Trigger Points Anthology has been re-released as Parenting with PTSD: the impact of childhood abuse on parenting and the Kindle version is available for free on Amazon today! The listed price is $0 so you don’t need to subscribe to Kindle Unlimited to purchase it for free.
Words cannot express how amazing this book is. The stories told by parents/survivors are raw, honest and insightful. If you are an abuse survivor/parent or know someone who is, this book will help you make sense of the unique challenges survivors face while parenting.
I’m proud to be a contributing author.
I’ve been thinking a lot about friendship lately and all the different kinds of friends and levels of friendship it takes to get by in this world.
My two closest friends could not be more different from each other. One I’ve known since our freshman year in high school. She is my sanity check and the person I go to when I need to think something through. She is the perfect combination of facts and figures, heart and soul. We write verbose emails even though we live in the same town. We share a dark and quirky sense of humor, have a lot of history under our belts and I trust her judgment wholeheartedly.
My other best friend is like my sister. Just walking into the room and seeing her smile makes me feel at ease and gives me a sense of balance. Even if all we’re doing is looking at Pinterest or planning a kid’s birthday party, I know she is my family and tribe. We’ve had plenty of deep conversations but we don’t need them to know what we mean to each other. She’s the person who would help me bury the body, no questions asked.
I have old friends that I don’t see very often and new friendships that are just budding. I’ve made amazing friends through blogging. Work friends, bus stop friends, Facebook friends, they are all vital to my sense of belonging and my need to be a part of a community.
But through it all, these are the types of friends who have shaped me the most. Read More
Can we be friends?
I know I’m talking to myself and it sounds kind of silly but if I talk to you like a friend maybe you’ll listen.
I need to make amends.
I’ve thought things about you that if I knew anyone else was thinking I’d be crushed.
I’ve said things to you in the mirror that I’d punch someone in the mouth if I heard them say.
Why is everything so heavy?” – Linkin Park, “Heavy”
I read back through my posts lately and thought why is everything so heavy? This is where I come to wrestle with my demons and reconcile the past with the present. Sometimes it’s heavy stuff but I have entire weeks and months of uneventful moments that would bore you to tears to read about. It’s time to lighten things up a bit. Read More
I always go back to 17, most often when I’m driving and listening to music. A song will remind me of how much I hated myself that year and I’m back there, looking at 1987 like a white cross on the roadside.
It’s the year I told. It’s the year I lost control of everything. It’s the year I spent two weeks in a psychiatric facility and wished I could stay longer.
The song doesn’t have to be from that time period. All it has to do is speak for me. It has to give voice to what I wish I could’ve said at 17, or give rise to a fantasy of who I could’ve been… Read More
I cried in the shower this morning, which is my favorite place to break down. There’s something about hot water mixing with hot tears that’s comforting and cleansing. And I don’t have to care about messing up my make-up.
I’m just really tired. Some of it is sick and tired but most of it is a bone-tired feeling from a job hard worked and well done. The sick and tired part weighs heavy on me but the satisfied tired feels cathartic.
There’s a story in the Bible that I love about Jesus healing a paralyzed guy. Jesus was teaching to a crowded house and this group of guys wanted him to heal their paralyzed friend. There were too many people there to get their friend right up to Jesus so they got creative and lowered him through a hole they made in the roof. Jesus was impressed by their faith (and probably their tenacity), took one look at the paralyzed guy and said, “Friend, your sins are forgiven.”
What I find so interesting about this is that Jesus didn’t immediately make him walk again, which of course, he could’ve done. He could’ve changed this man’s circumstances first but I imagine that he looked at the man’s situation and saw that he needed more. He needed to be set free more than he needed to walk again. Read More
When my friend Marie Pechet died in December, she sent me a spiritual gift. That may sound strange to some of you but anyone who has read her blog or who knew her knows what I’m talking about. Marie was all about spirits, serendipities and God connections. So I wasn’t at all surprised when I felt a strong nudging from her to read a certain book and then found out later that she had died that morning. That’s so Marie.
This post is all about Marie and about so much more than Marie, which I know she’d find delightful.
The morning Marie sent me her gift, I was overwhelmed by anxiety, which had become routine. 2016 was a hard year. I hear a lot of people saying that so I know I wasn’t alone but it wasn’t just politics that troubled me. We sold a house, bought a house, struggled to afford our house, struggled to keep our business afloat and basically struggled to find footing in constantly shifting ground.
I prayed a lot in 2016. I prayed to be financially stable, I prayed to be thinner, I prayed that I wasn’t warping my kids, I prayed that the kittens’ diarrhea would go away, I prayed to not be awoken in the middle of the night by panic and then prayed to be able to go back to sleep. I mostly prayed in the shower and on the toilet because after all, the bathroom is the altar for mothers of young children. Read More
I wanted to write a post to honor my friend Marie but I haven’t been able to put together the words to say how much she meant to me and so many others. Thankfully, her friend Anna has found a beautiful way to honor her on Marie’s blog, Adventures in Spiritual Living.
For any who have not yet heard, I am saddened to share the news that Marie Colantoni Pechet passed away on December 7. She died at home, with her family, after breaking all kinds of standards by living not just eighteen months, as her doctors predicted, but nine years after her diagnosis of cancer.
My name is Anna Huckabee Tull. Several years ago, Marie brought up this incredible question: Would I be willing to write her Final Blog Post? I had never heard of such an idea, but I knew in the moment she said it that this is exactly what I would do.
On Thanksgiving–that holiday where we pause to consider all the good that surrounds us and all that we are thankful for–I received the following note from Marie. I was hustling through the London airport, but the whole world seemed to come to a halt when I…
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I purposely keep walking by mirrors so that I can see myself. When I’m sure no one is looking, I lift my shirt to make sure they’re real. I feel like a teenage girl whose boobies sprouted overnight; amazed, grateful, relieved. And to think that all it took was a little surgery to make me recognize myself again. Read More
I had a two-day meltdown last month, which seems to happen every July. I don’t know what the trigger is exactly, other than that most of the abuse I can remember happened during the summer months. It used to bother me, not knowing why it was always July, and now I think that maybe it’s a mystery that doesn’t need to be solved. Or maybe it is solved and I just want to make it more complicated than it is.
This meltdown was relatively short. It was two days of memories (mental and physical), sobbing, anger and fear that I would feel this way forever. At first there was disbelief. There’s no way these memories can be attacking me again. It must be PMS. Or food poisoning. Yeah, that’s it. I’m coming down with something.
Then, there was resignation that it was happening again. “It” being the reality of the abuse coming at me full force so that it can’t be ignored, not that it is ever far from my mind in the first place. It is a part of me as much as my eye color, my left handedness, my stubby pinky toes.
The elephant in the room was back, except that it wasn’t an elephant. It was a little girl. And she was determined to be heard. So I listened. And what she told me was unbelievable, even though I know it’s true because I was there. It’s still incomprehensible to me that someone wanted to erase me, to bleach me out of existence and who took such pleasure in making me feel alone, superfluous and unwanted. Read More