PTSD

“You didn’t visit the view I told you about?” The disappointment in my mother’s eyes was almost too much for me to bear.

 I swallowed; I could feel my eyes widening.

“Babe?”

 I turned my head to look at my husband sitting beside me.

 I forced a smile, “Sorry?”

“You were telling your mom about our honeymoon…” He prodded.

“No, but we had a ton of fun.” I concluded the story.

 I felt him reach for my hand and squeeze my fingers between his.

 The comfort and warmth that he exuded eased the tight grip of fear at my neck.

 I frantically glanced at the clock above the stove and then stood, “Mom, it looks like we have to go.”

 I could decipher a small frown in between her brows, but I chose to ignore it. The twisting in my stomach was becoming much harder to ignore.

“Thank you for having us.” I heard my husband tell her.

 Without thinking about it, I hugged my mom wishing with everything in me that she still didn’t have this hold on me.

 I felt his hand slide into mine, “We will see you sometime next weekend.” He told her.

“Come back soon.” She gave me a tender smile.

 I returned the smile, but within me I knew that I could not keep the façade for much longer.

 The ride home was quiet. I did not say anything, and he didn’t ask.

 He clearly knew something was wrong. The entire time, he held my hand on his lap as he drove.

 Once we were home, I finally let myself breathe. The panic was beginning to ebb away.

 As I was about to make my way towards our room, he pulled on my hand, stopping me.

“Love, what’s wrong?”

 I froze.

“W-what are you talking about?”

 He pulled me into his arms without resistance, “You weren’t behaving like yourself.” He traced a hand lightly over my back, “I know we haven’t been making much of a habit to visit your parents, but I had figured that we needed to see them.”

 I shook my head, “It’s not that.” I whispered.

“Then what’s wrong?” He pulled away slightly, tilting his head towards me, “You’re not usually that skittish. I’ve never seen you interact with your mom that way before.”

 I squeezed my eyes closed for fear that he might discover what I had been hiding from him for so long.

I felt his face come near mine and then hover. I peeked my eyes open when I couldn’t take the suspense any longer. He nuzzled my nose with his, “What is it?”

 The concern in his voice was sweet as it was endearing.

“Tell me.” He gently prompted.

“No.” I started pulling away from him, “it’s nothing.”

 His arms tightened around me, “I think I would know my wife better than that.” He said the words proudly although it was etched with worry.

“Let me go.” I asked half-heartedly.

 He shook his head, “Nuh-uh. Not until you tell me what’s bothering you.”

“We don’t have time for this.” I felt irritation prick me.

“Oh, we most certainly do.”

 I met his dark eyes, “I’m serious.”

“As am I.” He answered smugly.

 He suddenly picked me up and twirled me around. I gasped in surprise.

“See? You can’t leave.”

 I heard the challenge in his voice and started squirming out of his grip just to prove that I could. His grip became vise-like, holding me captive.

“Let. Me. Go.” I glared at him.

“Nope.” His smirk had me pushing against him.

 He easily pinned my arms behind me. He walked backwards until I stumbled against the wall in the foyer. I tilted my head up towards him, his eyes holding me more captive than his arms ever could.

 I felt my jaw slacken at the intensity of those eyes. Those eyes that said a million words with just one look. That could read me and knew me better than I knew myself. They conveyed the deep love that he had constantly proven repeatedly in the few weeks of our marriage. His sacrifice, dedication, and devotion.

 His gaze sharpened on my lips and the smoldering fire that brew beneath them was my undoing. I felt myself go completely limp in his arms. There was a sliver of satisfaction that crossed his features as he held me tighter and leaned down to kiss me.

 His lips descended upon mine in a swift wave of passion, desire, and love all at once. My skin felt heated under the intensity of his power. My mind fogged and I could no longer remember our conversation. All I knew was that I wanted and needed him more than my next breath.

“Love,” his breath murmured across my cheek.

 My breaths were labored as I tried to form a coherent sentence.

“What happened? Why are you afraid of your mother?”

 His words were like a cold bucket of ice that washed over me.

 My hands slacked against the grip that I had at the nape of his hair. His hands were firmly placed against my waist, preventing me from falling over.

 I bent my head, refusing to look him in the eye, “how did you know?” I asked. This time when I removed myself from his grip, he let his hands fall away.

 I needed the space. And I needed it now.

“I’m your husband,” he reminded me gently, “of course I know.”

 I sucked in a deep breath. I needed to sit down.

 I moved towards the living room. I could hear his heavy footsteps falling closely behind me.

“Are you okay?” His quiet inquiry had tears stinging the back of my eyes.

 No. I wasn’t okay. How would I explain this? My fears? He knew some of my darkest secrets, the things that made me uncomfortable. The small things and the big things, but this. This I had kept hidden from him.

 The fear of my mother. The fear that I would end up like her. The fear that if we had children, I would end up being the mother to them that my mother was to me.

 The fear, the panic, the suppression of emotions. The constant need to please her. All of it.

 I lowered myself onto the couch and kept my head bent down. I watched my knees as they bounded up and down. The white carpet rubbed against my bare feet, and it was a soothing sensation compared to the panic that I felt within me.

I should have told him about this long ago. But here I was. The secret threatening to swallow me whole.

 I vaguely became aware of the fact that my husband had lowered himself on his knees in front of me.

 He placed a hand on my knees, “Love, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

“I-” My voice cracked, and I felt the emotions take me under.

 You can do this. I told myself, reminding myself to breathe.

“Honey, look at me.” His gentle words lifted my head towards him of its own volition.

 He cupped his hands on either side of my cheeks. His thumb tenderly rubbed away a stray tear that leaked out of my left eye. His action only provoked another tear to follow suit.

 I searched my husband’s eyes as he seemed to be doing the same to me.

“Your beautiful eyes are speaking louder than words.” He pressed a kiss to the top of my left cheekbone, “tell me.”

PTSD. The word bounced around in my brain back and forth and wouldn’t give my mind a rest.

“PTSD.” I choked out, “Do you know what that is?”

 He pulled back in surprise, but then kept his expression carefully blank.

“Yes.” He answered, his thumbs were lightly tracing my cheekbones.

 I ignored his touch as I answered, “You know how I have told you about my adolescent and childhood years?”

“Yes.”

“I have a type of PTSD because of it.” I placed my hands over his own, “Sometimes, when my mom says words that remind me of my youth or it takes me back to one of those situations, it triggers irrational fear and emotions within me.”

“Is that what you felt back there.”

 I nodded, squeezing my eyes shut. Two tears leaked out from each eye, sliding down my face. I sniffed as I tried to make my tears go away.

 I felt his gentle kiss on my forehead before I heard his presence rise and then leave.

 I felt cold and empty without him. I didn’t know what to do with myself.

 I tried to reject the thoughts of my adolescent years that kept coming back.

 He returned and this time with some tissues.

“Thank you.” I took a few, wiping my eyes and then blowing my nose for good measure.

 Instead of kneeling before me, this time, he lowered himself next to me. His arm wrapped around my shoulder before pulling me into his embrace.

“Do you feel afraid when you’re away from her? Like right now?”

“Not when I’m with you.”

 I could sense his thoughts churning.

 After a moment, he finally spoke, “Have you talked about this with someone?”

 I nodded, “When I was younger. Way before I met you.”

“What did they say?”

“They gave me advice and I tried following it as closely as I could. I have gotten a lot better, but there are days like today when I feel more vulnerable and sensitive.”

“Will you tell me if this happens again?”

 I hesitated and he gently squeezed me, “Please?”

“Okay.”

“That’s my girl.” The pride in his voice went straight to my heart. I couldn’t help the smile that lifted my lips.

“There’s something else bothering you.” His question was more of a factual statement.

 You can trust him, the voice in my head encouraged.

 Truth. I had to hold on to the truth. Even if I felt as if my world was crumbling and there was a small emotion that hinted at fear. I had to focus on the truth.

 The truth was I could trust my husband. I had never been given a reason to distrust him.

“I’m scared.” I admitted.

“Scared of what?” His fingers were lightly tracing up my arm and back down. The safety of his embrace told me I shouldn’t be afraid.

 I swallowed the lump in my throat, “Scared that I’ll be the same.”

 When he didn’t answer, I lifted my eyes to meet his gaze. Concern was etched in his features, but he did not say a single word.

“What if-”

“Love, do you really believe that?”

 His question slammed my thoughts to a halt.

“Maybe?” My voice came out high-pitched and awkward.

 He pressed his face lightly against my hair, “I don’t believe it.” Pulling back, he said, “Look at how far you’ve come? You prove over and over again that you will not make the mistakes others have made.” I could hear a smile in his voice as he said, “Even the way that you work in the kitchen is so different from your mother’s habits.”

“That doesn’t have to do with anything.” I interjected.

 I could feel his shrug, “It shows me that you are consciously making an effort to make our life at home different from what you lived.”

“But what if it still happens? What if-”

“You have to stop living in the ‘what-ifs’.” He interrupted, leaning back on the couch, he pulled me back with him, “What if I were to lose my job? What if I were to die right now?”

“Stop it.” I curled up against him, my voice begged him to stop making up that awful imagery.

“You see what I mean? It's futile to think of what could happen. All you need to do is focus on the present, seeking to do what’s right.” He squeezed my shoulder again, “I married you knowing that you will make a wonderful mom. What’s more is that I married you because I love you. Don’t ever doubt yourself. If you ever have doubts, let me know. I’ll make sure to clear them up. Okay?”

“Okay.” I replied, his words embedding themselves into my heart.  

 I shifted my head so I could see him. Admiration for him swelled within me. I rested my hand against his chest and my chin against his shoulder, “For someone who claims to not know much, you sure know how to say the right thing at the right time.”

 He gave me one of his endearing lop-sided grins, “I’ve picked up some things here and there.”

 I stretched up to lightly press my lips against his, “Thank you.”

 He returned the kiss, “You’re welcome.”

 The exhaustion of the day had me leaning my head against his shoulder. My eyes closed as I let my mind finally rest.

“Tired?” His deep voice rumbled.

“Exhausted.” I replied; it was always mentally draining to deal with events of the past.

“Then let’s get you to bed.”

 I nodded against his shirt but stayed right where I was.

 His chuckle reverberated shifting me from my spot.

 I made a point of snuggling more fully against him, ignoring his cue to move away from him.

“You know we can’t fall asleep right here, right?” My mind vaguely heard his voice off in the distance.

“Love?”

 I suddenly awoke, wrapped in my husband’s arms under our sheets and blankets in our bedroom.

 I was now wide awake as I stretched to look at the clock. It read half past midnight.

 I sighed, my head dropping onto our pillow that we shared.

 I could hear his steady breathing as I stared up at the ceiling of our bedroom. The sound was soothing as it was reassuring.

 I sent a prayer of thanksgiving heavenward for the miracle of my husband. He always knew how to take care of me, especially when I felt lost.

 I felt a twinge of regret for not being able to stay awake after our conversation.

 A stray thought had a smile gracing my face. How many times had he carried me up the stairs because I had fallen asleep on the couch? Too many times.

 And each time, I had no memory of it.

“Are you awake?” My husband’s deep voice was roughened by sleep.

“Yeah,” I whispered, “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Did you have a nightmare?”

 I smiled; he was always so attentive and caring.

“No,” I shifted so that I could face him, my hand rested against his chest. I could feel his puffs of breath against my forehead. “Just thinking about the number of times that you continuously bring me upstairs without my knowledge.” I cleared my throat and then pulled the blankets closer to me feeling cold.

 I felt him pull me close and press a kiss to my forehead, “Goodnight, I love you.”

“I love you, too.” I whispered back my eyes drifting to sleep as he held me.