Trauma, PTSD and Depression | It's Me Laura Lee

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 I feel like I’ve spent seven months in the desert.  Away from the things that brought me structure, comfort, a sense of purpose.

 I feel like I’ve spent seven months in the desert.  Away from the things that brought me structure, comfort, a sense of purpose.

I wanted to discuss suicide from the perspective of what YOU can do and how to recognize the difference between warning signs and risk factors and the six questions you can ask that could save someone’s life.

So many parents avoid these proper names, instead opting for pet names.  Using proper terminology is uncomfortable for many and using pet names becomes a cultural thing.  Now, think about that.  Let it sink in.  Parents are uncomfortable using proper terminology.  They’ll call a penis a weiner, or say flower for vulva, but they don’t call an eye a lookie.  Or a nose a smellie. 

Do you have three children or four?  The answer is – I have four.  But it is a question that almost always needs an explanation.  I imagine that it must be similar to how a mother whose child has died must explain herself.  And, yet, my daughter hasn’t died.

He opened the door to the office and in his hand was a plate of food.  My food.  I thanked him and put it down beside me – right of my laptop.  It looked so good and smelled even better.  I kept typing away, answering emails, rat-a-tat-tat on the keyboard and without missing a beat I typed with only my left hand and grabbed a fork full of tilapia with my right.  My glaze never leaving the computer screen.

I cringe when I hear or see people say things akin to, “I’m sooo OCD!”  When did OCD become a social norm, or something to strive for?  I find myself having to justify my OCD diagnosis by saying things like, “I TRULY have OCD,” or “I LEGITIMATELY have OCD.”  As in, I take medication for it and it disrupts my life.

“Do this race with me,” she said.“ It will be fun,” she said.“ We can bond over it,” she said. I said, “You’re NUTS!”  And, then I signed up.I signed up for a 500K race.  That’s not a typo. 

I opened my eyes, sleepily.  Looked straight ahead.  Down the hall.  Confused. “Who’s the mom?” That’s the first thing that came to my mind.  My mind.  Mine.
Everything looked somewhat familiar, but I couldn’t place anything.  I had the sense of belonging, but I didn’t know how I belonged.  What was my role?  Who was I?

He put his hands around my neck, gently pressing his thumbs into a notch of my throat.  Demonstrating how someone feels when being choked.  He asked me if I felt it.  I tried to nod. I froze. He was supposed to be an ally.  I came to him for help.

THE “R” WORD   I couldn’t breathe.  I was using my inhaler religiously, but still, I couldn’t breathe.  I wasn’t wheezing, but I was short of breath and coughing.  It was reminiscent of my bouts of pneumonia.  I was using the inhaler more often than I should have been, yet, still, I couldn’t breathe.  I […]


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Laura Lee, 52, with invisible wounds and scars.  I've learned to embrace PTSD and depression because if I don't own them, they'll own me.  I don't want to simply survive, but to thrive.  I hope you'll join me on my journey.  It's sure to be a bumpy road.



You don't want to miss what Cricket and I are up to, or the latest bath bomb recipe, right?  Don't worry, I don't like SPAM either!  And, remember - you're in the no judgment zone!

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