It’s been raining a lot here in Skokie, the village I now call home since we moved a few minutes north of Chicago’s north side to gain more space and a backyard for gardening.
And by raining, I mean, a lot. First there was a freak blizzard, which dumped a ton of precip on us and then all melted the next day, soaking the ground. Then, it’s rained almost every day since, and apparently overnight last night, monsooned. That’s why my backyard looks like this today:

Those wooden boxes on the right with the stone base are going to be my garden, and you can see the water has risen well into that area. (But the wood is made for this, so it should hold up, at least for a few years.) And that patch in the center is where we’re amending the grass, so I guess it’s good that the rain is fueling those little seeds.
But that water. All the water. It’s effing horrifying.
See, I have lingering PTSD symptoms from a traumatic storm experience more than a decade ago.
At that time, I lived in a condo with my first husband. On a normal day in August, I was working in my home office when my friend Dee called to say she had just heard a tornado warning for my neighborhood. “What? That’s cra-” was all I got out before the lights all went out, the phone died, my ears popped, my stomach flipped, and then the sound of a freight train pummeled me. I ducked and ran for a closet, only to find it was too shallow for me. I found another closet and secured myself, holding the doorknob as tightly as I could. Minutes passed. Things quieted. I peeked out. It didn’t look so bad, some minor damage in our bedroom but nothing big.
I ventured into the back of the condo, and — I can only describe it as a waterfall. Water poured out of every corner joint in every room. The kitchen addition built by a rehabber, was pouring rain into our kitchen and dining room. Debris was everywhere.
My brain went upside down. I decided I could just mop up the water with linens, and gathered everything in the house to line the walls and floors. I called my then-husband but all the lines were busy. I panicked. I sobbed. I gripped my fists. I kept hunting for linens.
Then I looked outside and saw the devastation. Our patio furniture: Twisted like a pretzel. A car in the parking lot had a telephone pole through its windshield. Commercial air conditioner units had been tossed around like a kid throws Legos. (They found some of ours blocks away in the middle of Lake Shore Drive.)
There was nothing I could do. And my brain? It fried itself. It just shorted out. We had been hit by a microburst, a somewhat rare weather phenomenon (especially in the City of Chicago) and the roof of our condo building had been peeled back like the lid of a sardine can, so as it rained over the next 24 hours, our entire building flooded.
The next few months were a blur of insurance claims, rebuilding, sleeping at a friend’s house for weeks, help from many people, many therapy appointments, and medication. Lots of medication.
Today, my PTSD is well-controlled. I still freak out a little if a toilet overflows, or if I spill a lot of water in the kitchen, or if there’s a thunderstorm. I have lots of tools to manage my symptoms. PTSD is not something that ever fully goes away; instead, I’ve learned a ton of coping techniques.

But dang, y’all. This flooding in my backyward is a mega-trigger today.
Medication, meditation, and the new addition of a water pump to try to speed the drainage are barely touching my panic. Even knowing what I know — that this yard floods sometimes, and that it never reaches the house, and that it always drains away, and that our house is safe — those logical, factual statements aren’t doing much.
I wanted to share all of this because I think it’s important to remember that we might do everything “right” about our illness(es) and still have symptoms. Brains are, especially, unusual things that have a mind of their own, and they don’t necessarily listen to our well-reasoned ideas. I want to remind myself of that, too. That’s one of my coping skills.
I’m doing what I can. I have the water pump going strong, I bought galoshes so I can walk about later today and clear debris that might be exacerbating things. I took medication. I’m about to meditate. We’ve checked all of our windows and doorways to confirm that nothing’s leaking in. (I am resisting the urge to check them over and over and over, as I did for years after my initial triggering event. (Sometimes, I would wake up in the middle of the night and just stare at a toilet for hours, hoping it wouldn’t flood. It was debilitating.)
And I’m gonna get outta here. I have some self-care planned today, and my hope is that when I get home, a lot of the water will have drained. The handyman who’s supposed to come Friday to finish building my garden? He’ll likely have some tips too. And the rain? It will drain. And the pump? It’s chugging along.
So that’s my day. As I mentioned a few days ago, I’m starting to get back into regularly blogging, so I hope this piece is affirming and helpful. Will you share some feedback and support in the comments? It would mean the world to me — thanks.
I have PTSD as well. I understand what it can do. I am sure you don’t need any well-meaning but not terribly helpful advice so I will just say you are not alone.
thanks cathy! that means a lot to me. i’m sorry you have it, too. hugs!
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Love you!!!! Hang in there and thanks for sharing this.
thanks babe! hugs!
Oh, Jenni, that must feel awful. I totally get it. I was in a tornado, too, in Memphis. It wasnât nearly as bad as your experience, but for several years after, I made my hubby drive with me to an underground parking garage whenever the blasted siren went off. And it goes off a lot in Memphis. Not convenient in the middle of the night! One of the many reasons we moved up north! PTSD truly is awful to live with. Just breathe. It will be okay. (I used, âIâm okay now,â minute by minute to calm down.)
thanks, ann. i’m sorry you had to experience that! breathing for sure. big hugs!
I lived in Illinois until I was in my mid-twenties. Our back yard and basement flooded often. Until a shut off valve was installed, we also had sewage in the basement(not pretty). I remember helping bale water to keep the furnace dry on more than one occasion. I currently live on the top of a mountain in the southern Ozark’s. There is a lot to be said for no basement…until tornados show up…..that is another subject.
oh sue! that is intense. i’m glad you get to live in a different place and not experience that now – but it’s true, no matter we are, we’re always going to have SOMETHING. đ hugs!
Thank you for sharing this- it helps those of us with PTSD and the residual thought patterns, worries, and behaviors to hear that we are not alone. That weâre not the only ones who know our thoughts arenât rational but canât always stop. Iâm sorry you had to go through this and hope things resolve soon. Even if they are slow in doing so, youâre handling it great!
thank you, mary. it helps me to hear that. i’m sorry you’ve had to experience it as well – it’s overwhelming at times. but you are right, slow is ok! hugs hugs!
Sending gentle hugs and love your way. I can see how that much water would be triggering. Be gentle with yourself.
thank you! hugs back.
You Are Among Good and Understanding Company <3 I Feel Like I Walk Around and Suddenly Step On A Bomb!! ALL THE LIGHTS IN MY BRAIN GO OUT~
ah i really relate to that! sorry you have to deal with it, too. big hugs!
I am so sorry for all the water and for it triggering you. I totally relate to how PTSD never really goes away and the OCD that comes with it. Praying for you.
thanks babe. i appreciate that. big hugs!
Thanks for sharing the real – ness of it all. Do you realize how many of us out here you speak to with similar feelings? You are a gift. â¤ď¸
aw, thanks beth! i really appreciate that. it helps when i hear from people. that reminds me how important this work is. hugs!
OMG yes.
I do not have it as bad as you (and really hang in there, you can get through it!).
I am waiting for a surgery date, for a variety of reasons this is taking months. So in the mean time I am horrified with my experience in 2005 when this happened last time. And the nightmares about pain management and neck IVs. I have had some things go very wrong in the past, and while I know that they have done better and will do better, until I hear it from the doctor involved, I am freaking out.
There is not much one can do, but when you wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat it is just awful in that moment and no amount of logic will fix it.
oh babe, thank you – and i am sending you much peace. that’s right – it’s not about logic. the brain plays all kinds of weird games on its own. sending you love!
Oh wow! I remember that microburst: it flooded our basement at our last house. Storms to this day still make nervess we srengojng to flood again. I had no idea you were so close to the crazy part of that storm. I hope your flooding goes down. I left town Monday and we had pooling water in our backyard at the time were a bunch of yards coming verge. My husband has been home and has t mentioned anything. But yes! It looks like there a bit of a break in the rain. I hope we get to sew together soon!!!
oy! i’m sorry you had to experience that, too. rough stuff. i hope you don’t have anything like that again – my water went up today but is going down again. i’m hopeful!
As a long-time ChronicBabe follower, I remember reading your original accounts of the microburst, the devastation inflicted on your home, the complete disruption of your life, and the process of moving forward. I’m so sorry the recent flooding has caused your PTSD to rear its ugly head!
It takes courage to write about a traumatic experience; it takes even more courage to make that writing public. Thank you for using your ordeal and its aftermath to let others know that PTSD isn’t limited to veterans of war and domestic abuse survivors.
Thanks so much for sharing your story and your thoughts. <3 Also, this part… "I wanted to share all of this because I think itâs important to remember that we might do everything ârightâ about our illness(es) and still have symptoms." THIS is exactly what I needed to hear tonight. I try so hard to take care of my health and the symptoms still happen and I am unable to do the things I want and the grief hits again. Thank you for reminding me that I am not alone and for encouraging my heart. <3
yay julie! i’m so glad this resonated for you. big hugs!
Hey Jenni, this “spring” has been so difficult for sure. Thank you from me too for saying out loud that you can do the right things and still have symptoms. I am feeling that right now. Its so hard when you’re crying daily, but still trying to do your best. It is so easy to feel incapable, depressed and/or isolated. Best wishes to everyone for continued perseverance. Together, we all got this – whatever it may be.
oh babe, yes – i hear that and understand it so well. i’m sorry that you’re struggling! i hope you have a solid team to help you? you are not incapable – you’re in the thick of it, though. many hugs!
<3 <3 <3 <3