When Making Breakfast Triggers My PTSD

It's breakfast time on a Monday morning. E is in the most typical phase of his Non-24 cycle and slept 9pm-8am - a great night's rest. My husband was up early with B so I also had a good night's sleep. Now he has headed into work for a few hours and I am with the kids. Everything seems eerily normal. Who is this family all awake together in the daylight?!

B is ready for her second breakfast and E for his first. I suggest pancakes because B had wanted me to make them for dinner the night before, but it hadn't worked out then and she had been flexible, so I had promised we would make them soon. Now she's sitting at the kitchen counter, E at the table, but before B can even answer me, E's eyes darken. His thumb goes in his mouth.

"Waaaa," he voices in a whine that instantly signals to me his dysregulation.

Speaking around his thumb, "Waahh. I don't like pancakes. They're yucky. You have to make me waffles."

Because I suggested pancakes specifically for B, his PDA brain perceived that as an imbalance, putting him beneath her and triggering his threat response. Thus the whiny dysregulation. It's not his fault. It's an autonomic nervous system response. I know this. And yet.

A flash of heat floods through my body. A sweat breaks out. My hands shake. My heart races. A fog of numbness clouds my brain. These are my symptoms of parental C-PTSD. E is only mildly dysregulated, not out of control or even verging on aggression, he's just annoyed that I suggested a breakfast that isn't his particular favourite. And yet.

My body registers his dysregulation as a threat to my safety and begins to panic. A year ago, two years ago, three years ago, this exchange about breakfast would have escalated quickly to violence. I would have likely been hurt. My hair pulled out. My forearms bitten. I would have been hit with a mixing spoon wielded as a weapon before I could stow it out of reach. The kitchen would have been trashed, batter splattered on every surface and pancake ingredients hurled to the floor. My body has not healed enough yet to know that now it will not be hurt and there will be no destruction today. It registers the threat instantly. And yet.

I have come to a place where I quickly notice and name these symptoms as PTSD. I recognize the feelings quickly now and I know what they mean. I don't try and ignore them, I don't feel guilty, I just let them surface with awareness. I keep myself in the present. I continue to go through the motions of making breakfast.

"I want to help you make the pancakes!" B pipes up.

"Of course," I answer.

"Waaa! I want waffles!!"

Oh my god, child.

"I know you want waffles!!" I snap shortly. He hates being yelled at. As does anybody.

E, very sensitive to my energy, sucks his thumb again and hides his head under his lovey at the table. Upset that I yelled at him. This is one of the hardest parts about dealing with parental PTSD on a daily basis; E's behaviour triggers my symptoms, and he is aware of the connection, but I don't want him to internalize the blame. It's just the way life is right now. It's very complicated to explain to him, but I hope he hears me; just like he has healed, I will too, eventually.

I take a deep breath, trying to think of a solution for the breakfast disagreement. Food is very low demand in our household, everyone can eat what they feel like when they are hungry and nothing is ever forced. That's another reason my reaction to E's dysregulation is intense - it's not like anyone is going to force pancakes down his throat. Ever. I will always fix him food that his body wants to eat. Especially with this in mind, E's dysregulation could seem bratty or ungrateful, but I know that if he could do better in that moment, he would. He was reacting from a place of survival just as I was when I yelled.

"Ok, how about we split the batter and do half waffles and half pancakes?" I get out the waffle iron and plug it in alongside the griddle.

"Ok!" E says happily. His irritation has dissipated. He always bounces back so quickly and I am left reeling. "Bring the waffles to my bedroom when they are ready!" He bounces off to his room.

I pass B measured ingredients and she adds them to the bowl, thankfully not making a gigantic mess today.

She and I chat. We make pancakes and waffles. I breathe.

I take the first round of waffles to E.

As I put down the plate I attempt to repair.

"I got upset when you asked for waffles instead of pancakes and it was scary when I yelled at you. I'm sorry. When you said you didn't want pancakes, my body was afraid because it thought it might be hurt. That was my PTSD being triggered. That's why I yelled. It's not your fault. When you were in burnout, I would probably have been hurt if something like that happened, so now my survival brain still thinks I might be and it reacts too fast to keep me safe. But I know I won't be hurt. I love you."

"Can you take the fruit cup off my plate?"

That's the only response I get. That's fine. I know he heard me. These are really complicated feelings for anyone to talk about, and he's just an 8-year-old kid. We will undoubtedly have more opportunities to talk about this again soon.

He eats his waffles, B eats her pancakes. E reemerges from his bedroom and asks if she wants to go play outside with him. "Of course!" is her sweet answer. They go and play in the backyard for a while and I write this because writing calms my nervous system. This is all progress. My children can play safely together outside. I can have a few minutes alone to refocus and regulate. I am aware of what PTSD feels like when my symptoms are triggered and I know I will be able to move past it. I know this is all progress. And yet.

Being more aware of my triggers makes me feel raw and fragile. Instead of being in a survival state of dissociated numbness, I feel it all. Acutely. There is no escape now. I can only face the feelings and keep moving forward, hoping that one day it won't all be so raw. Hoping that one day making breakfast won't trigger my PTSD.