The start of my journey to healing

Their hold on me had long since loosened. Their grip on my mental health used to be tight, like his gloved hand pressing hard on my nose and mouth every time my voice rose above a whisper. I can smell the metallic odor coming off his filthy work glove. I can feel the PVC dots on my skin.  

For a long time after the break-in and violent robbery that we suffered when visiting my parents, I did not recognize the toll this traumatic event took on my mental health. The post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) symptoms crept up on me steadily and stealthily.  

In a nightly ritual, I would relive the moment two of the burglars burst into our room in the middle of the night. A real-life nightmare. They tied our hands behind our backs. One of them pulled me up from bed. “No, no!” I pleaded. “We’re not here for that,” he said. “We want money.”  No other explanation was necessary.

The ordeal lasted about thirty minutes. Long enough to beat up my father, to find our money, to put a gun in my face and tell me to give them everything if I valued my father’s life. I gave up my engagement ring, among other things.

I still feel guilty about that. Like I betrayed my husband to save my father. Looking back, I understand it was not like that. I did not betray my husband, and it probably did nothing to save my father’s life. The criminals played God and spared him. Yet, the guilt lingers.

Sleeping problems followed the recurring, unwanted memories. I took both prescription and over-the-counter sleep aids.

I also had trouble concentrating. Writing became a chore, as did reading for fun. At the time, I wrote for a local publication. I dreaded the editor’s feedback because I felt like a fraud, an imposter. I could never please her, I thought. I eventually stopped writing for them.

This anxiety affected other areas of my life. I am a fairly confident and competent club tennis player. However, I started to have negative thoughts about my game. “I’m not good enough for you,” I told my usual partner. She looked at me and said “I can see something is wrong; you’re not your usual self. I want to help, but I don’t know how.”  

The comment, made by a caring friend, made me realize for the first time that I needed help.

With my friend’s support, I reached out to a wonderful yoga and meditation instructor. I was late to the first class. Something in me resisted that much needed help.

A lump of anxiety squeezed my chest. Tears fell unchecked as I did each pose. A tightly closed door inside my mind burst open. Feelings and memories flooded in. As the class progressed, the burden began to lift until it disappeared. An image formed in my head: a photo of one of the burglars in my phone. I swiped with my finger. His face disappeared. I had taken the first step on my healing journey.

This is part of Yeah Write’s last weekly challenge. Follow the link to read other posts.

13 thoughts on “The start of my journey to healing”

  1. I’m so sorry you experienced this awful violent incident, and I’m glad you and your father came through it. Well done on taking the first steps towards healing. I hope you’ll find more comfort and strength along the way.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Oh I am so sorry you went through this! What a harrowing ordeal. But I am so happy you are finding the help you need and cheers to your friend for pushing you to see that. I wish you all the best on your healing journey. Thank you for sharing your story with us!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. This sounds like such a hard experience but thank you for sharing your story. Sometimes the smallest kind comment from a friend just noticing something is wrong is the reminder we need that we are loved and deserve to heal. Wishing you the best on your journey 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply * Deja un comentario

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.