I have been told “God will not give you more than you can handle”; what exactly is that supposed to mean? More than I can handle before I go stark raving crazy? More than I can handle before I become a completely different person? More than I can handle before I just shut down completely and lose my will to live? Apparently God and I have two different opinions on how much I can handle.

My immediate reaction when my mom called to tell me my Dad had died was to say I would be right there. I have always felt the need to take care of everyone. I do not know why, maybe because I grew up in an alcoholic home or because I am the oldest. Whatever the reason, I feel comfortable jumping in and taking charge. (My family says I am bossy, I say I have leadership skills.) Dustie and I had not yet unpacked from our interrupted trip to San Antonio so we tossed our suitcases into the car and started the 2 hour drive west to Abilene.

We stopped at a drive-thru in Copperas Cove to buy dinner on our way out of town. As we waited for our order I started having problems breathing. I tried to stay calm, Dustie was sitting in the passenger seat next to me and I did not want to scare her. I felt like the darkness outside of the car was trying to reach in and smother me. I paid for our meals and pulled into a parking spot. My heart was racing, my hands were shaking-I knew if we started that drive, something terrible would happen. I was in no condition to drive to Abilene, after dark, on a small two lane highway with towns few and far between.  I told Dustie I was not going to be able to make the drive. I felt like such a failure-as if I was letting her and the rest of my family down.  After all, how hard was it to drive two hours to be with my family? We needed each other at a time like this. Dustie held my hand and told me it would be okay if we did not go. Sometimes a child can see things more clearly than an adult. Dustie and I talked about this night a few weeks ago when I first started this blog. She said she feels like that was the night that she grew up. The night she, as a child, had to tell her parent it was okay not to go. It breaks my heart that she felt like she needed to take care of me but I am thankful she did. I turned the car around and Dustie and I went back to Fort Hood. [bctt tweet="I dreaded the thought of going home to an empty house"]I dreaded the thought of going home to a silent, empty house-a house in mourning, but I had no strength to go anywhere else. Once again we pulled in to the driveway and unloaded the car.

As I unlocked the door and we walked across the threshold I wondered how a house could feel so desolate. Our house was always filled with children running in and out-laughing and yelling, the television chattering incessantly in the background, my music playing in the kitchen and Tommy making some kind of repetitive noise that drove me crazy. It did not matter which city we lived in or what four walls held our belongings; our home was filled with love and laughter. Our little corner of the world was not perfect. Tommy and I argued just like any other married couple, Dakota and Dustie would find every excuse possible not to do their chores or forget their homework and we barely had enough money to pay the bills; but when we walked in the door at the end of the day, we knew we were home. Now, Tommy had life threatening injuries, my Dad was dead, my family was mourning without me and my son was 4 hours away from me grieving the loss of a beloved grandparent.  I felt like my life was so out of control. I needed to be with my husband, I needed to be with my son, I needed to be with my family and instead I sat there in our empty house paralyzed with fear, afraid to go anywhere. I wanted nothing more than to climb into our bed, pull the covers over my head and pray this was nothing more than a horrible nightmare; but there was a beautiful, blue-eyed little girl who needed her Mommy to be strong. As hard as it was for me to wrap my adult mind around what was happening to us, it was even harder for my precious little girl. So, by the grace of God, I managed to regain my strength and focus so I could take care of my family.

The night my dad died was the night I was at my lowest. I really felt as if I could not take anymore, I had no fight left in me. I just wanted to give up. Sometimes I feel like a part of me died that night-the part that would allow people to get close to me. It is a constant struggle, if I let people get to close to me something may happen to them and I might be hurt again. Do I really want to take the risk?

I soon started to feel like a different person. I knew something was wrong with me, but I did not know what. I thought it was just the stress from everything that had happened. [bctt tweet="I did not know there was a name for the fear, anger and detachment I was feeling."]I did not know there was a name for the fear, anger and detachment I was feeling. Now I know the night my dad died my brain finally had more than it could take and I started my battle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It would take 7 years, countless trips to the emergency room and hours of research on the internet before I would be properly diagnosed.