"Mommy, I'm scared," my daughter says to me as we pull into the church parking lot. I park the mini-van and stare at the waves of heat shimmering from the asphalt.
"Do you still want to go?" I ask.
She looks at me for a long moment and then says, "Yes."
We unload her sleeping bag and suitcase and make our way toward the Check-In table for summer camp. Suddenly, I feel a wave of panic sweep over my body. My hands begin to shake. Oh, no. Not now. I'm having a flashback, but I can't let her see it.
I bow my head and hurry across the lawn, dragging her suitcase behind me. I think I might vomit.
"It's called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder," my therapist told me several years ago, "it might be helpful for you to identify the triggers so that you can manage and avoid those situations."
Crap. I should have known this would be a trigger. But I'm alone. Matt is at home with our other children. I fight back the tsunami of fear that races up my spine.
There's a crushing sensation in my chest. Oh God, help. I'm going to die. I pull the suitcase into the shade. Jewel stops behind me.
"Mommy?"
"Just a minute, Jewel. Let me think."
I breathe. I try to force back the images that are popping into my mind by imagining a steel door coming down across the stage of my mind. But I can't do it fast enough. The images are firing like missiles…
I'm 5 years old at our fundamentalist church camp and I'm gagging on the Lentil Bean Stew lunch. My counselor tells me I'm ungrateful, I'm a sinner and I deserve Hell. She says if I don't eat the whole bowl she will spank me. I'm so homesick that I've lost my appetite. I choke down half the bowl and she doesn't spank me. Instead, my punishment is bread and water for dinner.
"Mommy? We have to Check-In."
Jewel's voice snaps me back to the present moment. I force a smile and move forward.
"Jewel!" a little girl yells and comes running across the grass. "Hi, Jewel! Hi!"
I see the anxiety slip away from Jewel's face and she grins, excitedly. The two of them start chattering about being cabin mates. We check-in and attach the her identification labels to her luggage.
"Mommy, I need to use the restroom before I get on the bus," Jewel says. I take her hand and we walk across the church campus toward the restrooms. I try to stay in the present moment, but the memories are pushy, demanding to break-in…
It's been raining for two days and the campsite bathrooms are shut down. Some of the men have dug ditches and my counselor tells me to squat there. I can't relax enough to pee. She says I'm being rebellious. Finally, I pee. But my bowels have seized up and I don't have a bowel movement for the entire week. My counselor says that for the daughter of a pastor I'm a pretty bad example.
"Jewel, how are you feeling?" I ask, forcefully wrenching my mind back to the present moment.
She laughs, washing her hands at the sink. "Oh, I'm doin' great! We're gonna have so much fun! I know everyone in my cabin! And my counselor is so cool!"
There it is. Hope. I feel it flowing across my mind, washing away my fears. I feel a real laugh bubble up inside. I am free. She is happy. We are safe.
The bus is loaded and the girls get ready to board. Moms and Dads hug their kids. Everyone is laughing, waving.
"See you in a week!" they all say.
And once again, it hits me…
"Family never comes first," my grandfather says. "Serving God comes first." One summer this means I won't see my parents for three weeks. They are traveling by car to my grandfather's church conference thousands of miles away. I cry myself to sleep every night. I'm probably going to Hell because I love my mother more than I love God. My counselor asks me why I keep repenting every night, why I keep asking Jesus into my heart. Isn't it obvious? I'm an ungrateful sinner, a bad example. I deserve nothing but Hell.
"'Bye, Mom!" Jewel says, throwing her arms around my waist. I squeeze her, the tears pricking my eyes.
"Have a great time! I'll see you in a week," I say. She kisses me and then joins her friends. Together, they board the bus. I feel sick again, dizzy. I want to hang onto something. I lean against a nearby tree, looking up. The leaves flutter against a brilliantly blue sky.
The bus roars to life and I remind myself that Jewel wanted to go. She begged to go. She really, really, really wanted this.
"You are not abandoning her," I whisper to myself. "You will not project your fears onto her." Still, I have to fight the urge to jump on the bus and rescue her.
I move away from the tree and walk around the bus, trying to find her face in the window.
I spot her. She's bouncing up and down, laughing and talking with her friends. I call her name and she waves at me, blowing kisses.
The bus rumbles away and some of the parents cheer. I look around at all these normal, well-adjusted, successful parents. They are so relaxed and happy. I envy their normalcy.
Here I am feeling like I've just survived a life-threatening situation and other parents are chatting about going to get frozen yogurt. It's surreal. They have no idea how much energy (and courage?) it took for me to complete this simple task of sending my daughter off to summer camp. And that's OK. I don't want them to suspect a thing.
One of my goals has been to achieve a rigorous normalcy. No-one needs to know that I just fought a private battle. And won! Yay me.
I walk to my car and get inside. I take a deep breath. I'm not going to Hell. God loves me. I am OK. In the rearview mirror, I catch myself smiling.
And then I go buy myself a milkshake.
Just like a normal person.
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