How I Gave up Hate to Recreate Myself

alt="Biljana Hutchinson recreation"


A friend of mine asked me once, ‘Don’t you hate?’ and I said, ‘No.’ I gave up hate. I had to. It was the only reasonable thing for me to do to raise my children as decent human beings. The only sensible thing for me to do to be able to raise my children as decent human beings.

I hated. I did, with passion everything that was connected in any sense with the place where the attack happened. The country, its people, its food, mementoes, the memories, I hated it all. Dozens of scarves that I bought there, rugs, books, I gave away almost all of them. I believed that I’d never wear or use them again and I hadn’t, for a long while.


Initially, I was busy with grief, guilt and rage.


The time stopped. My little universe was shattered into thousands of pieces, and I was in a complete dark. Dungeon. Pitch-black all over and all I could do was feel my way around searching for something. A light, a twinkle of hope that somehow I was just stuck in a terrible nightmare and that I needed to wake up. Somebody had to wake me up. I WILL wake up! There is no other way!

Then, I went through the surgery. It gave me the initial push to start moving again and reach out of the dungeon. I went through the physical recovery, physiotherapy and I despised it because I had to be among other people, speak to them, answer their questions, pretend that I cared about what they said when I didn’t.

I hated it all, and I hated myself.


The time passed. Life started happening again.


alt= Biljana Hutchinson Embryo
Farewell gift from a family friend before we moved back to the UK. ‘Embryo’ to me.


I travelled, started a relationship and joined my efforts in recovery with my soon to be husband. We were there for each other in every way. Able to understand and support one another, to leave each other in peace and silence when we needed it. I’m the silent type while my husband is a talker. It was a bit of an awkward match at the beginning, mainly because I had the notorious passive-aggressive approach to personal relationship matters for most of my life. It took me a terrorist attack to break that cycle too. (Yup, you got it, I learn the hard way).

Anyway, my soon to be husband and I had a lot more going for us, so the differences between silent vs talkative type were not a dealbreaker. Our relationship was the front line against the cycles of misery, rage and hate that both of us created for ourselves respectively.


‘I will permit no man to narrow and degrade my soul by making me hate him.’ – Booker T. Washington


I am not a hater. My parents didn’t raise me that way. Hate is unnatural and uncomfortable feeling for me.  Yet, I felt it and wore it without thinking of it too much. What burst the hate bubble was a week of another emotional earthquake that shook me only eight months after the attack.

We set a date for our wedding, and although I hadn’t had a great relationship with my dad, I was still excited to share the news with him. I knew the news would make him happy and it did. Dad started making plans straight away. Two days later, he called me back, but I missed his call. Another two days and my soon to be husband and I found out I was pregnant with our first child. The following morning my dad passed away. I never returned his call.

Although the relationship I had with my dad was weak and shaky as we rarely saw each other and we didn’t really talk much, certainly it was far from hate. The news I received was sudden, unexpected and devastating and one thing that it did was deepen my feeling of guilt.

All I could think of were good memories I had with my dad growing up. The thick snow on the ground, big beautiful snowflakes quietly falling while my dad is pulling the sledge explaining the nature to me. How we collected conkers together for my school assignment while dad talked about chestnut trees and answered my questions about anything and everything. How we chose books to buy and talked about them after reading them together…

As a contrast, a memory of us sitting on the roof during the attack became a constant. We were sweating, sitting on the tiled floor in the blood puddle, listening to the noise of bullets and RPGs. A helicopter that was sent to extract us had to pull out because the shooting in and around the house intensified. We could only wait as we had in the previous few hours. My husband now sat next to me with tourniquet high up on his arm but still bleeding. We were all quiet when he put his hand on mine,

– We gonna get out of here, you know.

– I know – I said, thinking – No, we won’t…

We went quiet again and just sat there. I felt as if I were detached from my body sitting on top of the water tower, watching us in pain and fear but calm, tired and waiting. The day was bright and hot. Mum… Would I see her again, have coffee with her or laugh with her again? When was the last time I told her I loved her?

Going through all these files of memories when my dad passed away unlocked the door that I shut tight and chained after the attack. Plus, pregnant?! I’m going to have a baby! We’re going to have a baby! It felt as if the missing piece were put in the right place in the puzzle and the whole puzzle illuminated, revived me. I felt ready to get up, brush my teeth and start the day.


‘A baby is not the answer.’


Broken relationships cannot be patched-up with babies, we know that, but this was different (how many times have you heard that?). I never thought I’d say this, but the baby was an answer. It patched-up broken relationship between myself and I. At the time, I was nervous, worried, insecure and although I said after the attack that I’d never have children, the knowledge of the new life that we created rekindled me. It was the best surprise ever – there is a new life within me that bears my new self.

As if I pulled the curtains and opened the window, the light was back in, and I took a deep breath of fresh air. I could see my life in a perspective again. The road opened up ahead of me, and I could stop going in circles now. It was the time for me to focus my energy on creating and nourishing my new life instead of hating the old one.

The only reasonable thing for me to do was to give up hate. I had no energy or time for it anymore, and it was not an option. ‘New’ was the word of the day, and we decided to live it. Nothing represents the New better than the change of environment, so we changed countries and distanced ourselves from our triggers.


I gave up hate to recreate myself and build a new life for us.


We closed the first book in a series and opened the second one. The clean sheet before us, quill in hand.


Photo: ‘Embryo’ by Bisa Jelisavac. Farewell gift from a family friend before we moved back to the UK.


On Flashback and Fear

On Flashback And Fear, How I went through one of my worst flashback and who got my back, Biljana Hutchinson #flashback #trauma #healing #recovery

The reflection that you are about to read, I wrote in November 2015 on the night of the Paris attack. That was the night of my last rather bad flashback. My kids fell asleep and I turned the TV on so unprepared for what I was about to hear. I saw the news report and the space around me narrowed in an instant. It felt like a vacuum that is pulling me to a place that I am desperately trying to avoid. But I couldn’t do it. There was no avoidance and no way out. That night I relived the worst six hours of my life when the house I lived and worked in was stormed by six suicide bombers ready to execute their plan while I was convinced that my colleagues and I were living through the last hours of our lives…

After the flashback on the night of the Paris attack, I went to my bedroom where my daughter was sleeping and lied down next to her gently, so I don’t wake her up. I was crying so much, I made the pillow wet. I put my arm around her as if she was my little raft for me to hold on to and not sink further down. Then, I heard my son getting off his bed and his tiny feet tapping across the hallway into my bedroom. He climbed up on the bed, squeezing himself in between his sister and me, oblivious to the inner drama that I was going through and put his little arm around my neck, falling asleep. As always, their mere existence managed to calm me down, steady my breathing and my heart rate, like the two little lifejackets that keep me on the surface of the ocean of terror.

I took a deep breath, placed my computer on my lap and started writing…

‘I cannot begin to explain how I feel after hearing the news about the attacks in Paris tonight. Am I pissed off? Outraged? Terribly sad? Or desperate to learn that somehow, somewhere I am not surprised and I feared that this would happen. Paris? Is it a surprise? Only a few hours after the attacks, while the hostage situation still lasted, some analysis came out indicating that as shocking as they are these attacks should not come as a surprise, neither should location.

I cried. I cried when I heard the news, and I felt physically weak. My hands started to shake, my heart was pounding, I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t sit still. So I walked in circles in our living room while I was searching for the news on BBC or ITV or Channel 4 or any news channel so I could get some live updates about the situation in Paris. There were none, I couldn’t find any update on TV, and I started to panic. My palms were sweating, and I opened my Facebook account on my laptop, Apple news on my iPad and Twitter on my phone and got pissed off at the speed of the live updates! I wanted all the numbers, the actions, the statements, the reports and I wanted them all now. And the whole time, I cried.

I am crying now while I’m typing this because I remember and I understand the noise, the fear and the terror of the victims, the hopelessness and powerlessness, the feeling of seeing your end and being convinced that you will not come out of there alive. Those who do survive, they will not believe it and will be wondering how did they survive.

The noise is constant. Those short moments when there is no noise, the fear is louder and tangible. Eerie silence. Then the noise starts again, and death appears, and people lose their lives. Just like that. I can’t stand the noise now. Once one life is taken, the death stays there, it lingers on. You think about your end, you see it coming, and you think about your worst fears, and you hope they don’t come true in your final moments. You hope that you will not go in pain, that you will not suffer too much as if the fact that you think about all this and the fact that you found yourself in this situation is not suffering enough. You think how powerless you are and how there is nothing you can do to change the situation you’re in. But you don’t say it out loud. When it comes to speaking out loud, you say ‘we will get out of here’, ‘we will be ok’. And you don’t believe it. You know it is not true.

The fear doesn’t go away. It stays with you, you just learn to live with it. You and fear adjust to each other. You get better, you process the trauma, you deal with it in different ways, you overcome it to a certain extent, and the fear adjusts to it. It changes size, it changes shape, and it changes you.

You will never be the same person again. I am not the same person.’

I analysed my emotions so many times before that night, and I knew my fears and my triggers, but this time, I dwelled on it long enough to wrap it up in words stamp it with ‘outgoing’ and ship it out of me. No, it is not as easy as writing a couple of paragraphs, I am most certainly not saying that. But I lived the fear every single day for over five years, and that was the night I distanced myself from it successfully. My stress level goes up, naturally, when I hear the news of yet another terrorist attack, but I don’t dwell on my fear for as long anymore. I transform it.

Since the Paris attack, there were many terrorist attacks, unfortunately, Ankara, Istanbul, Beirut, Bamako, Brussels to name only a few. Whole countries are experiencing them on a daily basis, and every time I hear about them, I grab my two little rafts to get me through the day because that is what I learnt: to take things a day at a time. Day by day…

I Wish I Knew Before…

What I Wish I Knew Before I Had PTSD, How we perceive PTSD and where it can lead us, Biljana Hutchinson #ptsd #heal #thrive

I wish I knew how powerful and omnipresent the fear can be. Every sound that I hear makes me fear for myself: the siren, the helicopter flying, the balloon at the birthday party, the cry of a baby… Then, there is smell, the heat, the smoke, the sunrise…

I wish I knew how sadness can physically hurt. Not only that my heart was broken, but my spirit was broken, my system of values was just about standing as everything I believed in and stood for was chewed up and spat in my face.

I wish I knew how guilt can eat me up until there is nothing else to feel – guilt for what I said and what I did; guilt for the decisions I made. Guilt that I felt for breathing and for being alive; guilt for eating my food and being with my family, for thinking about smiling. So, I stopped… I stopped smiling, seeing my friends and I kept asking myself why in the world did I survive but two fathers never returned…

I wish I knew that there is no recipe, no guidelines, no daily tips for survivors. There is only night and day, and it is hard to tell which is worse. Is it the night, when I am on my own with my thoughts, emotions and memories and I cannot escape no matter how hard I try. Or is it the day, when I just drag myself through it knowing that at the end of it, the night is waiting to face me again. And so the day is more like procrastination or maybe even a little break so I can take a breath or two and then when the night comes, I go back to my personal labyrinth of fear, guilt, despair, grieving…

I wish I knew how hard it is to make sense of my own trauma…

I wish I knew how powerful and uplifting forgiveness to myself is…

I wish I knew how to recognise the beginning in what I was convinced was the end…


Make Your Trauma Your Fuel

‘… and I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see the scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, ‘I survived’. This is a quote from the book that I am reading at the moment called The Other Hand by Chris Cleave. These words come from Little Bee, one of the two main characters where little further she continues with ‘… sad words… But you must see them the same way we have agreed to see scars now. Sad words are just another beauty. A sad story means, this storyteller is alive’.

Make Your Trauma Your Fuel, How retelling of my trauma help me make sense of it, Biljana Hutchinson #trauma #healing #recovery

I reached a stage where I am able to tell my story, and it took me a long time. I lost my language, among other things, after the attack. Language is an important part of my identity – of any of us – I’m bilingual, yet, I was not able to name the event, any of the emotions, any of the memories in any of the languages. And it was not even converting the event into a language so I could tell it to others, it was translating it to myself. All I could do is relive them, feel them again and again and rewind the recorded events over and over again.

I learnt that when one goes through a traumatic event, our language centres are not priority destinations for blood flow but rather amygdala which is the fight and flight fear centre of our brains. Our brains during the traumatic event are focused on keeping us alive and prepared for the next bad thing, and that is about it – which is great for survival. On the other hand, it sucks when it comes to storytelling. As much as I love neuroscience, biology, psychology, they didn’t help much when I was trying to make some sense out of the shit that had happened to me…

Until it did. How? I’m not sure, my memory is a bit patchy – I temporarily lost some of my memory, and then it slowly came back, but I still struggle with some parts of the timeline, not only of the event but of the immediate aftermath as well. Anyway, I was first silent for a few months, and then when I came to visit the man who is now my husband, we started talking about it and talking about it and talking about it. We retold each other our versions of the attack, we listened to each other, we connected some parts of the attack that didn’t really make sense, and we went through our stories countless of times – between our therapist, ourselves, friends and anyone else who wanted to listen.

This constant retelling helped slowly make sense out of it, but it also refined the language I used to describe and explain the event – at first, it was rough, simple and as much as I knew that the descriptions were not as accurate as I would want them to be – it helped. Then, the more I analysed the attack and myself, the more exact I became in choosing words when telling my story. It was like catch 22 – the more sense it all had, the better language I could use and the more accurate words I used, the more sense I could bring to my trauma.

Why am I so overly concerned with language, I don’t know – but I was always like that – I need to understand how and why and until I do, things don’t make any sense to me. Am I stating the obvious? Probably, but things started unravelling for me when my therapist explained to me what happens in our brains, and what happens to our body when trauma occurs. Then, he gave me a list of books to read, and I did – to learn more about the trauma itself, but more about other peoples’ experiences, what LJ Astoria calls ‘thinking like a therapist’ – it all slowly started to come together.

Nevertheless, I still was not able, as in I was not patient enough or brave enough or stable enough, to give my written account. Now, after I finally managed to gather myself and have the guts to put everything on paper and make it permanent – as if it wasn’t permanent enough – now I see how much good it brings to me, but also to my family. I am getting rid of the frustration and pain, of guilt and anger, of sadness. I am able to analyse it better, to clarify it better and to store it better now when my burden is out in the open.

I should have done it earlier, but it was not ripe and ready – it may have looked ready on the outside, but inside it needed some more time. The time has come for my scar and my story to be seen as beauty – because I survived. My scar is my fuel. Don’t let your trauma hinder you, make it your fuel.

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Sharing the Scar

Sharing The Scar, A brief overview of what's to like to parent with PTSD. How and who helped me heal, recover and thrive, Biljana Hutchinson #trauma #recovery #healing #thrive


I survived a suicide bombers’ attack in Afghanistan in 2010. There were six of them and seven of us. The attack lasted six full hours. Six hours of explosions, gunshots, fire, smoke, our own blood and sweat before the US forces rescued us.

Out of seven, five of us survived and out of us five, four was injured. I was shot in my right upper arm only a moment after my friend and colleague was killed on the spot two stairs in front of me. I was head of the office for a US based company, and he was part of our close protection team along with three more men. Two of them gave their lives to save mine and those of my other two team members.

Another two that survived were severely injured and will suffer physical and mental consequences for the rest of their lives. One of them was seriously injured when he heard one of the countless RPGs approaching and covered me with his body to protect me, earning himself several shrapnel in his skull. He was the last to join my team, less than 48 hours before the attack. He is now my husband.

The 7,62 calibre that hit my arm ripped lower part of my brachialis muscle off and left a rather big concave right above my elbow. For almost a year, I was covering the scar until the following summer when I wore my sleeveless wedding dress. My daughter asked about my scar for the first time when she was about two. She saw it and put her gentle little hand on it – it matched my scar in size, and it warmed up my elbow. She asked what that was and I told her that it was called a scar.

– I want one, mama, she said.

I explained that some bad people hurt mama and that it is very good that she does not have one.

– It hurts?

– Only sometimes, I said.

A couple of years later, when her little brother was about the same age and asked me the same question, she explained that ‘bad guys hurt mama but that it hurts only sometimes’. My son hugged me tight as if to take the pain away.

Immediately after the attack, I decided not to have kids because I did not want to bring them into this world full of evil and suffering. I was determined, and I even said that to the man who saved my life at the beginning of our relationship.

My husband is ex-military with 10 years of experience and several tours under his belt, so he had different mechanisms of coping and dealing with what happened. He lost his best friend in the attack, and as much as he struggled himself, he managed to put things in the perspective for me and helped me with the survivor’s guilt for the first time.

The guilt was tearing me apart. I was the head of the office, and every person in that office was a member of my team, so I felt responsible for what had happened, for the lives lost and injuries sustained… I still struggle with the feeling of guilt, although I now know that it was not my fault and that there was nothing I could have done to prevent the attack. Or was there?


Sharing The Scar, A brief overview of parenting with PTSD. How and who helped me to overcome my PTSD and thrive. Biljana Hutchinson #trauma #healing #recovery #thrive


My husband’s patience, support, encouragement, and love made me change my mind about having children. It all happened quite fast. We got married exactly one year after we met when I was already pregnant, and we had our daughter six months later.

I struggled with the baby at first, then slowly managed to organise myself and be mentally prepared for different baby-situations as they happen – crying, vomiting, falls, colds, etc. Then, just when I thought I had everything under control, we had our son, and I was almost back to square one with mental unpreparedness – I wasn’t stable enough, and I had difficulties dealing with some of my fears.

It took a while, but I learned to enjoy the time spent with my kids – to play, laugh and explore the world with them. I’m overly protective though, and I have to have my eyes on them at all times when we are outside, especially in crowded places.

I also struggle with small talk or with spending time with other moms at birthday parties or school events, but I’m doing these things because I love my children more than anything in the world. I don’t want them to miss out on their childhood and friendships because I have issues to cope with normal daily mom activities. Then again, what is normal…

My children and my husband are my chief healers, and I wouldn’t be here today without them. They thought me that being a parent and a partner is a role in which days are tackled one by one, and every struggle is rewarded with a gift of love – a kiss, a hug, a flower or a nickname. This week I’m Wonderwoman, but I am not showing off because only last week I was a Rainbow elephant.

As many people do, I too question myself as a parent, but I learnt that taking one day at a time, is a good rhythm for this parenting-with-PTSD dance.

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