Family: But did you die?

 Trauma + Family Drama = A Shit Sandwich

 During orientation at the plant medicine center, one of the facilitators said that many veterans come to Costa Rica for help with military-related PTSD, only to find out that their problems lie much deeper. I thought, nah, that’s not me. Spoiler alert, it was me.

So let’s just get this out of the way. If you don’t understand where I came from, nothing that comes later is going to make sense. Whether I like it or not, it’s woven into everything.

I’m not here to trash my family. I’m not making excuses. I’m definitely not asking for pity. My parents did the best they could with what they had.

And I did what I knew how to do—I got the hell out. Like many people where I’m from, I joined the military to run away from home. I enlisted for five years after high school, then got out and went to college, where I decided to come back in as a nurse (this will be relevant later as well).

My Version of Kentucky

I grew up in Kentucky. Not the horse farms and rolling hills version people like to romanticize. Not Churchill Downs. People laugh when I say I’ve never ridden a horse. Oh I’m sorry, they didn’t let us keep horses in the trailer park.

My Kentucky looked more like Breaking Bad without the desert.

Factory towns. Limited options. Low expectations. Most people I grew up with weren’t dreaming about careers or travel. The goal was simple: get a job at the best-paying plant with a union. Nothing wrong with that life. My mom worked those jobs. I’m grateful she did. But there’s a difference between choosing a path and never realizing there are other paths.

Fear Was the Family Language

My mom was afraid of everything.

My dad was afraid of the devil.

They were good people. Well-intentioned. But they were operating from fear, not possibility.

My mom grew up with trauma from childhood abuse that she never dealt with. Mental health wasn’t something people talked about where we came from. You survived, or you didn’t.

She survived by staying small. She lived in constant anxiety and depression, crying for hours, always convinced everything was about to fall apart. Money, safety, relationships—nothing felt secure to her.

And since she didn’t have anyone else to talk to, she talked to us. She shared everything with my brother and me, like we were adults - from fear of not being able to pay taxes, to potentially losing the house, to not being able to afford groceries...every worry about how poor we were and the uncertainty of our lives. Like we were friends to commiserate with, instead of children to protect.

The Sex Talk (That Wasn’t Really About Sex)

When I was eight or nine, my mom gave me “the talk.” It wasn’t really about biology.

It was about fear. Sex is to be endured, not enjoyed. Men are dangerous. Periods ruin your life. Being a woman is basically a curse.

That was the message.

She didn’t mean to damage me. She was trying to protect me the only way she knew how. But what I heard was: You will never be safe. You cannot enjoy life. Because you are a woman.

And I rejected that hard.

The Rebellion Phase (aka most of my life)

I was already a tomboy and generally enjoyed playing Rambo in the woods with my BB gun more than playing with dolls. But after that, I went all in.

I refused anything feminine.

Nothing pink. No “girly” behavior. No female friend groups.

I picked fights with boys. Wore combat boots and metal band tees. Leaned into anything that pissed people off. Slayer shirts with pentagrams were my favorite.

Looking back, it wasn’t rebellion for the sake of rebellion. In my mind, it was survival. If being a woman meant being weak, afraid, and trapped - that's not exactly something to embrace.

Religion, Fear, Divorce, and other Drama

Religion in my house wasn’t comforting. It was terrifying.

My dad used to read me stories from the Book of Revelation before bed.

Great choice for a four-year-old.

I didn’t understand theology. I understood this: The devil is real. He’s watching you. And he’s probably under your bed. I used to jump off my mattress at night so he couldn’t grab my ankles. A habit I maintained until my teen years.

Between my mom’s anxiety and my dad’s fear-based religion, I didn’t stand a chance at feeling safe.

Eventually my parents divorced. Ironically one of their biggest fights was about religion. He was Southern Baptist, she was Catholic. Whoever was wrong was clearly going to hell.

Mom remarried because she was afraid of being alone. That went well.

One night she tried to shoot herself, or at least threatened to. I walked in while my stepdad was trying to get the gun away from her head. I thought he was trying to shoot her. Everyone was yelling. I was yelling “NO!” They were yelling at me to go to my room. That is the only time in my life I can actually remember screaming. I’ve raised my voice plenty of times. But that is the only time I have actually screamed. Screamed until I had no more breath and my face felt like it would pop.

Then they got divorced. And so the cycle continues…

My folks were really good at reinforcing the fact that nothing was safe or stable.

Independence: The Only Way Out

Some kids daydream about what they want to be when they grow up. I dreamed of everything I didn’t want to be. Mostly, I dreamed about leaving.

I’d stare out the window at night, wondering what else was out there. Anything had to be better than this. That curiosity turned into determination. Then into defiance.

I wasn’t going to stay in that town, or live in fear, or depend on anyone.

But Did You Die Though?

No, my little brother and I both made it to adulthood. My parents somehow managed to keep a roof over our heads and feed us. They did love us even though they had zero clue how to show it. Even though my childhood was a shitshow, I was always aware that it could’ve been worse. (Maybe because every time I didn’t eat my vegetables mom reminded me there were starving children in Africa..).

But simply surviving childhood is a pretty low bar. And for one of us, it didn't last.

My Brother

My younger brother Ryan was the opposite of me in a lot of ways.

He felt everything. Where I hardened, he absorbed. He carried my mom’s anxiety, her sadness, her fear—like it was his job. He grew into a tall, good-looking guy with these big brown eyes that always looked a little sad, even when he was smiling.

When he was 16, he got into a car accident, injured his back, and was prescribed Percocet. That’s where it started. Addiction took him from there.

Ryan spent years in and out of rehab and jail. Stuck in a repeating cycle of sobriety and relapse. When he was sober, he was himself again. Funny, smart, kind. You could see who he could have been.

Again and again. Repeat until you’re numb. If you’ve ever loved someone with addiction, you know exactly what that cycle feels like.

Ryan didn’t make it to 32. Two months before I deployed to Afghanistan, he shot himself.

My dad and I went into his house. We saw the aftermath. I remember everything. I remember the metallic smell. It was cold. They’d left the windows open. Cold blood has a distinct, metallic, smell. I remember the pattern of the blood up the wall and ceiling, on the bed sheets. I remember everything.

And then I went to Afghanistan.

And now you know why it’s all one big spiderweb.

But wait, there's more

Oh, and then a few years later my dad shot himself.

So, to sum up, my brother and father died by suicide, and my mom tried to.

Difficult not to take that personally.