, my beloved father-in-law, died. I found myself drying off from my shower the morning after his death, really hoping he couldn’t see me naked. Or, if he could, that he was averting his eyes.
From that moment, my path through grief resembled a roller coaster, spiraling and twisting and turning, circling back around. Echoes of past trauma, including childhood abuse and cheating death, would no longer be ignored. I somehow needed to get from the beginning to the end of this grief adventure, and I don’t have a good sense of direction.
But what is always present during a journey through grief, regardless of the path chosen?
Hope.
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