Silence is Ok

It happened again, where someone asked me the name of my abuser. I told them because they claimed it was to protect their friends. I didn’t want to tell them, but I thought I didn’t have a choice.

I have heard much about being a survivor, like I should tell the truth. I’ve been told to not make it a big deal because “it happened so long ago” or “you’ll ruin his life”. But what about mine.

They talk about strength and that voicing what happened gives me the power. Instead, it feels as if some just want the juicy details to decide for themselves if my story truly happened.

I am ashamed of many parts of my story and do not ever speak of them. It’s embarrassing. I don’t want to talk about the darkness. I don’t want to write about it.

I don’t want someone to look at me as if I’m brave, or as if I’m broken and damaged goods. Or to look at me at all.

There are times when my heart is breaking and other times when I’m just tired. Much time has been spent arguing with myself, do I speak or stay silent. I often forget the hard work I’ve done to help myself move forward.

The times I was too scared to speak. When my abuser was listening or they would talk to me. When this person demanded to know the name of my abuser. When my stomach was in twisted knots and feeling required to speak.

My silence hugged me tight as if to say “only tell them if you want to”.

So to the quiet one who has kept it all inside, I see you. I believe you, even when you are silent. I believe you are afraid. I believe you carry heavy pain. I believe when you say that you loved them, but then you didn’t. I believe your confusion about forgiveness and wanting justice.

Please believe me when I say, Quiet one, that you’ve done nothing wrong. Speaking of it is neither right or wrong, but only your choice. You speak if, and only if, you are ready. Your silence doesn’t make him free. You survived a monster, and a monster he remains.

Please know this, Quiet one. I know a girl. I do not blame her nor her silence. My silence hears this writing, looks at me with tears flowing from her eyes and says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ve hated you and have tried to destroy you. I always thought you were the sickest part of me, the part that had to be destroyed, yet the part that needed forgiveness the most. But it isn’t like that. You were the first who didn’t ask me to prove it. You are the only one who believed me before speaking of it….and after.

And now, when my silence gives me a hug, I hug back and say “I know”. I say “Thank you”. And now, I mean it.

A Letter to the Perpetrator:

You know what you did to me 2 years ago. I don’t have to go into detail. But you need to know what it did to me. You won’t care, but I’m going to tell you anyway. So buckle up!

I thought you were someone who I could trust. I have a difficult time with trust anyway, but especially with the male population. Now, I find trust even more difficult, thanks to you. When I first came to your church, I didn’t know what to expect. But I knew I was looking for something deeper than what I had been taught growing up. When I had been invited to church, I was curious. It was completely different from any church experience I had known. And over time, I grew spiritually.

I love animals, and your dogs were no exception. I had called one my 4 legged BFF, but she had died of cancer. I honestly believe that had she still been around, you wouldn’t have been able to do what you did. She would have stopped you. Maybe you knew that, and that’s why you waited to start acting weird and treating me differently.

Speaking of treating me differently, why did you force me to sit on your lap to get a hug after having a bad call at work? You would also smack my butt. One time you changed clothes with me in the same room. Why did your wife not have any visible reaction when you did these things? My theory is that you’re abusive to her and have trained her to not respond on the outside. On the inside, I’m sure she reacts.

But when “things” started happening, I began to question everything, from the things you said and taught at church to my own self worth. Maybe the problem was really me because SA had happened before. I was the common denominator. I felt dirty and used. When the detective said he wasn’t going to do anything, I felt like no one believed me. Maybe I should have kept it to myself and not reported it. 80% of SA go unreported. And I can see why with how the police responded. But by reporting it, I found out I wasn’t your only victim. You had also hurt a 14 yr old girl. There are 2 known victims, where are the other 8? You know, the 80%? BTW, was her name Michelle? Is she the “friend” you claimed to have had back in the military? It’s one thing to SA an adult woman, but it’s on a whole other disgusting level to SA a child! You are one sick bastard!

I fell deeper and deeper into the dark hole of depression. No one knew where my brain was truly at, and I couldn’t tell them. The first person I told about the SA was a friend in Georgia. She encouraged me to report it to the police. The detective will answer one day for his decision of how to respond. And when another victim has the courage to report her experience, they will also learn they aren’t alone.

My brain got very dark after what you did to me. I was hurt and angry, but I used my anger to give me the courage to confront you at church. I wasn’t alone in my corner that day because I had told the elders what you had done. I read what I had written out in front of everyone there. Then you told your own version, which was mostly lies. Do you even realize that your actions of that one night destroyed your church and reputation? Oh, maybe it’s not right away. It may not be obvious yet. But it’s there. Then lying about it and denying the truth only hurts you and your family. There are always consequences for every action and decision made.

I struggled seemingly alone in my head for months until I broke down and told my therapist exactly where my brain was at. Over the next few months, with the help of others, I pulled myself out of that hole of suicide ideation. Those people who truly had my back are part of my support system now. I still struggle with what you did to me, but I no longer think about suicide as an option.

Your wife is just as guilty as you are. She stood up for you, knowing that she was telling lies when I confronted you. She knows your history. She wasn’t there, but she knows I’m telling the truth. You know I’m telling the truth. One day, you will answer for all the women and girls you have hurt and tried to destroy their lives. I will continue telling my story so that other women are warned about you because once a perpetrator, always a perpetrator.

What is Pickle’s Story?

A long, long time ago, in a cucumber patch far far away…… just kidding. 😜😝🙃

I’ve been in EMS for 25 years. But besides the work trauma and bad calls, I’ve dealt with personal trauma too. From childhood trauma and parental abuse to abusive relationships to an abusive marriage. I’ve had miscarriages and have faced plenty of loss and heartbreak.

I had tried numerous times to find something to help, from alcohol to therapists who didn’t know how to handle the traumatic experiences I shared with them to organizations claiming to help first responders, but who in reality did more harm than good. I had gotten to the point of giving up trying and just accepting that my life sucked. I felt like some of these organizations were nothing more than a bandaid and didn’t really help.

March of 2023, I responded to a call at work involving 3 children. I struggled with this call a lot but didn’t know how to let it go. I went to the FDIC in Indianapolis that year to help an organization with their service dogs during the event. While I was there, I met a guy who helps first responders find culturally competent therapists. I didn’t have high expectations but he found a therapist for me.

I didn’t trust her but little did I know how much I would need her. June 16, not even 2 months after I started talking to this therapist, I was sa by the pastor of the church I had been going to. It became the icing on the cake that put me in a deep, dark hole. But I didn’t tell my therapist that. I didn’t tell anyone! Every other therapist said they would call police or send you to the psych ward if you have suicidal thoughts. And I wasn’t about to do that!

My therapist knew I was struggling and she would promise me she wouldn’t call the police or send me to the psych ward if I told her I was in a dark place. But I didn’t believe her, so I continued to struggle on my own. January came and I decided to stop taking my medication but I would still have them filled at the pharmacy so that I could stockpile them, “just in case”. I didn’t have a specific plan or timeframe.

February came and I couldn’t deal with what was in my brain anymore. I broke down and told my therapist exactly where my brain was at. She kept her promise to me and suggested I go to shatterproof in Florida. It took a lot of patience on her part while I freaked out several times along the way. But in a nutshell, shatterproof and my therapist saved my life.

Life now isn’t perfect and I still have my hard days. But I now have a dependable support system, which is also the best support system I’ve ever had. I’ve learned to keep going even when I’m struggling because the next thing might just be what works. I’m doing ketamine treatments and neuro feedback and will soon try TMS therapy. If one thing doesn’t work, try something else. If you are struggling or someone you know is struggling, don’t give up on them or on yourself. There is help out there. You are worth fighting for.

Just One More Day

I’ve been in that deep, dark hole of depression. The one that convinces you that no one in your life truly cares; The one that tells you that you are worthless; The one that figuratively beats you over the head with a 2×4 because all you are is a fuck-up.

I had a hard call at work. I had been sexually assaulted by the pastor of the church I had been attending. I had been learning to set boundaries with my twin sister and parents, but they were refusing to respect those boundaries. The people who had claimed to have been there for me, no longer were. I felt completely and utterly alone.

Except there was a guy I had met at the FDIC in Indianapolis, IN. He had helped me find a culturally competent therapist. I had been talking to her maybe 2 months when the sexual assault happened. I didn’t trust her. I didn’t trust anybody. How could I when a pastor, who claimed to love God and love his congregation, had played mind games with me and then hurt me deeply? It rattled my world!

I felt like I was a shitty paramedic. This call I had responded to unknowingly triggered a call from years ago, a call where another child had died. But I didn’t realize that until I had been talking to a friend when he asked what else it brought up. I felt responsible.

No one could know I was thinking about suicide. I had stopped taking my medication and began stockpiling them “just in case”. I had no specific plan or timeframe. I just knew that I was hurting.

My therapist and I had talked about suicide several times. She had promised me that if I was to ever tell her I was thinking of suicide, she wouldn’t call the police or force me to go to the psych ward. I’ve had people, who claimed to want to help, try these avenues. They only cause more trauma and damage, especially when that person makes up a scenario so that they can be the “hero” in a situation that doesn’t exist.

The holidays are a struggle for me, since everything is seemingly about family, and most of my family wouldn’t care if I disappeared. But January was finally here. I felt like maybe I could breathe again. But the load I carried was still heavy and weighing me down. February arrived and I was falling apart inside. I didn’t know how much longer I could exist and carry this weight. I broke down and told my therapist exactly where my brain was at.

She kept her promise to me and never called police or forced me into the psych ward. This experience, as well as going to Shatterproof (an in-patient program specifically for first responders and military struggling with addiction and/or mental health) helped me learn to trust my therapist. It also saved my life.

Please don’t listen to the darkness. Don’t allow it to convince you that you would be better off not here, or that your family would be better off without you. It will be one of the most difficult things to do, but please, hang on for just one more day.

Please don’t listen to the chaos inside your mind. The trauma that’s been done to you wasn’t your fault. Even if you’ve never told anyone; or maybe you did, and they didn’t believe you. Hang on for just one more day.

Some say that suicide is selfish. In reality, the selfishness falls on the people surrounding you yet oblivious to your struggles and pain. Walking alone takes an inner strength you may not feel you can muster. But please, hang on for just one more day.

As long as you are breathing, there is hope. There is culturally competent help. If you have no one, email christyvanderaa@gmail.com and I will do my best to help. You aren’t alone. Please, hang on for just one more day.

The Pain Behind Coping Mechanisms

Alcohol. Food. Sweets. Work. Cigarettes. Drugs. Vaping. Shopping. The list of coping mechanisms goes on. Some appear more healthy than others, but all are used to cope with life.

Everyone has a story. We’ve all been through something. Some have been through more than others, but what’s bad for you may not be bad for me. What’s hard for me may not be difficult for someone else.

It’s easier to hide the pain of trauma or grief behind the more acceptable coping mechanisms, such as pouring oneself into work and picking up a lot of overtime. Or drinking alcohol socially, but maybe you drink more behind closed doors. Smoking cigarettes or vaping is heavily acceptable.

What does this have to do with being a paramedic? If everyone goes through stuff, what about that patient on your stretcher in front of you? The one you may refer to as a “cockroach” because they won’t die, or a “dope head” because calling them less than makes you feel better about yourself. “I’m better than them because I don’t use/do xyz.”

If you look deep enough, you can see the pain in his eyes. If you listen carefully, you will hear her story. You likely won’t hear them sharing their story verbally, but you can still hear it. Maybe she was raped as a little girl, or even as an adult. Maybe the people who should have believed the truth didn’t. Maybe he was abused as a boy and now his wife also abuses him.

If we have all been through something, why do we judge those who at a particular moment are down in their lives? Why beat them down further? Why don’t we show our patients that we actually give a shit about more than just our paychecks? Many of us first responders have a long way to go when it comes to being respectful and empathetic towards those people stuck in addiction. Yet, we all have unhealthy coping mechanisms in our lives. Just because I’m addicted to Dr.Pepper instead of alcohol doesn’t make me any different or better than the man on the street corner addicted to heroine. Maybe we should become addicted to showing kindness and respect.

This song from Jelly Roll says it perfectly.

https://youtu.be/62vnVl0seMk?si=FcxbQirtQgdLnhOc

If You Could See Inside:

A friend wrote this. I feel this in my soul. With her permission, I posted this.

If you could see the storm within,
The chaos where my thoughts begin,
The highs, the lows, the endless fight,
You’d understand my world’s not right.

I wear a mask, a practiced smile,
It hides the war, though just a while.
Each word you say can cut so deep,
Or lift me high, where dreams don’t weep.

I love too hard, I break too fast,
Clinging to moments I know won’t last.
One look, one tone, and I come undone,
A battle lost before it’s won.

I wish you knew the fear I feel,
The doubt that nothing’s ever real.
Do you love me? Hate me? Will you stay?
These questions haunt me every day.

I’m not the monster you might see,
I’m just a soul who wants to be free.
To feel at peace, to know my worth,
To find some calm within this earth.

But how do I explain the mess inside?
The shifting sands, the changing tide?
I wish you’d see, not turn away,
To hold my hand and simply stay.

I don’t want pity, don’t need your tears,
Just someone to stand beside my fears.
To hear my heart, to understand,
And anchor me with steady hands.

For I am human, flawed but real,
With wounds that time will never heal.
So if you try, look past my pain,
You’ll find the person I hope remains.

-Courtney Anders

I Wish…

I wish I didn’t fall so hard for animals. But then I wouldn’t ever get to know the unconditional love of that animal. I wish I didn’t have to feel these emotions…but you can’t let go of negative emotions without also letting go of positive emotions. It’s all or nothing.

I had to put my kitten Pooh Bear down this morning. I had gone to the emergency vet only to be given a hard and difficult decision to make. He was so sick, to the point I was super surprised he made it through the night. I’ll miss that little booger.

Pooh Bear was an orange kitten who was opinionated and shared his opinion about everything, whether or not you wanted to hear it. He always. had something to say. When I’d get home from my 24 hr shift, he had lots to say about that too! I’ve never had a more talkative kitty.

This afternoon, I tried to sleep for a little bit. Mr. Stripey Pants came in and snuggled up by my head. My two dramatic, black kittens even came in keeping their distance, but at the same time, knowing their human needed luvs. I love how animals know their humans like the back of their paw. They know habits, emotions, our work schedule and pretty much everything about us.

I took yesterday off work as a mental health day and went to a friend’s house, where I took a 5 hour nap on her couch. Then we ate dinner and played games. I’m thankful for those friends, but to be completely honest, I still would have rather stayed home. But I also know that isolation is unhealthy. Getting ready, leaving, and the process of getting there were the most difficult parts. I’m glad I went.

This Is Pickles

It’s comical, in an endearing sort of way, that most of the people in my life call me “Pickles” instead of my actual name. I’m totally 100% ok with this too! It all started several years ago when I joined a motorcycle club. As some of you know, once your prospect period has ended, you are given a “Road Name”. My road name became Pickles. It’s grown from there, to the point if a club was to give me a different road name, I don’t think it would ever measure up to “Pickles”.

Most of my coworkers also call me Pickles. They do it because they think I eat an astronomical amount of pickles. It has nothing to do with keeping a gallon jar of pickles in the fridge at whatever base I’m at for the month, I’m sure. There are many of the newer employees who only know me as Pickles and don’t even know my actual name. When they’ve been scheduled with me, they’ve asked another coworker “who is ………. listed on the schedule?” When they are told “That’s Pickles”, they realize they know who I am. Some of my coworkers will also introduce me to a patient as “Pickles”. This usually results in a smirk or half smile from the patient. Sometimes, the patient will ask about it.

A couple of years ago, I had a new dispatcher do her required ride time with me. It was early morning and I was out in the bay getting ready to do my truck check off. The very first thing she said to me was “Are you who they call Pickles?” Hmmmm maybe! Depends on what you’ve heard! There are also a few firefighters and police officers who also call me Pickles.

I’ve tried different pickle concoctions at work and sometimes will convince my partner that day to try it. I’ve made bacon wrapped pickles wrapped in melted cheese, then dunked in ranch. I’ve also tried pickles and pickle juice with Dr. Pepper. Another drink is mixing Diet Coke with pickle juice and a little bit of juice from pepperoncini peppers. These recipes are all delicious and should be tried by anyone adventurous to give it a whirl.

One day, I’ll put on another pickle shindig. “What’s a shindig?” you ask. It’s like a hootenanny, but smaller. Until then, I’ll keep on eating pickles galore, trying new pickle creations, and enjoy having the nickname of Pickles.

You Are Worth It

As a first responder, it can be incredibly difficult and sometimes complicated to find medical providers who understand not only our culture, but also the job itself and its crazy schedules. For example, during the last 8 months I have had appointments with 6 different psychiatrists in an attempt to get on medication to help me have better sleep. 4 of the 6 couldn’t comprehend why I couldn’t take a medication that requires it to be built up in your system in order for it to work. In other words, they couldn’t understand why I am unable to take sleep medication every night. 1 of the 6 was just downright disrespectful, but that’s another story for another time. I finally felt heard with number 6.

At times, it can be “hush hush” to talk about being on medication as a first responder, medication for anxiety, depression, and/or PTSD. Yet, it shouldn’t be something to be ashamed of. Just as you take medication for high blood pressure or diabetes, if medication is needed to keep you brain healthy and working properly, then do what you need to do and take it. The brain is also an organ, just as the heart and pancreas. Many of my coworkers take medication to treat mental disorders. There are others who don’t, either for personal reasons or maybe they haven’t been on the job long enough to need it. And that’s ok too. But don’t be ashamed for taking care of yourself.

In the middle of a mental health crisis, it isn’t always the best time to find a therapist. It’s better to develop a relationship with one before a bad call or critical event occurs. Then when it does happen, you already know where to turn. Finding a good, culturally competent therapist is complicated too. I’ve made a therapist cry before. Others have said inappropriate things to me that ultimately just showed off their lack of knowledge about the situation. But there are resources that will help a first responder find whatever kind of help they are wanting/needing.

My point in all of this is simply if you are looking for help, keep looking until you find what works. It can easily be discouraging. But don’t give up. Keep fighting and standing up for yourself and speaking your needs. You are worth fighting for. And as long as you are breathing, there is STILL HOPE.

Darkness of Suicide

If people were honest, most everyone has or will have suicide thoughts at one point or another in their life. Having those thoughts doesn’t make one a bad person in any way. It simply means you are human. But there are a lot of people, mental health professionals included, who don’t know how to help a person with these thoughts. Maybe, it’s that they are afraid of the mess that could be uncovered.

One would hope that every mental health professional would know how to handle someone with these thoughts. But sadly, most pass their client off onto police and/or the ER. Even people outside of the mental health field do this. People “get off” by creating a story that doesn’t truly exist, so that they can be the hero in their own fantasy by calling 911 for someone with suicidal thoughts. I’ve had this happen to me numerous times, even to the point of someone thinking of filing a missing persons report. But I can’t control another’s behavior. So, it is what it is.

Why are mental health professions so afraid of truly listening and caring about their client? Why can’t someone be a real friend and sit with their friend in the moment of struggle? Why is so much of society incapable of actually hearing the cry for help from someone they claim they care about? Why are people more concerned about schedules than about having true friendships, but blame their friend for being selfish because suicide was completed? Selfishness falls on the friend for not caring enough to put others before themselves. Being busy is simply an excuse.

I’ve been in the dark hole of depression and suicide where so many are terrified to venture down into. I had stopped taking all of my medication but continued to have them filled every month. I was stockpiling “just in case”. I didn’t have a plan, nor a date. I didn’t want to die, but I was exhausted from the load I carried mentally and emotionally. I was tired of carrying so much pain and trauma, both from personal life and professionally. But I kept dragging one foot in front of the other, and continued to hide behind jokes and a smile. As long as I made people smile, nobody thought anything was wrong.

But she knew. My therapist knew I was in that very dark hole. She had told me multiple times that if I ever told her I was having suicidal thoughts, that she wouldn’t call the police or force me to go to the ER or the psych ward. She told me how she has spent hours on the phone before with someone who was suicidal, until they were over that hump. She treats her client like the human being they are with dignity and respect. So, fighting against every fear I had of her going against her word, I unloaded my thoughts to her. She didn’t freak out. She didn’t call 911. She didn’t call the police or force me to go to the hospital. She did exactly what she had said.

She told me about this program for first responders called Shatterproof and said she wanted me to go inpatient. I was terrified and had all the “reasons” why I couldn’t do this. Eventually, I asked her to give me 2 weeks. I had two major projects I absolutely had to finish and wrap up before I could even consider this. Then, I went.

When I thought my life was over, my life was just beginning. I’ve tried several different retreats/programs all claiming to help first responders with mental health. Some are better than others. But all were severely lacking when it came to their follow up support. I understand that the follow up support is very much whatever you make it. But the commitment from both sides must be there. The support from Shatterproof has been phenomenal, to say the least. And, if I ever need to go back, they would welcome me with open arms. No judgment. Just thankful I came back instead of the alternative.