PTSD and Trauma

What was my trauma? What was my breaking point?

               I was not a soldier, and I have never killed anyone. I was, however, witness to much death and disease. My family suffered exotic ailments, but not one of us was lost to them. I was never held captive, but I did have my home taken from me. Not one of these events struck as a single traumatizing moment. No, my trauma was a slow one, built up on years of hard and difficult times. A cumulative breaking effect that left me in many pieces before I knew what had happened.

               I was an MK (or missionary kid) to Africa and my family was one of many who served its peoples. We lived in Kenya for three years and then we lived in Botswana for three and a half years. My family contracted malaria several times in Kenya, and my mother in particular caught several diseases I cannot quite recall. It was difficult for me having loved ones so ill. Our life still managed to be a charmed one however. We look back on it in fondness and reminisce often in the wonderful things we experienced there.  

               After an extended furlough in America that dragged on for nine or so months we were reassigned to Botswana. We were not without trouble here, but we had no cases of malaria thanks to the countries arid and landlocked status. I had a lot of fun here and my family gained many good friends. But illness seemed to pursue my mother relentlessly and she became progressively worse as we lived here.

               Living in an odd land starting at the age of 6 was different but not traumatic. The illnesses were not overly troubling to me at the time, and neither were the myriad other issues we faced. What happened next though compressed all of the difficulties into a single point in my life.  We were told we had to go back to the states indefinitely, as my mother could not get the help she needed in South Africa.

               Coming back was hard; America is so different compared to Africa. People have different motivations and base personalities. I saw many selfish kids (compared to the many selfless ones I knew) in the small town middle school I was placed in. The American children were hard hearted to someone so different and were also confused as to how to treat me. My only respite in this time came when I visited fellow missionary kids for a week.

               The following years are very dark in my memory. I was progressively becoming more and more depressed.              

               In my family's concern for my ailing mother, we failed to look at the rest of us. Aside from my mother, I was the first diagnosed with clinical depression. I had many dark thoughts and felt as if an internal darkness was eating me alive. My father also struggled with depression for many years before he received help. My sister has never been diagnosed with chronic depression, and I pray that she may be resilient enough that she may not ever have it. But I think the events of our lives shaped her personality in a way where she is better suited to focus her internal struggles into helping those around her.        

               I feel that this slow paced "progressive trauma" resulted in a mild PTSD with an emphasis on a major depressive period that lasted for years.  I did not suffer flashbacks of violence or intrusive memories of sickness. But I used to have troubling episodes where my memory would wander back to Africa and my sadness would well up. I wanted so terribly to go home; I had homesickness attacks. These happened everywhere I went for quite a long time before they slowly tapered away.

               What saved me was my family. My mother gained a little ground on her issues and noticed my own struggles which I had been trying to hide. My family began praying for me in earnest. Her and my father took me to several counselors, psychiatrists, and psychologists until I found one I could work with. God, therapy, and medication helped pierce the veil of darkness that had settled on my heart and mind.

               So many years later I feel I am past my progressive trauma, but my body still feels its impact. My brain chemistry is still out of order and I still suffer depressive episodes. But I am much stronger in character and feel firmer in who I am as a person. I have discovered God's purpose for my trials and pains. I feel called to help MK's transition between the alien worlds of culture that exist in abundance here on the earth. Without the experiences I have gone through I could not hope to be as effective a helper in this area particularly.

My name is Benjamin D. Hinely and through Christ I am stronger than my struggles.

A prayer for my Daughters

Teach me, oh God, how to bring up my daughters. Show me their fragilities, so I may minister to them. Show me their strengths, so I may reinforce them. Show me my own weaknesses, so that I may not hinder them.

I pray Father that You will take hold of their hearts early, and that they will become strong in You and for You. I pray that You will not make their lives easy, but instead challenge them often to give them a courage and a peace beyond this world that ultimately resides with You alone.

I pray for their futures, for the men they will find to spend their lives with. I pray You will raise up good men for them, with strong hearts for you. Intelligent men who are also courteous, humble, and gentle.

For Emily, I pray you will keep her strong spirit, but that it will be bent to serve you. That her pride will not be a hindrance. That her kindness and love will grow into a compassion for all people. Please foster her intellect so it may continue to flourish.

For Sabrina, I pray that her mind will develop well, making her a smart child and then an intelligent woman. I pray that you will lead her into great things for you.

 Lastly Lord, I pray for wisdom and patience for myself, so I may face all of the difficulties that come with raising girls.

I thank you Father for two wonderful and smart girls.
                        
         - Amen

Sea of Grey pt 1.

I came to my senses in a world of grey. Before my eyes was a dimly lit, swirling, formless space. A fear settled in my stomach, was this nothingness? Where was I? I couldn't quite remember. A memory of being unable to breathe floated up, then descended again as I tried to remember why. I realized I was lying on my back and was staring at the sky.

My hands searched around me trying to find something familiar. They rubbed across a polished surface, wood worn smooth by many years of use. The sound of water filled my ears and I could feel a gentle rocking beneath me. The strong smell of salt and iodine filled my nose. I sat up and looked around, willing the impressions of my eyes, hands, ears and nose to make sense. 

I looked down at myself and was surprised to find I was wearing simple flannel pajamas with green pinstripes. I didn't think that was normal, but couldn't be sure. I stood up slowly on unsteady legs and in front of me, out of the grey, resolved a triangular wall of dark blue. It was a sail, my memory told me. "A boat." A voice said out of the silence. I started for a moment before I realized the voice was mine. 

I was on a boat, and an old one at that. An image of dark skinned traders sailing up and down hot sultry coasts came to mind. "A dhow" the voice said. My voice said. Was this important? I just didn't know.

I looked out from the dhow to the water that surrounded it. The formless grey surrounded me on all sides. Mist, my brain told me. It wasn't nothingness; it was water droplets suspended in air. It was a real thing. The fear in the pit of my belly lessened, but did not subside. I was on an old boat in the middle of a misty sea. What had happened to get me here?

A cool moist breeze picked up and I thought I could hear a voice. Or was two? A man and a woman whispering. "Hello?" I shouted. The loudness hurt my throat. The voices seemed to turn towards me but then they faded away, the mist swallowing up the sound. I wanted to shout again, but the silence of the grey swirling fog made it seem better to remain mute.

The breeze blew again and the dhow began to move on its own, the sail and rigging acting as is manipulated by masterful, yet unseen hands. Where was I being taken? Why was this happening? I had no answers and hoped that perhaps the dhow would take me to some.

Minutes passed, or was it hours? Days even? The light in this place never seemed to change and the endless mist stole away any true indication of time. I caught glimpses of dark shapes moving beyond the dull silver curtain that surrounded my small ship. An oppressive silence pervaded everything. I began to drift to sleep, lulled by the quiet sound of water against the hull.

Panic seized me. NO! I shouted. I must not fall asleep, I told myself. Why? More questions, still no answers. More time passed.

The grinding sound of sand against the prow of my dhow startled me to attention. Had I been asleep? No, daydreaming, but of what? A woman and a beautiful one at that, or so I thought. But the memory slipped away and I could no longer see her.

The dhow had come to rest on a beach of the blackest sand. Where was this place, was it an island, or maybe the mainland? I decided to stop asking questions and to seek answers. Not finding any shoes to go with my pajamas I shrugged and leapt onto the dark shore.

Taking in my surroundings I was stymied by that blasted gloom. I could only see a limited distance and what I could see was dark and hazy. One thing did stand out, however, a small red house. Curious and pushing any fear aside, I approached it.

The roof slats were rust colored and the door was tinted a deep rose. Its wooden walls were a faded and chipped crimson. All these adjectives popped in my mind as I stood before the house. It stirred within me a memory of a boy and his father playing a game. It was their favorite game; they played it at least twice a week. Was I the boy, or was I the father? I had a feeling it was both. From within the house a voice called out to me and the front door opened. "Hello there, John! I've been expecting you."

I had a name.

In the doorway stood an older man of about 60 years of age, with a white, full and neatly trimmed beard. "Dad?" I asked, bewildered by both the sudden memory and seeing him in this place. "Why… how…?" "I know you have many questions, a torrent of them really, but I haven't much time."

He invited me into what turned out to be a cozy cottage on the inside. A small fire burned beneath a tin coffee pot which was starting to boil. The smell of dried sage and lavender hung in the air. "Tea?" my father asked. He then gestured for me to sit in a comfortable and obviously well used easy chair.

He handed me a worn and familiar mug with a bag of black tea in it, then poured in the hot water from the tin coffee pot. "Drink up, and save your questions, I have some things to say." he said. I nodded my head, took a sip and he began. "A journey of remembrance must start some place. Yours has begun here, in memory of warmth and happiness. Do you remember this place?' I shook my head. Then nodded slowly as the tea sank to my belly and a glowing recollection rose up. "This was our summer cottage, on the cape." my father prodded. I remembered.

"Good, it's starting to come back to you. Well you are on a journey, my son. Something has taken your life from you." "Am I dead?" I asked, not really wanting an answer. My father shook his head. "No. But that may change if you do not finish here. This place, this memory, is your starting point. You have trials ahead, and some demons to conquer, but hold on to your happy memories as you encounter them and never let them go."

"What do I do now, dad? Why a dhow? Why am I in pajamas?" "I can't answer those questions, son. You must discover them for yourself if you wish to return your memories. To your home and…" "And what dad?"

The house faded around us, leaving us standing in the obsidian sand, surrounded by the fog. The fear began anew in my stomach, cooling the warm tea. "I love you, son." Then he faded as well, leaving me alone and even more confused.

"Dad!" I shouted. But I knew it was no use. The grey mist seemed to move in on me, driving me back towards the dhow. "I remember being happy." I whispered to no one. Then I turned and got back into the boat.

I settled on a bench and said "let's get this journey going." A wave surged under the ship and drew it out to the sea. The sail and ropes again acted under invisible hands and the little dhow sailed into the fog, the black sand disappeared into the cloudy mist.

Resurrection Post

Contrary to popular belief, I am in fact not dead. Nor have I been kidnapped and captured by ISIS or gone into witness protection. No, instead I have been taken hostage by a woman. One who beguiled me and pursued me until I was completely entrapped. Not that I am complaining of course, I gained a family when I married her. She already had a beautiful daughter, and we now have a newborn as well.

What do I hope to do by re opening my blog? Perhaps to prompt myself to write more, self therapy is another. Mostly I just want to have fun writing about various things that interest me. Being a father is a lot about sacrifice, of time and of self. I need to sacrifice my few moments of down time a week to write here more. I feel it will to bring some center to my somewhat hectic life. Its nice to be back!