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 swamp ass.
I was actually a high school pole vaulter, and am currently into flying trapeze and kickboxing. 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.
I have a toddler named Augustine (Uh-Gus-Tin). We call him Gus. And a husband named Ted (T-ED). We call him Ted. We have a new baby named Griffin Theodore whom Augustine called Gryffindor at first. We call him a lot of cutesy baby names he’ll never want me to share.
I strive to be the World’s Okayest Moms and my motto is “whatever works 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.”)