Today as we were standing in line for the school carnival, my son picked up my daughter and then threw her into the floor. She cried, but she was okay.
It looked awful. I know now, how alarming it must have been for him to see that happening to me. The size difference between him and her is comparable to the size difference between myself and my ex. I made sure the baby was okay, and then we left, without attending the carnival, I just could not, I was too upset. My son fell asleep as soon as he was buckled into his car seat, which was five minutes after the incident, so he must have been overloaded and tired. Still not an excuse, PTSD or no, I won’t allow him to get away with it.
My ex used to pick me up by my hair and throw me into the furniture, the floor, whatever. It does not injure much, but my spine is already somewhat crooked, and it often had the after effect of a minor traffic accident. It would take a week or so for the ache to wear off, and I would always hope that there would not be an identical move on me before the ache was gone, as I was not sure my body could take it, when already in recovery from it. I was too busy to put aside time for healing. My abuser did not fully participate in the abuse cycle, there was no honeymoon period for me after an incident.
It could be that my son remembers, and was only playing out what he saw at home, back then. I do not know, even, what she was doing that irritated him. But I do know, that to pick up a human being, just to maximize the impact of their fall when thrown, is horrific, as it is planned. You pick up a person, you touch someone, and then you use the floor to hurt them for you. A punch is less nightmarish than that, and in planning and execution, more impulsive.
I was upset all day. I was also exhausted. I lost my temper twice, and later apologized for raising my voice and excessively scolding the children over their mistakes. The baby was cranky and off schedule, she spent a lot of time in a makeshift bed on the couch. I could not blame her. I thought about it a lot. It has that element of horror in my thoughts, that lets me know it is touching my PTSD. I scarce look at it, and because of what the doctor told me, I am forcing myself to see it, write it, read it. I want to get well. I don’t want to be plagued by this abuse any longer. My thoughts spent some time in other languages immediately after, and I am back in English fully, now.
This is what happens with PTSD, I am sure. You don’t look at the memories, because of the pain. They stay there in the forefront of your mind, unresolved, and any further incidents or “triggers” like what I had today, gets added in. It just snowballs, like a tumor. I am not a doctor, and I still don’t understand it all fully, but that is what it feels like. I even had a pain in my chest. An anxiety, as if I had missed my medication completely. I wonder if I should have taken another. I will ask.
Probably this is why I kept my weight up and cut off my hair when I was with him. I know I felt he couldn’t get to my organs easily if I had a good layer of fat in between his fists and my internal vital organs. It was just the muscles, mostly, and I couldn’t be thrown far, like that. I should have just left earlier than I did, that would have been smarter, instead of keeping the weight on. It was not my fault. No one deserves that.