I couldn't get out of bed before noon. Eventually, I’d get up and move around the house in a daze, then lay down to binge-watch TV shows, then struggle to stay asleep overnight. Depression, anxiety, and signs of PTSD racked me body and soul.
For a couple decades I was the woman who led ministries, served others, ran a non-profit library, homeschooled, raised multiple children, and fostered thirteen more. Eventually, all this doing became too much. Extreme stress created an extensive inability to function well.
The events prior to my collapse included fourteen months of living on a ranch we didn’t own. We fostered and took care of up to twelve children at a time while facing spiritual, physical, and emotional battles like I couldn’t believe. Far too many to count. It’s been five years and when I start to talk about it, I still have a hard time stopping. There are too many memories interwoven with the effects of what we’d been through.
A church elder visited us after we returned home. He told us we’d been through trauma, and I shrugged it off. Our foster kids had been through trauma, sure. But us? Me?
He was right.
Photo Credit: Unsplash/Natalia Figueredo