Fourteen years have passed since the author and her husband, Ryan, got married.
I was sitting on the shore of Lopez Island, a few hours outside of Seattle, and I didn't like it. Ryan was helping our kids build a fort on the beach. The man booked us a vacation rental with no TV or internet. It was reminiscent of the beginning of a horror movie.
I reached for the book my therapist had recommended on adult children of alcoholic trauma syndrome because I had finished the beach read I had brought. I had been putting off reading it because I thought it was either this or a support group.
Half of the book was read in one sitting. It seemed to answer some of the questions that had haunted me for a long time. Sometimes a compliment from my husband or my kids makes me want to go out for milk and never come back, and other times a compliment makes me want to go out for milk and never come back. I don't know why I feel trapped by love. I put passages under Ryan's nose when he returned to the beach. I can depend on him to tell me what I need to know. He agreed that it was "uncanny."
The author thought that children of alcoholics had a higher incidence of post traumatic stress disorder. She captured the behind-closed-doors dynamics of my family of origin, the secret, the walking-on-eggshells feeling, the seesaw of my parents' affection. I wonder if these incidents from my past are related to my current struggles. I realized that I have many symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, and that I had been through them all on one day. I almost left the love of my life.
It was the morning of my wedding that I woke up in a nightmare. I wriggled out of the covers and crawled to the foot of the bed, taking care not to wake the friends sleeping around me. They piled into my bed, unwilling or unable to find a room of their own. Two months after graduating college, we were all broke. After the rehearsal dinner, we parked ourselves in the hot tub, drank white wine from disposable cups, and talked about high school, but I didn't want to go to bed with puffy eyes.
I was no longer worried about eye puffyness as old terror took over. There was a strong desire to hide. I locked the door behind me as I ran into the bathroom. I clutched the bathroom counter and looked into the mirror. The girl in the reflection seemed to be a person I had seen on the street. The voice in my head asked what I was doing. You are a young person. You can't do this. Do you think you can commit to anything for the rest of your life?
I was stuck. The ceremony was supposed to begin at 5, but it was delayed. My mother and I sat on step stools in the aisle of a Party City and touched all the paper samples in an enormous binder as she lectured on how the invitation "set the tone for the whole event." It seemed like the closer I came to leaving, the more I drew Mom's ire. It was not an option to cancel the wedding. I wouldn't be living with her again.
Jessica had asked my maid of honor if she really wanted to do it. First, you were supposed to find yourself, then climb the career ladder, and finally get married once you had done everything interesting. Ryan was liked by my friends, but they questioned my desire to be with him for the rest of my life. I don't know if I really wanted to do this.
The answer yesterday had been enthusiastic. Ryan got down on one knee on Alki Beach. When he kissed me for the first time under the cherry blossoms on a warm spring evening, I said yes. The me of yesterday wanted to stay indoors, but the me of today wanted to go outside. I didn't know it at the time, but this was emotional I wanted the security of marriage, but I was scared of someone. My dependency on my parents kept me in a cycle of love and abuse. Ryan was the one I chose because of his even-keeled demeanor, but he would become my tormentor as soon as I signed my name to the wedding certificate.
I had tangles with anxiety that helped me label the feeling that was rising in my chest. The girl in the mirror had cold feet. That might be normal. I knew it was possible to fight the feeling of trapped helplessness by taking one action. I started baby stepping myself through the day: shower, pile breakfast food on a tray, get in the car. I told myself that I am choosing to do this.
Someone asked, "Are you excited?" I washen with fear and only replied, "I am nervous." Someone else should make this decision for me. I was going to ask the women in the nail salon if I should go through with it, but decided against it.
I was sequestered in one of the church's side rooms and buttoned into my gown with an hour to go. Jessica looked at me and said, "There's still time to get out of this." Right now, we could leave.
There was a broken dam inside me. I was having a good time. I was sad. It was a relief that she had said that. She would be behind me if I ran out of the church. I was an adult and I chose to do this. It felt like Jessica was flipping a coin and only knowing which way it was going to go.
I would like to marry Ryan. He was the first person I ever trusted with the whole, real me. I loved his honesty and wit. When I tried to break up with him, we walked by the Ship Canal.
I said that you don't want to be with me.
He was curious rather than judgement. After listening, he took my hand. I think I can deal with that.
I didn't know what my life would be like in two years when I was in the back of the church. The future was large and unknown. I felt a sense of hope when I looked at Ryan. I believed in our abilities. I continue to do.
Five years ago, it was on Lopez Island. I have been diagnosed with ComplexPTSD, have a small library on the science of childhood trauma, and have done eye movement desensitization reprocessing therapy. Ryan takes care of dinner and sleep on Tuesdays so I can attend a support group. He listens to my therapy recaps and has agreed to prioritize my treatment even though it has been expensive and out of pocket. I am glad I didn't wait to get married until I figured out what I wanted to do. My recovery has been built upon marriage.
I was told last month that I no longer meet the criteria for post-traumatic stress disorder. It doesn't feel right to say that, even though I see the differences in myself. I am able to walk myself through the evidence and see that I really do have a life that is close to what I wanted. One of the best decisions I have ever made is saying "I do" to Ryan.
He wasn't allowed to pick vacation Rentals.
She is a writer and activist. Her work has appeared in a number of publications.
The piece was written and produced by Jack Straw.
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