It’s been a while since I talked about mold poisoning on this blog. You see — and maybe this gives you hope — the poisoning part of it doesn’t affect me as much as it did before. But the thing is, the effects of what we’ve been through linger with us, even years later.
I’ve mentioned it briefly a few times, and I taught a Diamonds Conference session on navigating medical PTSD. But I didn’t share a whole lot of my process as I navigated the trauma of the years of chronic illness. When I was experiencing the trauma and working through the memories, it was too close to the surface. Too raw, too personal.
But I know that so many of you have similar experiences. And I want you to know that you aren’t alone. And perhaps I’ll do a whole blog series on the topic.
Lately, I’ve been in the process of moving. It’s exciting! There were times I never thought I’d be able to live on my own, or move away from my doctor, or work a normal job. I assumed that dating and marriage were out of the question. I had to let go of independence and of my dreams of ministry because of my health — or lack thereof.
And in this season of life, I’m getting those things back. Yet, I’m struggling. I had a panic attack in church this week.
When I was fourteen, we went to the doctor one day, and I got diagnosed with mold poisoning. That morning, I’d woken up at home like any normal day. But I never went home that night, or ever again. Because our family home was the place where there was toxic black mold growing in the walls.
Then came the months of bouncing around between whoever would take us in. We didn’t know where we’d be sleeping next week — or that night. My siblings and I joked about how quickly we could completely pack and unpack our entire family of five. (We got it to thirty minutes, beds, kitchen, everything.)
During that season, Jesus’ words in Luke 9 really resonated, “Foxes have dens and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head.” God was our home, and He didn’t promise us one here on earth.
We were living in survival mode, and so while it was tough, we kept taking one step at a time. Because my liver was so messed up, even if we found a place to live, it kept making me sick and sicker. No place to go, no shelter, no belonging. But yet I had joy and peace. God was in control. I certainly was not. Only now does the grief and trauma truly hit.
You see, we were designed to have a place to call home. Not on this earth, not ultimately. Nothing, I think, will ever truly be home here for me. But we were designed to have a place to belong. We were designed for a perfect garden. We were designed for eternity with God, our Father.
Eventually, though, God gave us a physical, now-home. It was mold and chemical safe. It didn’t make me sick. He provided financially in miraculous ways. We had a roof over our heads. A place to heal and grow and do battle. (We did all three and more.) It was my sanctuary. When every other place I tried to go made me sick, this place was protected from the outside germs, toxins, and mold exposure. I was safe physically.
It has been a battleground. I have fought for my life here in this home. I have experienced trauma and near-death in this home. I have experienced healing and growth and joy here in this home.
And now . . . it is time to leave it.
And now . . . the pain comes. The fear comes. The grief. The panic attacks.
How can I leave this sanctuary? My body and subconscious cry, “Will we survive?” I know I will. I have no reason not to. But this is the place that helped keep me alive. This is the one place that didn’t make me sick. And while I processed trauma in the past, I think there were so many other, bigger traumas that I didn’t make it back that far in my processing.
Friend, I want you to know that you are not alone. That what you have been through is hard and real, and it might make new adventures — even good things — hard. So friend, take time to process. To grieve. Get help to work through the trauma you have been through. And never belittle your own experience. Okay?
You are not crazy and you’re not alone.
God is the same God who brought you through that season. Remember what He has done. Remember who He is. And remember that your past is not necessarily your present reality. But that your past affects your present reality, and that is valid. It is necessary to grieve. To feel. To process. And just because you experienced worse doesn’t mean that the “easier” traumas aren’t worth working through.
My heart goes out to you, warrior.