Tales of a Traumasita

       Grief can be likened to an elusive invisible friend, whose presence manifests unpredictability, disrupting your sense of stability. The friend doesn't announce its arrival, nor does it adhere to a schedule; instead it appears without warning, casting a shadow over moments that seemed ordinary. Its impacts are profound., shaking the very foundations of your emotional world and challenging your ability to maintain normalcy.       When this inconspicuous companion arrives, it brings with it a whirlwind of emotions; sorrow, anger, confusion and even numbness.       It transforms familiar landscapes of daily life into places of melancholy, where joy and routine feel distant. The erraticism of its visits means you might find yourself abruptly overwhelmed, struggling to regain composure as you navigate the waves of intense feelings it triggers.       This alter ego often operates in the background, subtly in...

 My apologies to everyone for the delay of the next story. I have a family emergency. Thank you for your patience. I appreciate you all ❤️ Janine

 Hello! I'm really glad you found your way here.  I've been writing since I was a kid- long before I had the language to name what I was feeling.  Writing has always been how I express myself, especially when trauma makes it hard to speak. And a good portion of the time, it does. But the page listens when nothing else can.  On July 7, 2024, my world shattered. I lost my spouse to addiction. The grief that followed was unlike anything I've ever known. It was raw, paralyzing and so loud I didn't know how to exist inside it. I knew I had two choices: let it consume me,  or write my way through it.    This blog is me choosing to survive.    I live in Sechelt, B.C, Canada, cradled by the Salish Sea. My love for this place runs deep. The water, the tree's, the wind through the cedar's;  they have held my sorrow in ways people can't always manage. When I'm too broken to function, Mother Earth reminds me I'm still here. That healing isn't pretty...

        "You don't look sick"       Its a phrase I have heard more times than I can count in the twenty-six years since I first began navigating this invisible battlefield. At first, it makes you pause, wondering if the person speaking genuinely means well, or if they are being cruelly oblivious. After a while, you stop asking yourself anything at all and just smile, or grimace, or sometimes, if I'm feeling particularly sharp, I respond with "Well, you don't look ignorant, yet here we are."       Lupus is a disease of a thousand faces, each as unpredictable as it is cruel. One day, I might be walking along the beach, my hair perfectly coiffed, my makeup flawless, my energy deceptively calm. The next, a flare-up can strike with the subtlety of a hurricane, and I am reduced to counting hours on the couch, too exhausted to lift my head. It's invisible, insidious, and fatigue in a way that most people will never understand. And yet, because ...

       I was twenty years old, and my bloodstream was about seventy percent tequila and thirty percent trauma. That particular cocktail made me a walking Molotov, ready to ignite at the smallest spark. Confidence wasn't the word for it- no, I strutted through life like an unhinged rooster in high heels, feathers puffed, chest out, daring anyone to come at me sideways. And trust me, plenty did.       The Steel Monkey night club was my church back then. Sticky floors, thumping bass, smoke that clung to your hair no matter how much shampoo you threw in it later. My friends and I worshipped at its alter with cheap shots, bad dancing, and the kind of laughter that could peel paint off the walls. We didn't go out to blend in; we went to announce ourselves. Every table, every floor, every goddamn bathroom stall knew we had arrived.       By closing time, the ritual was carved into our bones: pile into the car, music blasting, voices s...

      PART ONE :  The Dream      It began not with clarity, but with the jagged lightning of recollection, striking in fragments.      White.      Empty.      Pure blinding white. And then- FLASH- two round shapes, side by side, joined in the middle, resembling Harry Potter glasses. Gone again as it jolted me awake. The first time it happened, I didn't know what to make of it. Sleep trick? Imaginary shapes dancing on the edge of consciousness? But it kept coming, relentless, persistent, as though my own brain had taken a part of itself hostage.       I saw them at night first, in dreams that didn't feel like dreams, particles like shards of glass piercing my sleep. White light, round shapes, then gone. And then they started creeping into my waking hours.      Flash.      Gone.      Flash.      Gone.       The ...

       Red Rover was never just a game. I remember the taut tension, the anticipation, the collision when hands met hands and children fell into each other's arms, some laughing, some crying, all bruised in some way.       That memory, playful and terrifying in equal measure, became the metaphor for the invisible force threading through my family: trauma. A force passed down like a secret handshake, carried in the body, the cells, the very DNA that knits one generation to the next. It is both inherited and imposed, a chemical echo of suffering reverberating across decades, unacknowledged yet potent, shaping lives before those lives have had a chance to understand themselves.       Science calls this epigenetic inheritance , a phenomenon where environmental stressors, abuse, neglect and trauma leave marks on our genetic code, altering the regulation of stress hormones and neural pathways. Research by Yehuda et al. (2016) demonst...

       Introduction: A Knock At the Door.      Easter is supposed to be a resurrection. A celebration of life, rebirth, innocence wrapped in pastel-colored hope. But in 1986, on a cold Thursday in Mission British Columbia, Easter was gutted. Two small bodies were propped up on a couch, still warm from life, cloaked in a sheet. Between them , their father. His suicide wasn't a cry for help. It was an act of possession. One final, monstrous declaration: if I can't have them, no one can.      Anita was eleven. Richard was five. They were slaughtered by the man meant to protect them. Shot at close range with a rifle he didn't own. It wasn't impulsive. It was planned. Purchased ammo. Staged. Allan Dacre had pulled the trigger on more than just his children's lives- he obliterated the spine of everyone who loved them.       It's been almost four decades. But those who knew Anita and Richard, time hasn't healed a thing. The ...

       There are several ways to comfort someone in a time of need- a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear, a helping hand, or a simple kind word. When none of these apply: bring a casserole.       Being from the small town of Madeira Park, B.C., on the Sunshine Coast, you know everybody, and everybody knows you. Especially when your dad was one of eleven siblings, all but four were fishermen in those waters.  A small fishing community, where the passing and returning of casserole dishes were practically as frequent as brushing your teeth or tying your shoes.       The casserole signifies the intent of feeding or replenishing the soul. Its levels of carefully constructed ingredients bring nourishment to the body and a gift of time for the individual. It is a warm hug with no embrace and an offering of "I am here for you" when words do not meet these needs. Its layers of love, kindness, and something new to either console the hur...

       I don't remember my first bite of food, but I do remember the first time it was used against me.       I was five years old, hungry enough to gnaw through drywall, and the women who called herself my stepmother slammed down a plate of something rotten. "Eat it or starve" she said. That wasn't a metaphor. I had already gone two days without eating. She stood over me, hand ready.      That plate might as well have been a landmine.       I gagged.      She smirked.      And when I vomited, she made me eat that too.       So, no- this isn't a weight loss story. This isn't about willpower, or lettuce or macros. It's about how food became both my punishment and my prize. It's about how I learned, far to early, that hunger could mean danger and fullness could mean safety; or shame.       My body remembers things my brain doesn't. That's the cra...

      Some people are born with the temperament of a golden retriever- all soft eyes, tail wags, and an insatiable need to please.      Uncle Rob? He showed up in life more like a porcupine in steel toe boots, sturdy, loud, hilarious, a little intimidating, and somehow still the one of the coolest humans, ever.      This is a tribute to a man that's very much alive- and, despite a slowing body and increasingly prickly exterior, still sharp as hell and loved beyond measure. This is not a eulogy. This is a living love letter to a man who wouldn't know subtly if it smacked him across the ass with a salmon rod.                                                            A LEGEND ENTERS     I met Uncle Rob when I was 9 years old. He lived in our basement suite of our house in Burnaby, and to...

        I still set a place for you sometimes. You, the man who made meals feel like magic, who filled the house with spice and smoke and stories.      The food was your pride; the way you'd hover nearby, watching for my reaction. That fed me the most.       Now, the kitchen is painfully quiet, but I still hear you there.       A folded towel where your clothes used to land. A moment of silence before I lock the door, half expecting you to stumble in behind me.        I wonder if you know that.        Wonder.        It's a strange thing to live with, like an ache that never fully forms into pain. People think grief is heavy, a stone you carry. But wonder is lighter- more insidious. It floats, just out of reach, and it follows you everywhere.        I wonder what life would be like if you were still here.        There are day...

     Chapter One - The Early Signals We Ignored          Steve entered our world the same way most teenage friendships begin; through shared rebellion and the easy magnetism of adolescence. He and my brother met when they were in junior high, and from the start, their connection pulsed with recklessness. They were inseparable for a time. Not the kind of friendship that builds trust- but the kind that courts trouble.        They tried to steal a car,  directly in front of my mom's work. Armed with only a screwdriver, they were inside the vehicle mid-attempt, when squad cars surrounded them. Police with shotguns drawn ordered them out. That moment, with my mom witnessing it all from inside her building, sealed Steve's fate in her eyes.         He was the only friend my brother ever had who wasn't allowed in our house. Not ever. "I don't like that kid" she repeated. "He's got something in him I don't ...

    I sensed your absence long before the phone rang. The familiar rhythm of your daily life fell silent, replaced by an unsettling void. My customary morning text,  "Good morning beautiful",  remained unacknowledged, lost in the stillness. An ominous intuition clawed at me, insisting you were gone.   Desperate, I dialed my best friend, my voice trembling with dread. "Something is wrong. He hasn't checked his messages in two days." Her soothing presence usually grounded me, yet the palpable tension gnawed at my insides, intensifying my fear.   Fifteen agonizing minutes later, the inevitable call came. When your oldest son's name appeared on my screen, I knew. "I'm sorry Janine. Dad's gone. My brother just found him." Ten words. Quiet. Final. The world didn't just shatter- it vanished.    In an instant, the room transformed into a cacophony of chaos, the piercing wails erupted from my core, reverberating off the walls. I collapsed to my ...