It's Okay If You're Not Okay

*Contains strong language and mature content*

Yesterday was quite the day. I woke up, everything was fine. I had myself a delicious cup of coffee, everything was more than fine. I went to my first class, took an exam, it was still fine. I went to my second class, and began to take notes. Fine. My professor started a documentary on drug use and its effects. I wasn't surprised as I am a behavioral science major, and the class is "Intro to Addictive Behavior." I usually become slightly emotional as we watch these films that show how people wreck their lives with a little bit of powder, or a bottle of pills. I knew this particular chapter and video would hit close to home because of my childhood. I thought I was prepared for it. After all, it has been fifteen years, I've been to therapy, I have a loving family, and I always thought I behaved like a "normal" person. A few minutes into the hour long film, the screen was filled with faces of those who had abused drugs for years. They all had a particular look in their eyes, the same look my abuser had in what seems like a lifetime ago. Tears immediately began to pour from eyes. There was no "tearing up" or trying to hold them back. I was fine, and then I wasn't.

All of a sudden, I wasn't an adult. I wasn't college student. I wasn't even in class.

I was five years old. I was sitting in my room sobbing, looking at a hand shaped welt on my leg. I was listening to the yelling, "I'll fucking kill you, bitch. I'll slit your fucking throat," followed by my mom's pleas for mercy. I was blockading my door with the two gallons of water I had hoarded away because in my little mind, those were extremely heavy. I could barely lift one, so if I put two in front of the door, I would surely be safe. I was retreating to my closet to put one more barrier between the monster that was raging outside and myself. I was looking for my favorite little pink toy to hold onto because I knew without a doubt, pink would fix everything.

I was riding in the car, driven by a man going nearly 100 mph, drunk, swerving, and raging at my mom because she bought him the wrong cigarettes. I was waking up from a nap to find that we were going down the interstate, speeding, on the wrong side of the road. Then the yelling began again, "I'll kill us all. I swear to God, I'll fucking kill us all." 

I was sitting in my room playing with dolls when he began to tell me where babies came from. He was explaining that if I did those things for him, he wouldn't hit mommy anymore. He wouldn't yell anymore. He would buy me whatever I wanted. Our quality of life was dependent on me, so I did what I thought I had to do.

I looked around and I saw my classmates. I saw the professor. I knew where I was, but the tears wouldn't stop coming. I couldn't stop shaking. I couldn't help myself from looking around for something pink, the same way I did so long ago. The eyes of the people on the screen seemed to be digging into my soul, exposing every fear and memory that I had tried to suppress for so long. Their voices seemed to be aimed directly at me. I began to breathe harder. I prayed. I wrote every bible verse I could think of, but I couldn't shake the feeling that at any moment he would burst through the door and pull me out of class the same way he did when I was in first grade. I wanted to leave class. I wanted to run away from the faces on the screen and their hallucinations that sounded all too familiar. I couldn't, though. Even if I wasn't devoted to my school work, I couldn't have moved. My body was absolutely paralyzed with fear. The only movement it would allow was the incessant shaking that lasted for hours long after class was over. 

Beyond the fear of my past demons, the fact that my brain had so easily been fooled into believing that I was in another place, another time, and, in many ways, another life was terrifying to me. I've spent most of my time since then examining my life. I have realized how many ways the trauma leaves its mark on me every day. My anxiety, the way I get too nervous around people, the sound of a door closing can startle me so bad I physically jump, the reoccurring nightmares, the way my heart races when a person sits too close, the way my whole body stiffened and my mind was filled with fear the first time a guy put his arm around my shoulders, the way my first kiss was plagued with mental images of my abuser, the insomnia, my heart rate that is almost always elevated as if my body is ready to flee from danger, the obsession with locking my door, the way I cross the street if I see a man coming in my direction, and many other things I have probably grown so used to I don't even realize I do them. Through this experience I became aware of two things: 

1. The things I stress about now are nothing compared to the absolute hell my mom and I went through all those years ago, so I really need to chill. The things that bother me now seem so pointless. The stress I have now is nothing compared to the stress of constantly fearing for your physical safety and well-being.

2. I am not okay.

There. I said it. 

I, Chloe, am not okay.

That being said, I will be okay. My eyes have been opened to the healing I need that I thought I had. I am going to take the steps I need to overcome this. If I need to talk to a therapist, adviser, or another professional, I will. I will continue to grow in my faith and pursue God. I know that by Jesus' wounds I am healed (Isaiah 53:5), and I will live out that truth.

And I want you to know, it's okay to not be okay.

"When my heart is overwhelmed, lead me to The Rock that is higher than I."

- Psalm 61:2