I am Caitie. Welcome to my wrestling match where I will take on despair. And my cPTSD. And my sons.
Myers-Briggs says I’m an INTJ. Enneagram says I’m an 8. You can say hello to the Stalin-Churchill-Hitler standoff perpetually happening in my head.
I’m hell-bent on sticking it out with Jesus, even though I feel frustrated and blame him for a lot of the things I probably shouldn’t.
I’m a little curmudgeonly. I’m not afraid of the F-word, if only because I feel entitled to it after all of my sexual abuse. And if only because it so accurately describes the violance I struggle to find words for.
I ran Hope Gathering (a faith based women’s conference in NYC where we sat together in the tension). I make dinner happen most nights. I’d like a job someday.
Ted and I were made in NYC, but are now trying to make a life in Houston. We’re heartbroken, clinging to shreds of hope that life exists outside the greatest city in the world, and we’re trying to learn to take care of a house. Everyone but Augustine’s hair hates the humidity. The worse it feels outside, the better his hair looks. I struggle with extreme jealousy and my own swamp ass.
I was actually a high school pole vaulter, and am currently into flying trapeze, kickboxing, and a form of Barre 3 where toddlers climb all over you while you try to do the dreaded inch hold bounce thing. But in my head and heart I am a wrestler.
I struggle with the pain in our world and my inability to really do anything about it. And I struggle with the promise that Jesus is enough for it all, and in him-with him, I am enough. Much of that doesn’t make sense to me but I like to explore it.
I am a survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse. And I’ve been sharing my stories as it unfolds because the unspeakable violence needs to be spoken. And speaking about the unspeakable is hard, so let’s borrow each other’s words.
I am an imploder, not an exploder. So I look normal on the outside. If “normal” means that I can have two different strangers in the same week (but on separate occasions) mistake me for a high school drop out and a 40 year old mom.
Marathon’s and the NFL draft are the only things that reliably make me cry. Note: several other things now make me cry because therapy works😳💗😅 but I’m not ready to admit those.
I have a toddler named Augustine Thomas (Uh-GUS-Tin). We call him Gus. And a husband named Ted (T-ED). We call him Ted. We have a new brother named Griffin Theodore whom Augustine used to call Gryffindor. Griffin is so strong that his in-utereo kicks left me constantly bruised. But he smiles a lot, now, and has some rolls so we call him Squish. It will forever drive me toward insanity that Squish and Griff don’t rhyme. Squishin Griffin … just too far off.
I strive to be the World’s Okayest Moms and my motto is “whatever works for your family is best for your family.”
I think I’m really funny. And when my husband repeats the jokes I mutter under my breath everyone thinks he’s really funny.
I can’t spell. Please excuse all the gratuitous spelling mistakes.
My Ted keeps a list of the absentminded things I say, and if you ask him nicely he might read them to you. (Quotes like, “Just because I’m going the wrong way on a one way doesn’t mean I don’t know where I’m going.” I knew where we were. I knew it was one block and that we’d be law abiding again. NBD.)
Sometimes, I sink into grief and anger and denial. New York was my home. It was my love. It was everything I ever wanted: a constant challenge, dense diversity, humbling lifestyle, dearest of dear friends, good drinks and friends who kept up. I don’t think I’ll ever grieve my tears gone over this.