Where was I on this date six years ago? No matter how many times I have tried to blur out the dates of March 27th – March 30th in my mind, the little tiny reminders build and build until the tears trickle down my cheeks. On this day, six long years ago, I woke up in the admission department of Springbrook Hospital, a psychiatric facility in Brooksville, Florida. It was just three years prior that I began my internship there and was hired as a case manager and eventually a therapist. But on this day, there I was, dressed in an ugly hospital gown as an “un-patient.” My favorite staff psychiatrist, Dr. Wasan, refused to admit me to the unit to save me from the embarrassment of being seen by my former co-workers. Under the Baker Act, however, he had to observe me for 72 hours to ensure I was not a threat to myself or others.

I was living with a “friend” at the time. Ugh. How do I make this nightmarishly long story short? Bullet points. Let’s try that.

**please be kind to yourself as you read**

Maria and I met in grad school, and we quickly became study buddies, friends, even confidantes.
I was working two jobs, going to school, and completing my internship.
My ex-husband became more and more emotionally absent; I found 3700 text messages between him and a female co-worker. I gave him an ultimatum. His response was, “Let the chips fall where they may.”
God spoke to me clearly and showed me why I needed to go to Florida.
I went because God said
Maria spent three long years grooming me to be her much younger mistress while refusing to leave her millionaire wife. My best friend sent me articles describing similar behavior. I refused to believe this was happening to me.

When Maria wasn’t grooming me, love-bombing me with gifts and tokens of security, she berated me and told me what a horrible mother I was. She diagnosed my oldest daughter as having Borderline Personality Disorder and told me, Zoe, at eight years old, was too old to be sleeping in my bed while her 13-year-old son still slept in hers. She told me many times, “It is not like you’re the next best thing since sliced bread.”

I drank my pain away until one night, I jumped in my car to escape her pursuit of me and managed to hit a guidewire which was hiding under some brush shredding my front passenger tire and rim, thus bringing the telephone pole down on top of my car. That was July 3rd, 2014. Thank goodness the girls were in Pennsylvania for the summer.

DUI charges, restitution, counseling, AA meetings – I had to do it all, and of course, I couldn’t leave the state. Of course, I couldn’t find a job. Who would hire someone with a recent DUI and a suspended license? I stayed with my “friend” and earned my keep by taking care of her 84-year-old father, who had Dementia. I cleaned their 3700 square foot home from top to bottom – dusted, vacuumed, and mopped, plus cleaned TWO garden-style bathrooms every Friday. I mowed their 10 acres of fire-ant-hill-covered yard. I bathed their animals and cleaned their smelly infected ears. I cooked dinner on many occasions. I tended to plants, killed snakes, and even helped their cat birth kittens. At this time, I still loved Florida, but I missed my kids. I kept telling myself if I can just get past all of the legal stuff, maybe I could get a job, and maybe things would turn around. My lawyer had my charges lessened, and I entered my plea on February 11th, 2015. I still had to complete my counseling and probation through March and into April. I was so close to freedom.

March 27th, 2015 was a Friday. The day started off sad as the family had made the painful decision to euthanize Nana, the 14-year-old white Standard Poodle of the home, whose health was declining. Maria pulled her out of the crate and walked her toward the garage. The two remaining dogs left behind in their cages let out a whine as if they knew that was their last goodbye.

Because I still did not have a license, Maria’s aged parents took me to my doctor’s appointment in town. Afterward, we would return to the home. Maria’s mother planned to take a trip to see her brother near Miami; her father would remain with me for the weekend. We were happy that her mother could get this break from being the primary caregiver for her husband. I tried to help, but she did so much more.

I was in the kitchen feeding dad his soup and sandwich while mom filled her suitcases in the bedroom. Suddenly, mother walked into the room holding her lower abdomen and said, “Danielle, I don’t feel good.” Her face looked pale, and she became tearful with fear. I also sensed her disappointment in having to cancel her trip.

She chose to lie down in her bed as I called 911 and began taking her blood pressure. I placed a phone call to Maria in a whirlwind and texted every family member I could remember. I got prayer chains going while I continued to talk calmly to dad. Emergency responders wheeled beds and oxygen masks into the bedroom. I coaxed dad back to the kitchen to try to encourage him to eat. I attempted to calm his fears and let him know that he shouldn’t cry and get himself upset. He would need to have a full belly if he wanted to go to the hospital because it might be a little while until we would eat again. Like a slowly acquiescing child, he finally ate. I was able to bring him to the hospital to meet the rest of the family.

A perforated bowel was the diagnosis; surgery was necessary. It wasn’t long before dad was getting antsy and driving mom crazy while she was just trying to keep herself calm and collected.

“Let me take him home and get dinner started,” I suggested to everyone. “Mom needs her rest.”

Maria looked up and mouthed the words, “Thank you.” She then added, “I’ll be about 30 minutes behind you.”

I got dad home and settled in front of his evening meal. I had created a beautiful salad earlier in the day, so I quickly filled the salad bowls and topped them with our favorite mix of dressings: balsamic vinaigrette and ranch.

Maria had taught me so much about cooking and grilling through the years. Even when I was still living in Pennsylvania, we talked on the phone, texted or messaged recipes, tips, ideas, counseling moments, mom struggles, relationship struggles, but primarily Statistics class struggles. That course almost killed us if it had not been for having each other and another great classmate, Heather. Sorry, I digress. Because I knew she wasn’t too far behind me, I took out a small beef roast that I had marinating and rolled it on the grill to seer the outside and lock in the juices, just as she had taught me. By the time she came through the door, dinner was plated and accompanied by two full-bodied glasses of Merlot.

“I don’t know what I would do without you. Look how much you… care. You show us all how much you love us… How much you saved the day… you came through for everyone. I love you so much.”

You might have knocked me over with a feather when I heard these words, but I don’t know. Maybe I thought this was the turning point. This was the moment she would realize that perhaps I’m some poor chick from Pennsylvania, but I have value, and I’m a good person, and I am the next best thing since sliced bread, darn it! I wanted her to see that so many of the people she surrounded herself with were emotionally absent or emotional vampires. Still, here I was – emotionally present and giving of myself out of my love for others, primarily because of Christ’s love for me. We love because He first loved us.

We sat down at the kitchen counter side by side (how very Floridian). She picked up her phone to scroll through whatever App was open. I took the cue that this was appropriate to unwind, so I, too, picked up my phone to scroll through my notifications. Suddenly, Maria reached across my plate, snatched my phone out of my hands, and immediately jumped up to play keep-away. Startled, her feeble father wheeled his chair around and came to his unsteady stance. It was too late. I was already triggered. I may have pushed or shoved. I remember swinging my hippie sack purse towards her head and remembering later that there were books in it. Wince. She climbed on my back with one arm around my throat and punched me in the temple. I ran to the bedroom. For some reason, the gun cabinet was hanging wide open. I grabbed a handgun – it looked like a starter pistol – it may have been. I held it to my head, so when Maria came through that door after me, I could show her how serious I was that I needed her to keep her distance.

As she burst through the door, the words “oh, shit” fell from her mouth. “Now I have to call the police and have your ass Baker-Acted.” Please, no. Anything but that. I dropped the gun and tried to run. Somehow I ripped a muscle in my left calf muscle. I had nowhere to go. I even tried to jump into her parents’ van and circle around, but where was I going to go? Should I add Grand Theft Auto to this evening’s events? I walked into the kitchen, hung up the keys, and told the responding officer, “Here I am.”

Somewhere in this insane chain of events, I reached out to my best friend Christy, who lived an hour away near Orlando, and she appeared like an angel in the driveway. It was too late. Maria had told the officer I was the aggressor. She told him I beat her up. She told him all the things she had done to help me, but I just kept screwing it up.

The officer had no choice but to take me to a Baker Act-receiving facility. I asked for medical attention, but the officer ignored me. I tried to tell him how she started everything – how she strangled me and punched me in the temple. I told the officer she was the aggressor, but my words fell on deaf ears.

My sense of direction sharpened as the night’s stars brightened the darkness. The Floridian sky is fascinating. “You’re not taking me to Springbrook Hospital, are you? Please, Officer, I used to work there! Please, Officer, I was just starting to get my life back together. Please don’t take me to Springbrook!”

Have you ever sat in one room for 72 hours with nothing but a stack of magazines and an occasional tray of food placed in front of you? Sheets wet because the nurse was kind enough to give you a long-ago melted bag of ice for your ripped calf muscle, which causes you to writhe in agony every time you turn the wrong way. I hope you never do.

On March 30th, 2015, the date of my discharge came. The police instructed the hospital staff to release me into their custody. Once my 72 hours of observation were over, they would charge me for Battery, a violation of my probation. I overheard the hospital staff repeatedly say to one another, “I cannot find a warrant for her arrest, so we are not discharging her LEO.” My Best Friend swooped back in from Orlando and got me away from Brooksville once and for all.

I moved back to Pennsylvania on April 23rd, 2015. From the moment I returned to Pennsylvania, my blessings have far outweighed any trials or curses I have encountered. I feel like I do a really good job making sure I feel centered, grounded, and at peace.

For those of you who don’t know, Maria took her own life in November of 2019. I wondered if she did it near my birthday to send a message to me. I received a missed phone call from Vero Beach while I was in a session on November 19th. I found out after her death she had opened her own practice in Vero. I hope the caller planned to offer me a car warranty renewal on the 2012 Chevy Malibu that I never owned. I have done a lot of work to let these questions go. Her death was not about me. That call was either the car warranty guy or those replacement windows I will never pay for on the house I rent. This is not my stuff to hold.

Can you imagine my dismay finding myself frozen in the empty bicycle section of Walmart, white knuckles gripping the cart, tears streaming down my face because my wife asked me a question? She very tenderly said, “What is wrong, honey? You are just not yourself!”

She was right! I’m on edge! My shoulders are up to my ears! I keep snapping! And why? I had no idea why I felt like this until I looked at those numbers on the calendar. It was then I went into a dissociative fugue. For a moment, it felt like a tunnel. Then it felt like a stroke as the pain felt like it was cramping my brain, making speech difficult. Tears fell as I remembered the whiplash I experienced from hero to zero. The 72 hours of absolute humiliation and re-traumatization while lying in that cell-like room that followed were nearly intolerable.

As a trauma-informed therapist, I have worked with many children who have “trauma anniversaries,” “time of year,” or “anniversary triggers.” I have never before experienced such an intense, physiological response to past events in correlation to the time of year as I experienced in these past three days.

I let the words flow from my mouth in as close to a whisper as I could muster. I needed to confide in Jen when I thought I would pop, but I didn’t want the whole store to hear my mental breakdown. “6 years ago today, I woke up in a psychiatric facility. I held a gun to my head so Maria would keep her distance. They wouldn’t admit me, but they couldn’t release me. I can’t stop wondering why we hurt ourselves in these moments.”

Even my 6 – 12-year-old clients hit themselves rather than tell mom or dad how much they feel hurt. More recently, I had a client turn a knife on himself. Thankfully, he only threatened. Still, others self-sabotage all day long. Self-injurious behavior intensifies with age. I want so badly to know why so many of us point the gun at ourselves. I’m not talking about suicide. I am talking about our tendency to become self-destructive when someone else deserves to hurt as much as we do, or at least hear – and dare I say, validate – how much they have hurt us. Are we so afraid that we will lose these abusive, gas-lighting, manipulative cretins once and for all that we would instead turn our anger and hatred inward? How much more do we think we can take?

YOU ARE WORTH MORE!

YOU ARE THE NEXT BEST THING TO SLICED BREAD!

YOU DESERVE MORE!

YOU DESERVE BETTER!

WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO START SEEING YOURSELF AS GOD SEES YOU?!?

Friends, my original blog was called “The Naked Turtle” because I wanted to stop hiding in my shell of fear. God brings us through our trials so that we turn and give Him the Glory! But! The devil doesn’t want us to give God the Glory because that would advance His Kingdom, so he puts a gag order of shame on our lives. As I have intimated to you before, becoming naked before you has been a journey. I have spent three days in tears over writing this post because the story is no longer about me. It’s about you. Maybe your story mirrors mine. Perhaps you wonder why you are constantly internalizing your misdirected anger. Maybe you have made choices in your life because you thought the path would lead one way, but you ended up in some dark and spooky places and even lost your way. I am willing to spill my guts and bear my soul with the same fear of judgment, abandonment, and rejection that has always been there, in the hope that my story may be your life-saving manual.

Philippians 1:3,

Danielle

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Danielle Renee Murphy

Danielle has strong roots in Taunton, Massachusetts, as well as Milton and Lewisburg, Pennsylvania. Still, she currently enjoys the Mission Field of Scranton, Pennsylvania, and the Pocono Mountain Region just beyond. Danielle identifies as a Survivor but also as a Perpetrator. For the past 9 years, she has worked on her role as Recoverer and now begins her journey as Healer.

Ms. Murphy has had the honor of helping to raise 4 extraordinary human beings: Darianne Marie Scott, Ellen Althea McCormick, Julian William Francis Scott, and Zoe Renee Scott.

daniellereneemurphy.com

In case you missed it, you can read my introductory post here, where we begin this journey together.

Feel free to copy this image of the wall and paste it into a Word document or Paint. Print it to use with pen or pencil, or simply keep it on screen and edit it digitally. Begin to fill in the bricks of this wall with the words and the names of the things, situations, and people who helped you harden your heart. Can you name them?

Maybe a Timeline will work. Draw a horizontal line with your birth date at the extreme left end and today’s day at the other. Draw vertical line ticks to indicate a timeframe when something significant happened in your world. My first memory is when I was roughly 18 months old. I remember going to look at our house with the realtor before my parents bought it. I was 3. We moved to Pennsylvania, 400 miles away, when I was 9. All of these transformational events have helped to shape who you are. What emotions come up for you when you think of a certain time period of your life? Was there a babysitter or a teacher who made it intolerable? Were there endless summer days at the community pool or the nearby creek? Let these images come to mind to help your ability to recall. If vivid details lead you in this direction, write a mini autobiography.

By now, you may have identified your parents’ divorce when you were 7. You may remember that sports season when you broke your arm and had to sit on the bench. Maybe you have listed a school bully or someone else who has hurt you. Your wall is most likely filled with lots of yucky words and painful memories for you, but there is a way to take down that wall. It may have protected us for a time, but we will be fine rebuilding it more healthily.

Before many of us built walls, we were hurt. You can easily argue we were hurt because we were vulnerable. Maybe we trusted someone or at least thought we could. Most of us never had good boundaries because, well… most of us were raised by parents with poor boundaries, so we’ve all spent some time being doormats. We have no sides to retain anything we need. People walk all over us.

One day, we seem to wake up and look around at all the ways we are being stepped on and recognize that it does not feel good, so we build our wall! We need our wall! There is no one else out there who can protect us. But unfortunately, our walls make people have to rappel their way into our lives. That’s a lot of work to expect from someone, isn’t it?

I remind my clients to picture themselves as a cup – a vessel that can hold Love and pour it into others while allowing others to pour in. A cup has walls to keep the good in and the bad out. Be a cup.

This exercise might take a few days, but when you are ready, pray Psalm 139 over yourself. When you are done, meditate on the words, “see if there is any offensive way in me,” and let the Lord bring your wounding, as well as the Offenders of this wounding, to the movie screen of your mind. Write them down over the course of several days, and try to let your feelings rest about the list you have created. Remain centered and grounded. Take a deep breath and remind yourself that you are safe. Until next time, Philippians 1:3.

Psalm 139

For the director of music. Of David. A psalm.

1 You have searched me, Lord, and you know me.
2 You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar.
3 You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways.
4 Before a word is on my tongue, you, Lord, know it completely.
5 You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand upon me.
6 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to attain.
7 Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?
8 If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
9 If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea,
10 even there, your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.
11 If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,”
12 even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you.
13 For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
14 I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.
15 My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
16 Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.
17 How precious to me are your thoughts,[a] God! How vast is the sum of them!
18 Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand— when I awake, I am still with you.
19 If only you, God, would slay the wicked! Away from me, you who are bloodthirsty!
20 They speak of you with evil intent; your adversaries misuse your name.
21 Do I not hate those who hate you, Lord, and abhor those who are in rebellion against you?
22 I have nothing but hatred for them; I count them, my enemies.
23 Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts.
24 See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Danielle Renee Murphy

Danielle has strong roots in Taunton, Massachusetts, as well as Milton and Lewisburg, Pennsylvania. Still, she currently enjoys the Mission Field of Scranton, Pennsylvania, and the Pocono Mountain Region just beyond. Danielle identifies as a Survivor but also as a Perpetrator. For the past 9 years, she has worked on her role as Recoverer and now begins her journey as Healer.

Ms. Murphy has had the honor of helping to raise 4 extraordinary human beings: Darianne Marie Scott, Ellen Althea McCormick, Julian William Francis Scott, and Zoe Renee Scott.

daniellereneemurphy.com

The reality is I eat, sleep, and breathe my job as a Family-Based Therapist at Scranton Counseling Center in Scranton, Pennsylvania. I am pushing every day to establish a center for the therapeutic arts in the Greater Scranton Area, as well as a theatre troupe to create much-needed conversations about race and difference. I also write. I love to paint with words, encourage, and inspire. My current growing edge is to re-prioritize these goals or at least find some equilibrium between the three. This opportunity to share my passion and insight will be just one step in pulling that writer hat off the back of the hat rack.

But first, I thought it most appropriate to share with you the introduction to my first book that I am working towards publishing. It is also entitled “The Missing Peace.” My hope is these words will resonate with you, and we can begin a guided journey together using expressive therapy techniques to process through the pain of our pasts. I pray that you find my words and insight come from a safe, competent, and caring place.

Introduction
The Spirit of the LORD is upon Me,
Because He has anointed Me
To preach the gospel to the poor;
He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,
To proclaim liberty to the captives
And recovery of sight to the blind,
To set at liberty those who are oppressed. (Luke 4:18 NKJV)

For I want you to know what a great conflict I have for you … and for as many as have not seen my face in the flesh, that their hearts may be encouraged, being knit together in love, and attaining to all riches of the full assurance of understanding, to the knowledge of the mystery of God, both of the Father and of Christ, in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. (Colossians 2:1–3 NKJV)

I stand on these two Scriptures because I have been poor in spirit and sought nourishment in the lies of the world. I have been brokenhearted and sought healing in all the proverbial wrong places. I have been held captive by my fears, my anger, and my lack of self-worth. I have been blind to my iniquities, and yes, I have been bruised, sometimes by my own doing. By God’s amazing love and faithfulness, I have been healed and set free.

I’m a Survivor. If you’re reading this, I have a hunch the word “Survivor” resonates with you too.

I’ve survived a childhood rooted in high conflict and fueled by alcohol.

I’ve survived sexual abuse by an older cousin beginning at the age of four. I told my parents of this abuse around the age of eleven, but it was kept quiet not to upset my grandparents. The abuse continued until I was fourteen.

My paternal grandparents disowned me and my brother for being raised Lutheran instead of Catholic. This may not seem to be a big deal to some of you, but it hurt in ways I was not aware of until I was thirty-three years old and full of bitterness.

These three experiences—being raised in a high-conflict home, being sexually abused, and being rejected over something out of my control—continue to impact how I experience the world. These three transgressions paved the path to living with Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD) and physically re-wired my brain and its responses. They impact my ability to trust others, understand social cues, and navigate romantic interests and sexual advances … any personal interaction, really. Friendships are never easy. Relationships are power plays, with me always in a submissive role, desperate for love and acceptance. Bosses hold my livelihood in their hands, allowing my hyper-vigilance to be on full alert, afraid of being fired, afraid of making a mistake. Constructive criticism makes me cry for days. Depression, fear, and self-doubt have sidetracked dreams and ambitions for years. I can track the decades of my life by the roles I have played, like a chameleon adapting to its surroundings, trying to find the “me” that fits. I can see now “fits” translates to “feels safe and accepted.” Funny how I was always the one who had to change for that to happen. Funny, how I never achieved feeling “safe and accepted.”

The Old English etymology of the word “father” is defined as “one who exercises parental care over another.” From the Latin, “Pater,” father means “head of,” and, certainly, we cannot exclude mothers as the “heads” of their families. Grandparents, great-grandparents, aunts, and uncles … all adults can be seen as “heads of” their families, without giving any consideration as to whether a parent is male or female, mother or father. I began referring to this epidemic—this generation after generation of youth growing up with no positive role model—as being “Fatherless” back in 2008 when I first dared to examine my own personal wounding. The souls who crossed my path often had that same sense of emptiness screaming to be filled. I termed it the “Daddy Hole.”

Janet Geringer Woititz wrote in her bestselling book of the same name, Adult Children of Alcoholics was originally written with only children of alcoholics in mind. Since its first publication, we have learned that the material discussed applies to other types of dysfunctional families as well.  “If you did not grow up with alcoholism but lived, for example, with other compulsive behaviors such as gambling, drug abuse, or overeating, or experienced chronic illness or profound religious attitudes, or you were adopted, lived in foster care, or other potentially dysfunctional systems, you may find that you identify with the characteristics described here.”¹ If you feel you are Motherless, Fatherless, or Parentless and whether you have a Mommy Hole, Daddy Hole, or Parent Hole you most likely grew up lacking the “parental warmth,” “clearly defined limits,” and “respectful treatment” which “lead an individual to value himself.” You have searched for love. You have attempted to numb the pain. You have even become angry, full of rage, and maybe even self-destructive as you have attempted to find “the missing piece,” or is it “the missing peace”?

I see you out there—frozen in your fear of abandonment, judgment, and rejection. I see the pain in your spirit, the scars you struggle to overcome as your stories mirror mine. People who were important to you have hurt you—emotionally, mentally, physically—or simply by their absence. My heart is now burdened with the need to bring healing to you, your hearts, and your families. I believe my life’s purpose—my point of self-actualization, which I will talk more about later—was revealed in the midst of my pain. I desire to help you recognize and identify Complex Trauma’s impact on your relationships with your loved ones and yourself. I hope I can bring you to the knowledge of your True Father. He loves you. He’s waiting for you. He wants to set you free.

“If through a broken heart, God can bring His purposes to pass in the world, then thank Him for breaking your heart.” ~ Oswald Chambers

find more at http://daniellereneemurphy.com

Danielle Renee Murphy

Danielle has strong roots in Taunton, Massachusetts, as well as Milton and Lewisburg, Pennsylvania. Still, she currently enjoys the Mission Field of Scranton, Pennsylvania, and the Pocono Mountain Region just beyond. Danielle identifies as a Survivor but also as a Perpetrator. For the past 9 years, she has worked on her role as Recoverer and now begins her journey as Healer.

Ms. Murphy has had the honor of helping to raise 4 extraordinary human beings: Darianne Marie Scott, Ellen Althea McCormick, Julian William Francis Scott, and Zoe Renee Scott.

daniellereneemurphy.com