AB Gracey

      The Journey of a Thousand Miles begins with a single step, so says Lao Tzu. Trauma recovery is no different. If our trauma occurred over years and years of emotional or verbal abuse, we cannot undo the harm, heal the pain, or recover overnight. It takes months to understand, to process, and to heal.     This blog is dedicated to those whose pain is more unhidden than most, whose trauma is not a near death experience that all would "aha" about and "you're quite the survivor." No. This blog is for those whose trauma came from psychopaths and narcissists, from people who didn't acknowledge or attend to their own trauma, and so turned and traumatized others. Those are the  hidden traumas, where too often the abuser is believed before the abused. Then the abused gets used to believing he/she is the one at fault, the one not good enough, the one who deserved to be overlooked and ignored.     I dedicate this blog, and eventually...

     Some people lose their parents through death, some through Alzheimer’s, and some through a brutal separation caused by war or violence. I lost Mom and Dad through religion. It happened after we moved to Mexico, New York in 1965. The  purchased of the apple orchard opened up new adventures for us kids. Our house stood on top of a hill (thus the term, “house on the hill”), which offered us beautiful views of the orchard, the river, and the sunrises and sunsets. I rode Blacky all over the property, and though I didn’t love working the orchard year-round, I became accustomed to it. Most of our time outdoors was spent exploring our property or doing the many daily chores. Life seemed the best ever.       With so much to keep us occupied, I never noticed the change between my parents. It started with little things. First, we began praying the rosary nightly . Then we began attending daily Mass during Lent, and my brother became an altar server. In ...

           "The blinds were slanted to keep the afternoon sun from shining on my client’s face. The grey room with a blue accent wall was spacious by therapy room standards, a twelve by thirteen easily accommodating the two of us as well as a couch with side tables holding Kleenex boxes and my desk in the corner. It was quiet except for the voice of my client. I listened with head tilted to one side as I rocked in my glider. It was another client who had suffered complex trauma. The client felt helpless, easily hurt and afraid to make friends for fear of betrayal.  “I’m twenty-six,” she lamented. “I never got to go to college because I ran away from home to live with my boyfriend before I even finished high school. I didn’t realize how abusive he was until later, after we were too involved. By then it was hard to break it off. I had no friends and was cut off from my family. I stayed longer than I should have.” A tear escaped down her cheek as she stop...