I missed a day of writing yesterday. I have some excuses, but I’m upset with myself either way. This is my only job, and I’d like to do it well.

I’m feeling closed and tight here with my family. None of my training is working. My nervous system is in a constant state of fight-or-flight when they’re around. I’m grieving a weirdly short but impactful relationship. I’m sensitive in general.

Ahoy matey

Last night, we went to a small music venue at the end of the road where my grandmother lives. It used to be a cafe when she first moved here. Over the years, the ownership changed, and the cafe did too. Today, it has bands every night in the summer, camping, and 7-dollar hotdogs. We stayed until it got dark. The band was led by a Russian man. Their jam was a mix between a clown act and a rock and roll cover band. My mom enjoyed it. The rest of us were ready to leave after the first couple songs in. We met some folks from Boulder who saw my sister sprinting on the side of the road. She was running back to the house to get me shorts. I wore a dress that was too short to dance in. We didn’t end up doing too much dancing anyway, but Vicki got in a good sprint.

On the way home, we were guided by the moonlight. The road is dark and bumpy. Cows stood still along the fences, their large black bodies made me not sure if they were bears. My family was behind me, maybe 50 feet, yelling up at me. They just like to yell. They like to hear the sound of their own voice. They scream “Valerieeeeeeeee” in some sort of song. I keep walking. They start screaming other things. Something about sailors. I hear the words Ahoy Matey, as if they can entertain me enough, maybe I’ll wait up for them. I won’t. It’s dark, and I actually don’t want to be with them in the first place. I can’t get my nervous system to calm down in their presence. I am trying my best, I really am.

My sister starts sprinting toward me. I know she’s going to attack. She always does. I see her get close. She latches on, and we’re spinning around. I’m yelling for her to get off me. She’s still yelling Ahoy, Matey, and some other sailor phrases. It’s objectively funny to anyone around us, but I’m over it. My nervous system is already overloaded with them. I’m vigilant all the time. I can’t get two licks of peace or even just a walk where no one talks for more than 15 seconds. No one has personal space here, physical, mental, or emotional. My attempts at walking ahead failed. My cold demeanor and general dissociation around them failed. I have a 27-year-old in overalls flailing on my back and screaming old-timey sailor phrases while I battle for my sanity.

I start to pee my pants. I didn’t have to go to the bathroom. It’s running down my legs like see, you made me pee my pants, can you stop now? No. There is no safe word in this family. There’s no reprieve. There’s nothing I have ever and can ever say to get them to stop something I don’t like. I kick her. I wait for her to cry to Mom that I hurt her. This is the standard pattern.

They typically like to do things for other people. If they think someone will find something funny, they will do it. If they think it will be a good story, they will likely do it. If they get their own sick enjoyment at the demise of the other, they will still do it. Even if I don’t like it or it’s harmful or toxic. This is a small instance of one of the biggest and longest patterns in my family. They do this only to their immediate family. They are more well-behaved with other people. They know they have to keep up appearances. They know they can let it all hang with Valerie. My Mom is more empathetic and will often step in to say stop, and they might listen, but typically they don’t. If it’s for their own gain or enjoyment, their fun will continue. Like a royal fucking tyrant.

Little ‘t’ trauma

I know that as a friend, I used to do the same thing to the people close to me. I had this group of girlfriends since I was 13, a freshman in high school. We all rowed on the high school crew team. They got all of my narcissism. Bless them for the various versions of Val they had to put up with over the years. They should honestly get a medal of honor. They refined me and loved me. They were the first ones to show me a different way of being. It’s why friends and community have always been so important to me. My chosen family, these girls, understood and loved me when it felt like no one at home did. They came from loving homes that didn’t have this kind of stuff as a norm. That just had space, peace, love, solace. They had homes that were quiet and caring. That didn’t show their ‘love’ through intensity, but through listening, through being with me.

My parents will give some excuse like, Oh, we’re just Italian! Ya, maybe, but so what, it fucking sucks. And we’re from New Jersey, that’s like the worst kind of Italian. The intensity that I come from is a type of little t trauma that other people might handle quite fine. That’s the weird thing about trauma. It doesn’t have to be big (I’ve had plenty of that, too), but it can just be the small things that run a groove in you over and over. And trauma is all unique to the individual. Some people might have been born into this family and not bat an eye at a Vicki attack, they might even love it. They might not have a nervous system that’s easily overwhelmed. But I did. And my family didn’t, and still doesn’t, respect that.

Big T and little t trauma is part of a system of Trauma Informed Care (TIC). TIC is used at all levels of public safety. I first encountered it in the Virginia Governor’s Office as a Governor’s Fellow. "Little t" traumas are smaller, often chronic or repeated, experiences that can still have a significant negative impact on mental health, such as relationship breakups, job loss, or ongoing criticism. Little t is known to undermine self-esteem and lead to anxiety, depression, and difficulties in relationships. I am a poster child for little t.

Doing the work

So yeah, the time with my family is going about as well as I expected it to. My sister made me pee my pants, but I’m taking some good photos. Honestly, I wish I could tie this all up with some enlightened spiritual takeaway, but the truth is, I’m still in it. Still walking 50 feet ahead, still trying not to dissociate, still dodging rogue pirate attacks in the moonlight. I’m still a baby on this journey if I can’t be around my family and lose all my good work.

But what I do know is this: just because something looks like love doesn’t mean it feels like safety. And I’m allowed to want both. This is my work now—learning how to stand in the middle of the chaos and say, “No, actually, this doesn’t work for me,” even if no one listens. Especially when no one listens.

Send me blessings for my safe return from sea,
Val