A World Full of Threats

Every one manufactured by the trauma machine spinning in my head and heart

It’s been three hundred forty-two days since Chloe’s death. And five thousand thirty-seven days since Cindy’s. I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD and at times, it really fucking sucks.

Picture yourself at a movie theatre, hoping to enjoy a night out. The lights are dim. Your seat is reclined. The theatre is half-full and everyone is making normal theatre noises before the movie starts. Popcorn bags are rustling, people are whispering to themselves and there’s occasional quiet laughter.

It’s all completely normal and innocuous. There’s no cause for concern…unless you’re me. If you do happen to be me, here’s what you’d experience: Every sound is deafening. The darkness is oppressive. Every person and every noise is a potential conflict waiting to happen.

The screaming narrative, repeated for every person in the movie goes something like this: “What if they don’t shut the fuck up? What if they just keep talking and making noise? What if they ruin the movie? Then I’m going to have to go confront them about it. What’s going to happen if they tell me to fuck off? What am I going to do then? There’s no way I’m going to tolerate that? Am I going to have to escalate things? Will I even be able to control myself enough to walk away?”

After twenty minutes of not paying attention to the movie you’d realize you hadn’t heard more than two words of it. You’re surrounded by potential threats. You’d start sweating. You’d want to crawl out of your fucking skin. Before long you’d have to get the hell out of there. No movie is worth this level of emotional turmoil. Nothing is.

In other words, you’ll be finishing Napoleon in the comfort and safety of your own home.

That’s one way PTSD plays out for me. Just one of the ways.

Ripping Off the Bandaid

Cindy died a long time ago. I had grieved and healed from her death and the chaotically painful five years leading up to it. I’d forgiven her and myself for the things we said and did. I’d often go months without thinking about her. I’d cry every few years when visiting her grave but in a way that felt natural and healthy

Then Chloe died. I’m close to ready to talk more about the circumstances of her death. Just not quite yet. Suffice it to say, Chloe’s life and death were inexorably linked to Cindy’s life and death. Cindy’s suicide shattered Chloe’s soul in a way that she was never able to recover from. The depth of her hurt influenced so much of her life and ultimately led to her death.

And I think that’s what ripped the bandaid off the wound I thought had healed. The pain from Cindy’s life and death were safely ensconced in a container of love, peace and acceptance and had lost their power over me. Until Chloe’s death smashed the container and held the pain in front of my face.

The Invisible Thread Connecting Today with Yesterday

The death of a wife is traumatic. The death of a child is devastating. The death of a child due to the death of a wife is PTSD. At least it is for me.

I sometimes wonder what would be different if Chloe’s death were completely random. Perhaps nothing would be different. Or maybe something. Or possibly everything.

But it wasn’t random. The repercussions of Cindy’s suicide in 2010 didn’t end that year. The aftermath of Cindy existing as a heavily medicated, detached shadow of herself didn’t stop in 2010 either. Nor did the effects of her prolonged absences from our children's lives come to an end in that year.

I find myself forced to reexamine what happened all those years ago in a new light. What happened to Cindy didn’t just happen to Cindy. It happened to all of us. It planted the seeds of a malignant tree whose roots started strangling the peace from Chloe’s soul.

In 2006 I watched as Cindy had her belt and shoelaces taken from her. One of my most vivid memories from that time is the sound of the heavy metal door of the psych ward locking Cindy in and locking me out. At the time I still clung to the hope that Cindy would walk out of there healed with her head held high. That’s not what happened.

And that was only one painful experience of many. So, so many.

Now, revisiting those moments, I see them not as isolated incidents but as chapters in an ongoing narrative. These experiences form a story of intergenerational trauma, a legacy of pain passed down from one generation to the next.

The idea that what happened all those years ago ultimately led to Chloe’s death is a hard fucking thing to wrap my head and heart around. I sometimes picture standing on a set of railroad tracks on a beautiful day with my arm around Chloe. It’s a beautiful day and we’re admiring the sunset as we look out to the horizon.

And we’re oblivious to the fact that a runaway train that left the station generations ago is bearing down on us from behind. And nothing can fucking stop it. I certainly couldn’t. Maybe another dad could have stopped it. Maybe it was never meant to be stopped in the first place.

Was Anything Real?

When you lose a child, it’s a natural (and painful) to reflect on what you might have done differently. What did I miss? What mistakes did I make? The sad truth is you’ll find countless things.

And it doesn’t end there. I now reassess the past through a different lens. Cindy’s battle with bulimia in the early 90s? A direct line to Chloe’s death three decades later. The miraculous birth of our first daughter? An overture to unimaginable pain. The joyful, precious moments with my older daughter? All overshadowed by the unseen, approaching freight train of fate. Why couldn’t I see how close it was? Why couldn’t I see it at all?

It’s time to stop this train so it never hurts anyone again. And I will stop it.

The Cup Overfloweth

The Fire Captain, who led the response at the scene of Chloe’s accident, described PTSD to me in an analogy that really resonated with me: Imagine it as a bucket where every traumatic event, big or small, adds water. In some cases, it only takes a single incident to make the bucket overflow. In others, it's a gradual accumulation of many. We often don’t see how full our bucket is getting. Until it overflows.

I thought mine was empty until I lost Chloe. Maybe her death alone filled it and tipped it over. Or maybe it was already half full. Who knows? What I do know is that my bucket has overflowed. I’ve been working hard at draining the fucking thing. And I will continue to.

In the meantime, I see threats everywhere. Socializing, which I used to love, is completely draining. I hate being around crowds of people. And when I say crowds, I mean more than one person. The desire to escape the pain is overwhelming at times. Even the warmth of the summer sun, which used to be comforting, now feels unbearably oppressive.

This is the first time in my life I haven’t felt fully in control of my mental health. I feel blessed to have made it fifty years.

But there are a hell of a lot of things that are in my control. I have the power to continue to choose sobriety. I have the power to see my therapist and do the work that’s required to heal. I have the power to sit with my almost unbearable emotions. I have the power to talk to my incredible wife and my friends. I have the power to continue to try to find ways to help others as I navigate this journey.

Finding peace again requires me to relinquish what’s uncontrollable and focus my energy, attention and love on what I can control. It’s a daily practice of reminding myself to know the difference between the two.

In the end, this journey with PTSD is just one part of my larger story. It's a tough and relentless road, no doubt, but I won’t allow it to take over my life. Every day, I'm learning to strike a balance — acknowledging the scars that trauma has left while not letting them define me.

I can't change the past, and I won’t try. I can’t predict the future either, but what I can do is face each day with intention and determination. I have the power to choose sobriety, to continue working with my therapist, to sit through the toughest emotions, and to lean on my wife and friends when the going gets tough. It's a daily practice of finding reminding myself what’s in my control and letting go of what isn’t.

Yes, PTSD is a part of my life right now, but it's not the whole of it. It won't define me. I'll keep moving forward, sometimes taking a knee, but always getting back up. Because that's what life is about — navigating through the dark times while remaining optmistic of brighter days ahead. We can do this. Together.

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I’ve learned something else through this experience—most people want to help when someone is grieving or struggling, but they don’t always know how.

We say things meant to comfort—but they hurt.
We try to help—but we make people feel more alone.
We want to do the right thing—but we get it wrong.

I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it.

So I put together a simple program, and an interactive coach, to help you learn and master Emotional Validation. I think it’s the most important relationship skill none of us are ever taught. A few hours and a few bucks will change every relationship in your life for the better.