Recklessly Alive
“After years of childhood struggle, my brain developed into a minefield ready to explode without warning. Even as an adult, ongoing symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder can unexpectedly detonate… ”
After reading this passage, I dog-eared the page, set the book down, and took a startled breath.
Whoa.
Is THAT what this is?
I knew my explosions were tied to the past, but I figured they were part of a violent and persistent ancestral link to angry Scandinavians who passed their rage through our lineage like a genetic disease I had all the markers for. I didn’t think I exploded at my husband and son and any customer service support person at the end of my phone line because my own childhood trauma literally created a minefield in my brain.
The above passage in Sam Eaton’s “Recklessly Alive” isn’t the only place where this book made me stop and consider my own past and pain. Unlike Sam, I didn’t write letters, set a date, and make actual plans to leave this earth. I have lived in such unimaginable pain—both physical and emotional—that I knew I would rather not be alive than live that way forever. It was that realization—that I had hit bottom and something, ANYTHING, had to change—that was the catalyst for living differently, embarking on a radical self-healing journey, and changing my entire outlook on life.
I still explode sometimes though.
Instead of beating myself up over something I thought I should be better at managing at this point, I am now aware of the minefields and why they are there, and I am doing the work to diffuse each and every one…sometimes mid-detonation.
This book is…wonderful. And hard. I felt like I grew up beside Sam in his childhood hell. I wanted to hug the little boy who never felt like he was worth a damn—was never TOLD he was worth a damn—and say that I see you, I feel you, and you are everything. I want the frightened girl crying upstairs while the battles ensued below, praying for the night to end so I could go to school and escape the terror, to curl up under the couch where Sam went to feel safe so we could tell each other that it was going to get better someday and maybe feel a little less alone.
And if I could go back to the Rise Up conference where Sam told his story, I wouldn’t just thank him for sharing his experiences, I’d ask if I could give him a hug and tell him not to stop doing what he’s doing, because no one can help others turn from suicide to live Recklessly Alive like the man who has left his dark room of depression and done it himself.