Gabrielle Lynch | CPTSDfoundation.org

Looking Beyond Silence: Ways To Support A Teenager Who Speaks Out About Abuse

Gabrielle Lynch — Thu, 12 Dec 2024 10:08:01 +0000

The term “watershed moment” seems to be shorthand in news articles reporting on notable abuse allegations that survivors advance instead of the abusers. If a young person speaks up, they meet countless opinions they probably could not fathom. Their “watershed moment” happens, but they still need to pass finals. Some call them brave, others judge, and these teenagers mostly just want to get through the daily survival of adolescence with this trauma added. When I disclosed abuse as a teenager, I became open for consideration. Did I do the right thing? Who will stick with me? Through the question marks, my support system secured me. My mom, aunts, and social worker upheld my thriving. I compiled key pointers for adults supporting teenagers who make their abuse known. All of us swerving ships appreciate our anchors.

Trust adjustments
When I lost friends due to speaking out about a beloved adult, I knew I could not rush towards new connections just yet. I did not know if I could ever. No matter, the adults in my life did not shame me for being without friends. No “Put yourself out there” talk. Though I did hurt, and that pained my loved ones, they still knew the best parts of me would keep me capable.

Listen with nuance
Listening seems like a bare minimum, but adding a view bigger than myself promoted empowerment. “People are stupid” validates dismissal, whereas a flipside could be in discussions of the effects. Thus, it is imperative to know what a young person feels comfortable discussing. For all that want to converse about societal takes on abusive behavior, many may move away from such a philosophy. I better appreciate the nuance that centered my spirit. Nonetheless, both a teenager who wishes to delve into their story as well as ones not yet there should find their opening in an adult who affirms in brutal times.

Support possible wordsmiths!
Whether a teenager writes of their abuse to be seen by many or they tell it to a few, their recollections exemplify a solid next step. An adult voices their care to the story then the teenager can hone it more and more, taking ownership. The survivor directs where their words go instead of only being fit for investigations or statements that happen far from them. Though stories like this are not at their best when consumed by others, being bolstered when sharing emboldens how a survivor can take hold.

Fill the bare
After speaking up, a teen steps into enveloping doubts. Possibilities for peace appear distant. Disquieting, yes, but this ache likens to dish soap bubbles that lose their lingering form when scrubbed into dirty dishes. After I would get home from school, my mom would call me before I could doom-scroll on social media. “Do you want me to pick you up after work for dinner with me and Aunt Tiff?” Out of the blue, I could feel a bit more renewed. While the abuse still existed, I explored museums, baked to increasingly better reception, and got to understand my support system outside of being side characters. Perhaps this depicts typical growing up, but a teenager who survived abuse can harness moments like these to reinforce their truths. With loved ones’ encouragement towards these developments, a survivor can create fullness themselves.

Survival for me has never just been clawing up mountains covered in sweat and dirt. Through aid in the most vulnerable times, a wider life gleams. Not always ugly nor always pretty, I finagle with this depth. Triggers are not my ending; those verbal assaults are not my guide. A teenager who speaks up about their abuse acknowledges a survivor’s reality. For as much as it is about grappling with violations, a survivor’s reality constantly moves. Supporters confirm their place yet still progress beside their loved ones, knowing their recovery has always been achievable.

Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash

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 post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Gabrielle Lynch

If Dad Were Here: Handling “Could’ve” Moments in Grieving and Trauma

Gabrielle Lynch — Wed, 04 Sep 2024 09:51:53 +0000

A prevalent trope posits that a woman can be okay when her father faces off against her abuser. Stay away from his daughter or meet his wrath. Roots in sexism appear clear when wondering why a man becomes the focus as the hero in a story about female pain. I could give the benefit of the doubt to consider that cruel men may only listen to a tougher man instead of a woman, but I take issue with any man centering on a woman’s perspective. She becomes the plot device for male vengeance.

I lost my father over a year before my abuse started. Within that time, my family and I often pondered what Dad would think of certain hot topics. How would he mourn all those celebrity deaths in 2016? Would he care about Taylor Swift’s news? I even went to the more personal past, like how he must have felt when my baby brother miscarried or being my father when I exhibited my first signs of bipolar disorder. Soon enough, despite having passed, he came into my abuse story.

I have written about my mom’s quick actions after hearing my descriptions of what our school play’s director spewed at us. She took each “Shut up!” or verbal onslaught over our group’s failures like a doctor to their patient’s updates. Did I know my dad well enough to definitively claim what he would do? For much of my life, he found his peace in drinking. No outsider feelings touched him, and no concerns stared at him in the face. An easy jump from my abuse to his potential viewpoint is that he would be too busy in his alcoholism to care. In my bitter teen years after he died, I stood by this. The logic back then: If he didn’t care enough to stop drinking, why would he snap for this?

The director could have held my destiny. Maybe he did for a while when each interaction thereafter circled back to how whoever I was talking to could hurt me. My father, who was not there amid his daughter’s abuse, is some semblance of a character here as well. While I am not a hardcore action heroine, I still take the lead. I grieve my dad alongside how I grieve the support he might have been. I also give grace to his role. If I try to nail down where he would be, I end up with a futile analysis of a scenario so distant from the gleaming that keeps me going today. The trauma of both the abuse and Dad’s death did not blossom me or act as character development; I just know that in all steps of my recovery, I can be the greatness in this process. I’m the one upholding friendships and digging into the beauty found through library work. Leads push for their valuable plot.

After anger, after intensity, I asked my mom what she thought Dad would have done truly. Laying next to her on the bed seven years after the abuse, she held my hand to meld her love’s certainty with an answer not as definite. She did not declare a Dream Dad universe or reject any hopeful possibilities.

“He would love you through it somehow.”

I recollect now when my second-grade teacher did not cast me as a starring role in our class’s play but instead as a one-line character. In my frustration, I gave vague details to my parents of not “getting it.” After a cool-down alone for a minute, Mom came into my room to ask the full story.

“Your dad is ready to send the military over there.”

I paused, not to unscramble my narrative but to put in place that he was going to have some sort of stance here.

Photo by Guillaume de Germain on Unsplash

Gabrielle Lynch

Living Autistic Survival Amid PTSD: Finding Myself in Grace Tame’s Story

Gabrielle Lynch — Wed, 24 Jul 2024 09:52:35 +0000

An autistic survivor holds the ability to shred apart norms but often also holds fears of not being the correct voice

An autistic survivor of abuse seemingly stands on a pedestal about to fall into repression of feelings or being the needed honest one. An autistic survivor holds the ability to shred apart norms but often also holds fears of not being the correct voice. With our perceived awkwardness and the dismissals common to us, a person like me who has lived through abuse ponders what to do with the mess.

A TikTok of a speech by the activist Grace Tame came to me before I realized what I faced in high school was abuse. She described the brutality of sexual abuse from both a teacher and the systems we are told to trust. Whoever told us that reporting abuse could be a weight taken off? Tame spoke of one life being replaced with another, small to loud.

I knew reporting the verbal abuse of my teacher would not be handled with a quick response, helpful or dismissive. A school takes the complaint, carries it to the deans, then to the school board, and a teacher’s fate is decided. Some teachers in other parts of the country deal with this unfairly if they assign The Catcher in the Rye; I wish I had a teacher who would develop my possibilities instead of yelling at me from the dark auditorium seats during my dress rehearsal.

The constant chatter of the special interests that saved me peeked and then shuttled away

Autism waited on the bench as I suffered the abuse for those couple of months. The constant chatter of the special interests that saved me peeked and then shuttled away. Asking a girl in my English class if her wearing Crocs was ironic slipped into the “Awkward Laughter” file. The diagnosis was evaded until a year and a half later when the abuse resided in some incoherent alphabet soup in my history. It only mattered when I remembered why I sneak from friendships supposed to be crucial in my adolescence. But I guess that could now just be my autistic weirdness, right?

When the curious look into Tame’s story, her autism offers a new lens to her activism. She speaks at podiums, direct in her concerns. Sometimes, she jests at idiocy from sexists. I look at my hands quaking when sound and light zap at once. I think of my eyes that feel like clear nail polish drips onto them through every panic. I feel my throat and its hard work of pushing down much of what I could say. A body such as this can function like a debate between leaders, digging for clarity despite venom spewing.

Calling Grace Tame a “warrior” or a “voice” reads like a weighty refund. Yet this is where her control goes. A supporter such as myself watches on knowing choice. An autistic supporter such as myself knows that my hands, my eyes, and my throat have greater lives to them. They shake in overwhelm while the triggers in all forms run, but I realize my world is more than one patch of shaking. I love autism’s guidance towards my interests; I love its spark when it acts from fearlessness. Though I could never speak for Grace Tame’s attitudes towards what we share, she nails down autistic emboldening and how our traits act as a stance in some way.

I wish all sensory overloads were reminders of wideness being positive

Not speaking at protests or winning “… Of The Year” awards, I aim right now for more of myself. On days where I recall my abuse as that sixteen-year-old girl under the stage’s spotlight having tripped over one line, my words twist like rope to those unaware of where my mind has landed. I touch my thumb to each fingertip, a stim. I lose what I say because my popping heart requires more than my thoughts, a panic attack. Yet doom and overcoming are not the only two modes for a survivor. These ruminations arrive amid watching The Muppets once again, though never tainting it. They come when I send a text to a friend I finally have. Meet me on a sun-kissed street, I would say to the triggers. A stray cat rests on the nearby grass, children laugh at their chalk drawings, old friends jog. I wish all sensory overloads were reminders of wideness being positive.

The protest of pink-hatted women bleeds far from my office, where a client just yelled at me because a vet was not available at that time. No feminist slam poems here. So, I keep those women with me with chants about their survival. Triggers ranging from quick blame to a too-fast ceiling fan continue, and I have no power to shift these from happening. C-PTSD and autism form a committee through triggers, but I vote my role inside it. I force my scope to include Kermit singing “The Rainbow Connection” and baked potatoes as my lazy dinner. This is my world to widen.

A Grace Tame interview I just watched focused on her favorites of the moment, the music that shaped her and her future wedding dress, among other pleasures. Interviews for her can in fact go here now. Her eye contact flits when listing her dream mixtape. I recognize the wide eyes staring ahead, the lists of thousands speeding through one’s mind instead of just a fuming singular.

Photo by Hiki App on Unsplash

Gabrielle Lynch

Mom Plays Whistleblower: An Unconventional Advocacy Outline

Gabrielle Lynch — Wed, 10 Jul 2024 09:06:28 +0000

A darkened heart still pumps on

Feminist vigilante movie trailers play on as viewers wonder which actress often typecast as the wife will now get her chance for more. They can, at last, play the scorned woman out to kill a predator. This female lead fights outside of a leather-clad male gaze; she wars like an ambassador for the oppressed. A darkened heart still pumps on.

Mothers whose children suffer abuse are forced to choose the severity of their story. Some seize the circumstances compared to others who idle until it might die down. I came home every day of tech week for a sophomore-year play, telling Mom about new instances of cruelty from our teacher. As the verbal abuse ran on, she notated the words for my school social worker. Gasping as I spoke, she still retained a secretary-like focus.

“So… everything is okay, don’t worry about this, but I told Ms. O about what she said to you,” she began before I could buckle my seatbelt for the drive home, “about what he said to all of the group.” She pressed the gas as if heading to dump a body.

She believes not in sunshiney denial but in the best parts being elevated despite wear

My mother, who raised three daughters beside an alcoholic husband, built her internal code on resilience amidst rips. Yet she couldn’t face all of this stoic. She took us on ice cream runs when my dad evaded us and never questioned therapy. As an administrative assistant at a school, she vouches for students hit on heads with soccer balls and the angsty ones alike. She is known to discuss the finer points of the NBA with children waiting for the principal’s reprimanding. Across classifications, she believes not in sunshiney denial but in the best parts being elevated despite wear.

Called dumb for skipping a line in the play and then told her the performance failed because of my work. I quieted my voice while relaying the moments to her. He could not evaporate me with an ally that treated these words like they were declared instead of hushed. A mom amidst her child’s trauma arrives in the armor not quite fit for her baby. Armoring cannot be rushed, she realizes. In the meantime, the mother is thrown into writing her own manifesto, centering confidence and patience.

She told my social worker about the abuse, who alerted the deans, who got the school board involved and told him to quit now or be fired. The teacher quit. For a sixteen-year-old, such actions felt like a heaving too huge to come from me. My mom factored all angles before becoming a whistleblower on my behalf. She did not want him to continue, yet she still considered the weight this filing could mean for me ahead. Mom tells me often that I will always be the right person for this situation. Justice suits me, she considers, even when triggers require much grounding.

In that month in 2016, I balked at being an informant, yet I knew the fight required humanity as much as grit. She perhaps even saw into 2024. That I would still find myself in flashbacks seemed a side plot compared to the character I grew into, both as a survivor and from the changes that come in one’s twenties. These days, my mother does not preface my statements. With every customer service woe faced, I organized lists of changes the company must make (all with cussing and laughter from my fellow receptionists adding their notes). No longer at that job now, I still have so much Gretchen-ness inside of me, so much fervor that exceeds drowsiness.

Eight years after the abuse started, Mom and I watched a true crime show’s episode on an abusive teacher. I whispered that the fact of trying to be The Cool Teacher resounded from the screen to my real life. He could say whatever he wanted to us because he allowed the students a glimpse of a lax adult. She declared her unrest once again before typing something into her phone.

“He’s at another school now,” she sighed as she scrolled a LinkedIn page on her phone. A sigh from Mom could transition into vigilantism. But this was not the time to grab real or imagined baseball bats when her daughter froze behind a sort of ice. Mom bundles up, patient as I claw out, and thrilled that I will harness this with grace.

Photo by Jizhidexiaohailang on Unsplash

Gabrielle Lynch