We know from past experience that the holidays can often lead to one place—disappointment. The Dread steps in long before Thanksgiving and it’s the end of January before we feel like we’ve got our wits about us. It doesn’t have to be that way this year. I hope this series will give you encouragement and ideas about how to take the holidays back—just in time for Thanksgiving.

Why are the holidays so difficult for survivors of trauma? Because holidays bring up all of the helpless, paralyzing, vulnerable feelings of family we have struggled with all our lives. Goaded by themes of gathering at Thanksgiving, heartbreak comes to the surface. Overwhelmed by the sugar plum fairy music blaring over the intercoms, we feel shouted at by the store displays and windows. And more than anything else—we feel left out.

For survivors, the only thing our family gatherings and celebrations ever brought was pain. The many vivid images of happy togetherness glistening around us are only stark reminders of all the things we do not have and all the pain we have endured.

I thought I would die from The Dread in the pit of my stomach as my husband and I and our two small children drove up the driveway to my parent’s home. I did not know it at the time, but it would be the last Christmas my parents and I would ever be in the same room together

Like everything else in a survivor’s life, narcissistic systems and behavior affect how grief is acknowledged and processed. But just how does that happen? Let me tell you about a little incident from many years ago.

The narcissist’s eyes glazed over as I shared my sorrow. I was overcome with grief. Of all the people in all the world, this person should have known what I was going through. They were part of the family system. They had experienced their own grief about the same situation. After telling my tale of woe, I looked up.

The narcissist blinked several times. “I think what you need to do is go to bed.”

This is what you’re up against when you are dealing with a family system run by narcissism.

Abuse from a family system is long-term and terribly confusing. For me, the pattern of abuse was laid down from birth to eighteen, but it did not end when I left home. I did not understand the abusive patterns and behaviors until my thirties when my family system blew up. It would take a few more decades to come to a place of healing. While every person’s story is different, toxic family systems follow a pattern. Following are three insightful paragraphs covering each stage of traumatic grief.

As stated in previous blogs, traumatic grief is complicated and disenfranchised. The following short stories will show you why. Even if a person goes no contact, they will still have to deal with grief from the past. As we all know, the long arm of trauma affects us in a thousand different ways.

A short story of disenfranchised grief

The crowd parted, and Lunette got her first glimpse of Papa in the coffin. He looked exactly as Mariah had described. He was himself, and yet not himself at all. Though stiff and pale, the thinning hair at the top of his head was combed to the side as it always was. His big handlebar mustache curled under his nose just like it had always done. Just tall enough to see in, Lucy and Alex peered over the side of the coffin while Frannie buried her face in Lunette’s shoulder. 

Lucy’s three-year-old-voice broke the silence. “Iz dat Papa?”

“Yes,” Mama said.

“Why iz he in’nere?”

Alex grabbed Lucy’s hand. “You remember the day I shot that bird with my slingshot? I made Mama mad cause I killed that bird. You saw it Lucy. One minute it was singing its heart out in the tree, then the next, it was lying dead on the ground. I buried that bird in the backyard and tomorrow we have to bury Papa out at the old town cemetery.”

I looked out over the south rim of the Grand Canyon and thought about the epochs of time it took to shape such a place. I always heard everyone say pictures don’t do it justice. They were right. No matter how panoramic I tried to make my camera, I simply could not capture the essence of the place. It was so vast, so deep, so timeless; beyond any picture I could take.

I happened to be at the Grand Canyon on a particularly beautiful day in August. To the right, a rain storm had risen and turned the clouds into hues of periwinkle and purple. The rest of the canyon lay under a bright blue sky and fluffy white clouds. Because we were in high desert, the horizon is broad. You can see several skies at one time.

I planned every detail of the funeral all the way down to the headstone. I could make one out of styrofoam like people use as yard decorations at Halloween. I knew what words I wanted said, what scriptures I wanted read and what songs I wanted sung. Years of pent up emotion meant it was going to be difficult to keep the ceremony under an hour. I wondered how the other attendees would feel about that.

When we were young, my husband was a pilot for the United States Air Force. One of our first assignments was Ramstein Air Base, Germany. While I loved living in Europe, we were there for three years and often times, I grew homesick for the United States. One of the most comforting events happened every evening on the Air Base at 5:00PM. You see, when the United States has a military base in another country, it is just as if all the territory of that base is the United States. The US has total jurisdiction and the freedoms enjoyed in our country are also enjoyed on that base. No matter where in the world it is located. Whenever I got homesick, I made sure to be on Ramstein Air Base at 5PM. Why? What happened at 5PM that was such a big deal?

I met a new friend on my late night walks with Tiny, my chihuahua. Her name is Baby and she’s a six pound tan and white chihuahua. She is really little, even compared to my ten pound, so-named Tiny. In general, Tiny likes those of his own kind, so the owner, who was traveling in a golf cart around our retirement community, stopped to say hello. There was Baby riding high in her own little crate on the front seat. She had the brightest eyes and sweetest face I ever saw. Almost as if she were smiling. The owner put her wriggling body on the ground and that was when I noticed something was wrong.

Tiny, my black and tan chihuahua jumped up and down in anticipation of a walk. He knew that every evening at sunset we would gear up to wander outside into the greater world beyond. We crossed the street and headed down the road that led to the town cemetery. Lined with oaks and maples, their leaves fluttered in the breeze on a September afternoon. The last wisp of summer on the wind, you could smell Autumn coming. Pumpkins, Halloween, Thanksgiving. It was all just around the corner. And I wanted to die.

Long ago, a boy found himself frozen in fear as he clung to the rigging of the top mast in an old British sailing ship. A terrible Atlantic squall had blown in and there was no way down. Terrified he would lose his grip and be dashed to pieces on the deck, he hung on for dear life. The faint words of the captain could barely be heard over the wind. "Boy, the next time the ship lurches, throw yourself into the sea." Looking at the sailors preparing a life ring for his rescue, the boy’s eyes then flitted to the threatening waves. If he stayed where he was, death was imminent. He decided to take a chance and let go.

In the home I grew up in, narcissism reigned supreme. There was only one voice and that was the voice of the head narcissist. All others were subservient. Institutions such as church were manipulated and incorporated into the system. We enjoyed the perception of community participation and leadership. In reality, we were terrorized and isolated.

In coming to understand how The Dread, (the anticipation of anxiety, fear, stress or threat) plagues survivors, we must first understand the techniques a narcissist (abuser) uses to put The Dread in place.

“I am my mother’s daughter... and although it’s been twenty years since I left home, her sayings form a perpetual long-playing record on my inner-ear turntable.” -Carol Shields, American Writer

Carol Shields wrote that as a tribute to her mother. If I had written it, it would be an accusation. The voices of my parents roll across the years, perpetually repeating the lies they put in my heart and soul. They were the authors of The Dread in my life. That is their legacy and one I will continue to try and end.

The Dread is the anticipation of anxiety, fear, stress or threat. So named by author, Stephanie Foo, this is the second in a blog series on The Dread—that terrible sense which follows childhood trauma survivors, telling them the end of all things is near. It whispers during the day and shouts at night—stealing sleep and bringing nightmares. What lies does it tell?

The Dread. That sounds rather odd doesn’t it? It makes dread personal. Like a living thing that comes in and out of my life as it pleases. Well, that’s exactly what it feels like. In author, Stephanie Foo’s excellent book about recovery from CPTSD, What My Bones Know, she coins the phrase, “The Dread.” It struck a chord in me. I can’t think of a better name for this life altering, nagging suffering than, “The Dread.”

Add wings to your trauma recovery by using The Three C’s.

Choice- coming to believe you have the power to choose.

I stayed in a relationship with my abusers for over fifty years. You don’t think they maintained that kind of power by telling me the truth do you? They never said, “Hey, Rebekah, by the way, everything I’ve been telling you is a lie. You are the one who actually has all the power—and, as a separate person, you have the right, even the obligation to say no to me. Abusive people aren’t going to give you that gift. You have to take it.

For two more C’s plus an obstacle to recovery, go to the article.

As we struggle with the psychological and neurological effects in our lives, there are many things about CPTSD we cannot control. So the things we can control have even more importance. I have many habits that make CPTSD symptoms worse. The following are just a few…

In preparing the blog this week, I thought about the outrage survivors often feel. We are told to “move on,” “forgive,” “hurt people hurt people,” “why can’t you just get over it?” and a host of other minimizing comments. The outrage is there for a reason, and you should listen to it. Your soul is talking to you and you need to hear what it has to say.

I sat in the graduation ceremony surrounded by thousands of proud parents and friends and watched as my son marched in to receive his college diploma in civil engineering. It was a crowning achievement not only for him, but for me. Not because I had anything to do with his accomplishment, but because I had survived my family of origin and lived to see this day.

I stood on the platform in front of a three tiered candelabra. I was 23 years old. It was my wedding rehearsal and like many weddings of that time, part of the ceremony was a unity candle. “When you come down the aisle tomorrow and up on the platform,” said the coordinator, “you will take the candle on the right and Matt will take the candle on the left and together, you will light the unity candle. Make sure you blow out your candle once the center one is lit.”

What? You mean just because I’m getting married I’m going to be extinguished?

Conflict panics me. Okay? There...I said it. I am the first to run for cover at the smell of conflict. Why? Because childhood trauma taught me to confuse the two. To me, having a conflict with someone means trauma. And so...avoiding conflict becomes the goal for survival.

What is the difference between conflict and trauma?

Trauma is an emotional response to an intense event that threatens or causes harm. 

Conflict means to clash with someone or something. An example of conflict is to disagree with someone over opposite opinions.