Getting over it

So I've been struggling a great deal lately, over grudge-holding versus forgiveness versus healing versus moving on.

My healing process has been staggered and staged over decades.  Probably the big moment that forged the person I am happened on that infamous fifth grade trip to Baltimore almost a decade ago, described briefly here.

The backdrop:  Nic's aforementioned horrid year at the hands of a teacher who enjoyed torturing him under the guise of 'trying to help him'--the extent to which I was blissfully unaware of until I had a front row seat to the horror that was his life that year.

Additionally, this was the year I had caved to hubby to join the neighborhood association.  He/we naively thought this would help us integrate into the community--instead, people shunned us more (and encouraged their kids to harass us--documented here.  In the fullness of time, it was revealed to be a neighbor's teenage son and his friends. I called the family out a few weeks later, and to this day, the mom gives me her back whenever she sees me---as if I were the one who were in the wrong.)

This moment literally defined the rest of my life. But I digress.

Anyway, the trip.  Nic and I off on our own. The girl who sat next to him in the science museum cringing away from him (I leaned over, smiled sweetly, and said "Oh, honey, don't worry, he's not contagious." She looked mortified. Good.).  The boys who kept singing "Hi, Nic!"  And Nic wanting to run to them, because he was so sure they were his friends. I told him, no, they were not.  Nic telling me I am lying to him. Nic marching over to them and saying "My mom says you're not my friends."  Me trying to pull him away. Him pulling me to the ground in a full on meltdown, everyone looking on.

Thanks all. You created this bullshit.

I ripped that teacher up one side and down the other via email later.

She had the nerve to tell me she wished she had my younger one in her classroom. I had moved heaven and earth to make sure that would never happen.

But that moment, getting pulled to the ground by my frantic, melting down tween in front of an audience--that told me to never, ever expect help from any mortal outside of my trust. 

That also galvanized my determination to create a safe place for my boys. I had done it already, unconsciously, but this made my process very, very conscious. 

The truth is, I will never get over this. I have PTSD from hundreds of thousands of moments like this that started from the time I was 7. But this was my last PTSD-worthy moment, I think, having hit a lifetime cap. But I have plenty of them that reduce me to shaking and tears unexpectedly, in quiet moments while I am enjoying the woods, or making dinner, or riding the train. I wish it were as easy as "getting over it" or "moving on."  I am trying.

But it's hard.