Triggered By A Cookie
TRIGGER WARNING: As always, I share my stories because we’re not alone and we’re not obligated to carry the burden of the things that we have been through in silence.
This post will not contain, what I would consider graphic, details of molestation, but I do discuss grooming and the self-loathing that I experience as an adult. This could be triggering for you. I am giving you permission to skip this story if it might bring up too much for you. If you plan to read it, I ask that you make a plan for what you will do to process the feelings and memories that come up for you.
In the fall of 2015, as I checked in for my therapy session, the artifact I brought with me dominated my thoughts. The brightly colored purple bag felt heavy in my hand. I made sure to keep it zipped as I carefully placed it out of my eye line in the chair next to me.
I kept rehearsing how I was going to explain what I brought to my session today. In the back of my mind, I kept ridiculing myself for the precautions I was taking and the reactions I was having. “Really, you needed a bag?” “What a drama queen!” “Honestly, this happened a hundred years ago.” “You really are crazy aren’t you?” “You didn’t even say no.”
My therapist came around the corner and invited me into her office. As I sat down, I unzipped the bag and pulled out the item. My earlier rehearsal was a complete waste of time. My words and emotions came crashing out into each other, with unrecognizable sobs. My body shook with all the effort it had taken to hold onto this small bag with a large cookie inside. This is one of the most jarring experiences I have had as a person with CPTSD and it was triggered by a cookie.
I felt an electrical mix of dread, shame, and disgust about this cookie. Holding it in my hand with my own skin was too difficult, so I was using the inside of the bag to hold it. I was trying to tell my therapist that I needed her to take this cookie from me but I couldn’t get my breath and words to coordinate.
I was so shaken by my involuntary reaction to a damn cookie. Seeing that cookie brought back all those thoughts and feelings. Like an unclogged sink, suddenly the past was swimming around me. I was forced to look at all of the ugly and disgusting truths that I have never been able to wash away. I was terrified of my inability to shut those thoughts and feelings down.
In the back of my mind, I had a little chuckle over how this scene would have looked to anyone walking by. Here I am, 36 years old, experiencing trauma and CPTSD flashbacks over a large cookie. How did we get here?
A couple of months before this, I was sitting in my office when my secretary walked in. I deeply admire my secretary who is this creative and adventurous person who takes in life. She began thanking me for my recommendation, which caught me off guard because it is so rare that I give her advice.
“Thank you for recommending the Shed (pseudonym), it was delicious,” she said, extending her hand. I completely froze at the mention of the restaurant name and looked at what was now in my hand, an extra-large Shed cookie.
I felt dread and doom spread over me as I tried to control my face and voice. “Wow, thank you. Did you enjoy it? Wonderful! Yes, they do have great food. Their cookies are the best.” My thoughts were racing and I felt exposed. Why in the hell would I recommend this restaurant to her?
I could faintly remember absentmindedly suggesting it the day she said she would be in my hometown. She told me that she was looking for local restaurants to try out during her visit. I had muttered the Shed because it is not a chain and they do have good food. Why would I do that? Why there?
The Shed is famous for its giant cookies and it is these giant cookies that my older brother had used to groom me for sexual molestation. My 17-year-old brother used cookies, toys, and other items to win me over and then repeatedly sexually molest me. He used to work at the Shed, which gave him access to free desserts that he then brought home to me.
Let’s back up. In the early ’80s, my sister and I were placed in a foster home and then adopted by our biological aunt. This aunt, whom I’ve only known as mom, wanted to keep us in our family origin. She had been separated from her alcoholic and abusive mother (my grandma) at a young age, only to experience abuse and sexual trauma while being raised by her grandmother (my great-grandma) in Mississippi. While my beautiful multiracial family is resilient, brave, and hardworking, yet we have had a legacy of passing down trauma to each other.
Among the generational cycles of trauma, abuse, sexual molestation, unwed teen parenthood, and alcoholism, there is a recurring pattern of parent-child separation. This often occurs with the firstborn child. Before I was born, my older brother, my birth mom’s firstborn, was taken by his (and my sister’s biological) father and raised in Arkansas. My adopted mom found him in 1988 and reunited the three of us.
I was 8 years old when he came to live with us. This was one of the happiest moments of my life. At this point, I had had lots of positive experiences with some of my older male cousins who had been so loving and fun (sadly this would change). The idea that I had another sibling made me feel like I was closer to a missing piece of my birth mother.
My sister and I were born and raised in Iowa, so my brother’s Arkansas city life blew our minds. He had experiences and knowledge that we did not, and I loved him for it. My brother talked so fast, using slang I’d never heard before. He was a great athlete and a dancing master. We were moving towards the early ’90s when art, media, and black culture became accessible to us in a way that was not before and he ushered us into this like the Wizard of Oz.
Before he came along, my world revolved around my sister. She was my protector. She was the only person that I could share my vulnerable thoughts and feelings, so naturally, his first step was to divide us. He first started by saying little things to me like that he felt “differently” about me than my sister because they both shared the same biological father and mother. He told me that this made him love her deeper than he loved me. I felt such jealousy and loneliness about this. I felt a division that I had never felt with my sister before.
My sister initially was the one that bought me gifts and treats from her various part-time jobs. She spent the majority of her money on me. I was spoiled by her. I was, and technically still am, her firstborn child. My brother picked up on all of this and seemed to try to outdo her with more gifts.
Our conversations changed by the time I turned 9 years old. Maybe he could feel more love for me? He wondered out loud. I might be prettier, smarter, and a better dancer than my sister after all. I remember him asking me to try on this yellow bikini of my sisters once and the look in his eyes made me feel both a new level of acceptance and uncomfortableness that I hadn’t before.
We were all experiencing varying levels of physical and emotional abuse layered with alcoholism and gambling addictions by our adopted mother at the time. He would say to me that it was not okay for us to be treated the way we were and that he would protect me. That we would run away together if she kept hurting me, hurting us. I felt safe with him. He was the first guy to tell me that I was beautiful and smart. He was the first guy to steal my innocence. Our abusers often are willing to protect us from everything but themselves.
So it started with tickling, play wrestling, and then lingering touches. By the time he progressed further, he had stopped trying to convince me that I was special. He would just summon me to his room after he got home from work. The large cookie lay swaying on his waterbed, waiting for me. I didn’t want the things he offered me anymore, I never wanted any of it, just his love. Thank goodness waterbeds are no longer a trend because I think if I had to sit in one again I would start screaming and never stop.
My brother ran away from home after I turned 10 years old, I was relieved it was over. It was not until I was 14 years old that I confessed all of this to my sister. I knew with certainty that telling my mother or anyone would only make my life worse. I also felt largely responsible and disgusted with myself. I knew what we were doing was wrong, but I didn’t know how to make it stop. That guilt and responsibility sat with me for a long time.
While society begs us to “move on” and “get over” the things they conveniently label as our past, the trauma our bodies recorded during these incidents will not move on from us. One more time, THE TRAUMA WILL NOT MOVE ON FROM US! Especially when we are not allowed to express our thoughts and feelings, our abusers are protected under the guise of “family” and our loved ones are not equipped to deal with the reality of what has happened to us.
So we often lose ourselves trying to “shut it all down” for the sake of others. Our minds stream these moments unexpectedly, uninterrupted, triggering our bodies at random and we pretend that it didn’t happen, to survive.
Thankfully, I have a strong support system and an arsenal of self-care practices to support me in working through these memories as they come up. Here’s the truth; what happened to me was not my fault. It’s not my dark secret to keep, and it’s not my responsibility to make others feel okay about what happened to me.
If you have experienced sexual trauma in any form, I’m sorry that you have had to deal with it. It’s okay if you are still triggered by what happened. It’s okay if you never told anyone. I don’t need to know the details to know that it was not your fault and that it should not have happened. You should have been protected but now you can protect yourself. You can move closer to healing and recover from what happened by forgiving yourself and seeking out professional support. There are numerous programs, services, and support groups dedicated to supporting us, you just need to take that first step in reaching out.
Note: Managing your mental and physical health is a serious and important issue that should be pursued with trusted and competent healthcare professionals. I am not a healthcare professional. I am not a licensed or trained expert. I shared my specific experience and what worked for me, in celebration of my growth.
If you or someone you know has experienced sexual assault, please reach out to The National Sexual Violence Resource Center (NSVRC) to be connected to available state and local resources.
