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Trauma

Adelaida Avila

    I’ve been anal about clutter and cleanliness all of my life. A few years ago, I suffered what my therapist described as a traumatic event in my life. I was 39 years.
    I vividly remember the day it all started. I walked into my mom’s house and although my brother and his kids were there, the silence was deafening. I gave my mom a quick peck on both cheeks and proceeded to the living room where they were seated in darkness.
I gave them the traditional “Pacheco” kisses which are one on each cheek. A ritual my brother started at a young age because everything, for him, needed to be in even numbers. Two fried eggs, four crackers, 6 cookies, two kisses and so on. Even now at 42 everything needs to be even. To mess with his head, I’ll serve him 5 meatballs, or three pork chops or one piece of toast. It makes him nuts and it cracks me up. The expression on his face says: “Why do you torture me this way?!?”
    When I’m done giving out the even amount of kisses, I notice that they’re extremely quiet and the mood in the room is very somber. I recall saying something to the effect of “Who died?” “What’s wrong with you people?” They all claim to be tired but I know better. Something’s wrong, they’re just not talking. Other than the sadness that lingered in the air, dinner was uneventful that evening.
    I was home when I got the call from my niece. She was hysterical “Titi the police arrested daddy.”
    “Oh my God” I said “What happened baby?” I knew it, I knew something was wrong. I could hear commotion in the background. I asked her where she was and she said “We’re home Titi, Daddy said can you come get us?” The sadness in her voice broke my heart into a million pieces. Those kids had already endured so much.
    My brother was arrested, thrown in jail and bail was set at an absurd amount. He spent Thanksgiving behind bars and was released on December 24^th. I know I will never top the gift I gave my niece and nephew that year for Christmas, their dad.
    Although he was only incarcerated for a brief time, it seemed like a hellish eternity to us. His kids became my number one priority during that time. I shuffled them to school each morning. I showered them with love, affection and kindness every day that they were with me. I’d look at them and want to cry. I wanted to take their pain away and it killed me that I couldn’t
    Along with taking care of them, it was my responsibility as well, to find the best legal representation the measly little money we had could buy. Motions were filed, heard and denied. Finally, two days before Christmas the judge signed the Order reducing bail and the next day he was released from prison. We sat in my mother’s house for hours. I was physically tired, emotionally exhausted and mentally drained. I was completely aware that my life, as I’d known it, had been changed forever because of this experience.
    Months came and went and insignificant little things such as an unmade bed, a dirty cup in the sink, or a stray sock on the floor would thrust me into a fit of rage. “WTF! Kristinaaaaaa!” if it was her bed that wasn’t made.

“WTF! Evaaaaan!” if it was his stray sock lying on the floor.
    It was pretty bad. I realize now that I mentally tortured and verbally abused my family during that time. I was sick and didn’t know it. I’d spend hours cleaning. Entire days were dedicated to sweeping, mopping, dusting and wiping. In addition to the compulsive cleaning, I’d spend hours obsessing about bills or grades. I was unable to sleep, repetitive thoughts keeping me up at night. I was tired and angry all the time. I remember one night having what I thought was a brilliant idea of running up and down the stairs in an effort to physically exhaust my body to the point that I would pass out. I called my husband the next day and asked him if he’d heard me running up and down the stairs. I could hear the sadness in his voice when he said “No I didn’t. You did that? That’s not normal babe.” “I know” I said “but I was desperate, I just wanted to sleep.”
    The worst day ever was the one when I walked into the kitchen, looked over at the stove and nearly lost my mind because it was swimming in grease. My son had neglected to clean it after making himself something to eat. A heated discussion ensued resulting in me stabbing him in the arm with a fork. I didn’t do it with enough force to pierce his skin but what I’d done to him over a dirty stove was a clear indication that I needed help.
    The next day I made an appointment with the doctor. After discussing at length my behavior of several months, the diagnosis was Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.
    I take medication daily and although I’m still anal about clutter and cleanliness, I no longer worry that I’m going to physically harm one of my children because there’s an unmade bed, a dirty cup in the sink or a stray sock laying around somewhere.

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