While childhood abuse is common, open talk about the struggle to live, love, and parent well after being raised in hell is rare.
“If I was dissociating, I wouldn’t feel so anxious,” she said.
“Or you might, but you just wouldn’t know it,” I replied.
We laughed the PTSD laugh.
This is how survivors talk to one another. We don’t flashback together or complain about our parents. We talk about how our present day symptoms (numbness, anxiety, nightmares, and fearfulness) are like gum in the hair, leaks in the roof, and jack hammers to the nervous system that won’t be ignored.
Developmental trauma is a newer phrase, like Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which means the trauma was repeated at the hands of loved ones throughout childhood, and it’s complicated.
I say, abuse was the peanut butter of childhood and neglect the jelly.
Adverse childhood events and the lasting toll they take on mental and physical health throughout the life cycle are now well documented in the ACE STUDY.
However, while childhood abuse is common, open talk about the struggle to live, love, and parent well after being raised in hell is rare.
So, meeting a woman to talk to about writing, life, and surviving is still exciting for me. We were going to a bookstore coffee shop to share techniques for clearing the never-ending sink full of dirty dishes in our brain.
A panic attack took precedence. She called to cancel and apologize as though her panic was an insult to me. It wasn’t. I was impressed that she didn’t make up a lie. I know it’s hard to be that honest.
Coping well and being calm during crisis can be a personality trait, like always wearing dangly earrings. It’s difficult to give up because the perks for being accomplished and productive are so good, and the rewards for nurturing the self are so invisible and low.
To be emotionally available and responsive to others, it turns out I have to be emotionally present and responsive to myself. This is not good news and I recoil a little inside every time I remember.
The spilling of actual emotions is as appealing as letting snot leak from the nose or pus ooze from a cut. My default setting is to greet my feelings with the same “What the fuck do you want?” response I received in childhood.
But I’m not a child anymore.
“The only abuser left in your life,” a yoga teacher once said to me in a private session, “is you.” You need to parent yourself the way you wish you had been parented.
Now, I only slip into high self-hate and low self-acceptance when I’m post-traumatically stressed out (parenting, in a relationship, having menopause symptoms, or when a relative dies).
Emotional health requires staying present at least some of the time. Staying present is a challenge for even the most seasoned meditators staring at sunsets and sunflowers. For those who were helpless children, staying present can be impossible. We learned how to do the opposite: We rock at staying absent.
As a child, I air lifted myself out of my body and right into my brain. I played dead or became one with the ceiling. It felt like hiding in a corner while the house was robbed. I was the house. Relatives were the robbers.
Now, I am learning to give up my favorite coping skills. And when I do, all of those old sensations are stored in the stillness. They waited for me to mature and center. That seems so mean.
But this is the work, and sometimes it pisses me off that my energy is spent on this.
I often look for an easier way. I wonder how old I’ll be when I’m done unraveling the knots in my nervous system.
I’m sick of being sick of the process.
I’ve been an adult longer than I was a child and I don’t want to be impacted. Can’t I at least circle new drains or upgrade the scenery on this repeat track. I don’t want to have to do regular exercise to keep off the emotional pounds.
I feel burdened, exhausted, and martyred at times, wearing an itchy wool coat I can’t disrobe.
It is not the presence of bad (abuse) but the absence of good (love, attachment, boundaries, modeling) that injures children into adulthood. Most of us have learned not to drink, abuse, and be violent (yay us!), but the more subtle aspects of self-care and recovery are healthy nurturing, interdependence, making time for love and joy. Those can be mysterious.
What I know is talking to other survivors helps most. We can laugh about missing the “ease” of numbness while knowing the agony of being emotionally blunted isn’t worth the trade off. We can share how strenuous the process feels and is. And we can learn from each other.
This new friend risked being authentic and vulnerable, let down her walls and defenses and showed me what intimacy is.
Talking with her, I was reminded, survivors have symptoms. They can linger for a long time. That’s just how it is. I don’t think any less of her. I felt no judgment. We helped each other. Most days, we are high-functioning warriors building and rebuilding lives and selves. On those days, there is no shortage of people to talk with and relate to.
But on the days we feel tipped over inside by trauma, we need one another, people who get it as though we are sharing the same orange and saying, “It’s juicy, tangy, messy, and sweet.” It’s a sensory, tactile knowing, not theoretical or abstract or requiring a co-pay or short educational asides.
I crave more of this. I have always craved this. I want to be able to say and hear others talking about the important and unglamorous healing of developmental trauma. I want to hear people who document and describe what breaking the cycle actually requires.
We aren’t children anymore, but we are never too old to be reminded we are not alone.
Christine Cissy White is a stay-at-home writer and in-the-world mother and feminist. She writes about how to live and parent well after being raised in hell at www.healwritenow.com and has been published in Ms. Magazine online, The Boston Globe, Literary Mama and Elephant Journal.
Yea so I read this article the other day and the tears just flowed. Oh I crave that kind of relationship, someone that can understand the craziness and then , then not judge me for it!!! Yea that would be kind of a miracle. I know I had that with one friend, Cheryl. She was more than amazing she was my miracle. She flew with me to Boston when I had to testify, and the nightmares were about as bad as they had ever been. I warned her about them so she wouldn't be alarmed. And with out a doubt when we woke up in the morning she told me the story. She was like man what did you dream about last night ? And I got a little quiet she was like man you screamed bloody murder and were kicking the covers and you about sent me out the window, waking me from a dead sleep. And we laughed and laughed, she understood where they were coming from and she thought nothing less of me. That was one of the most amazing, hard, terrifying trips that I have ever had and I was more real and I was not for a second judged. I am grateful for that friend, for the laughter, the trueness the time to be me. I am not asking people to walk on egg shells around me I am wanting them to think, to be kind with their words. The world that I live in; that I come from is not funny not a joke and we, survivors like I am, live in a place that is more real than you can even imagine. The things we have seen and experienced are life shattering, life altering that changes absolutely everything about us. Its not about pulling our boot straps up and "getting over it" there is so much more to it than that. I want so much for people to understand and that doesn't always happen. What I think and feel are often the brunt of many jokes like what are you doing here, isn't there too many people for you ? And then the laugh that makes you feel like you are an idiot, but you laugh too because its better than feeling the shame and wishing that you were different. Or the well whats the difference you don't go out anyway, and its followed by that laugh they don't understand. Believe me WE KNOW and UNDERSTAND that its crazy but its those little things that we do that helped us survive that sometimes we carry as a means of protection, even all this time later. If it was so easy as to just cry once wipe the tears and all is well, that would be PERFECT; true healing doesn't work like that, as much as we would like it too. Its a long process and it takes time, precious time, and lots of patience lots and lots. I get mad at myself all the time for not being done yet. The last time anything happened was over 10 years ago ? I know you think that, I should be done, I am dwelling I just need to get over it. But I am trying, my heart works long hard hours trying to be ok, to do just that 'be over it'. There is a point to my story, if there wasn't I would be able to close the book and wipe my hands clean and all would be well. There is something more, so much more than I am searching for. A persons doesn't work as hard as I work to just be dwelling. From the outside some may think that and I can tell you times I Have gotten stuck there in the ugliness but now is not one of those times. I just have to figure what I am supposed to be doing and what I need to do next. And I am on my way and WILL NOT STOP.
I Heart your Heart, Here's to my Healing.
“If I was dissociating, I wouldn’t feel so anxious,” she said.
“Or you might, but you just wouldn’t know it,” I replied.
We laughed the PTSD laugh.
This is how survivors talk to one another. We don’t flashback together or complain about our parents. We talk about how our present day symptoms (numbness, anxiety, nightmares, and fearfulness) are like gum in the hair, leaks in the roof, and jack hammers to the nervous system that won’t be ignored.
Developmental trauma is a newer phrase, like Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, which means the trauma was repeated at the hands of loved ones throughout childhood, and it’s complicated.
I say, abuse was the peanut butter of childhood and neglect the jelly.
Adverse childhood events and the lasting toll they take on mental and physical health throughout the life cycle are now well documented in the ACE STUDY.
However, while childhood abuse is common, open talk about the struggle to live, love, and parent well after being raised in hell is rare.
So, meeting a woman to talk to about writing, life, and surviving is still exciting for me. We were going to a bookstore coffee shop to share techniques for clearing the never-ending sink full of dirty dishes in our brain.
A panic attack took precedence. She called to cancel and apologize as though her panic was an insult to me. It wasn’t. I was impressed that she didn’t make up a lie. I know it’s hard to be that honest.
Coping well and being calm during crisis can be a personality trait, like always wearing dangly earrings. It’s difficult to give up because the perks for being accomplished and productive are so good, and the rewards for nurturing the self are so invisible and low.
To be emotionally available and responsive to others, it turns out I have to be emotionally present and responsive to myself. This is not good news and I recoil a little inside every time I remember.
The spilling of actual emotions is as appealing as letting snot leak from the nose or pus ooze from a cut. My default setting is to greet my feelings with the same “What the fuck do you want?” response I received in childhood.
But I’m not a child anymore.
“The only abuser left in your life,” a yoga teacher once said to me in a private session, “is you.” You need to parent yourself the way you wish you had been parented.
Now, I only slip into high self-hate and low self-acceptance when I’m post-traumatically stressed out (parenting, in a relationship, having menopause symptoms, or when a relative dies).
Emotional health requires staying present at least some of the time. Staying present is a challenge for even the most seasoned meditators staring at sunsets and sunflowers. For those who were helpless children, staying present can be impossible. We learned how to do the opposite: We rock at staying absent.
As a child, I air lifted myself out of my body and right into my brain. I played dead or became one with the ceiling. It felt like hiding in a corner while the house was robbed. I was the house. Relatives were the robbers.
Now, I am learning to give up my favorite coping skills. And when I do, all of those old sensations are stored in the stillness. They waited for me to mature and center. That seems so mean.
But this is the work, and sometimes it pisses me off that my energy is spent on this.
I often look for an easier way. I wonder how old I’ll be when I’m done unraveling the knots in my nervous system.
I’m sick of being sick of the process.
I’ve been an adult longer than I was a child and I don’t want to be impacted. Can’t I at least circle new drains or upgrade the scenery on this repeat track. I don’t want to have to do regular exercise to keep off the emotional pounds.
I feel burdened, exhausted, and martyred at times, wearing an itchy wool coat I can’t disrobe.
It is not the presence of bad (abuse) but the absence of good (love, attachment, boundaries, modeling) that injures children into adulthood. Most of us have learned not to drink, abuse, and be violent (yay us!), but the more subtle aspects of self-care and recovery are healthy nurturing, interdependence, making time for love and joy. Those can be mysterious.
What I know is talking to other survivors helps most. We can laugh about missing the “ease” of numbness while knowing the agony of being emotionally blunted isn’t worth the trade off. We can share how strenuous the process feels and is. And we can learn from each other.
This new friend risked being authentic and vulnerable, let down her walls and defenses and showed me what intimacy is.
Talking with her, I was reminded, survivors have symptoms. They can linger for a long time. That’s just how it is. I don’t think any less of her. I felt no judgment. We helped each other. Most days, we are high-functioning warriors building and rebuilding lives and selves. On those days, there is no shortage of people to talk with and relate to.
But on the days we feel tipped over inside by trauma, we need one another, people who get it as though we are sharing the same orange and saying, “It’s juicy, tangy, messy, and sweet.” It’s a sensory, tactile knowing, not theoretical or abstract or requiring a co-pay or short educational asides.
I crave more of this. I have always craved this. I want to be able to say and hear others talking about the important and unglamorous healing of developmental trauma. I want to hear people who document and describe what breaking the cycle actually requires.
We aren’t children anymore, but we are never too old to be reminded we are not alone.
Christine Cissy White is a stay-at-home writer and in-the-world mother and feminist. She writes about how to live and parent well after being raised in hell at www.healwritenow.com and has been published in Ms. Magazine online, The Boston Globe, Literary Mama and Elephant Journal.
I am listening......My heart is not done, there s so much more
Yea so I read this article the other day and the tears just flowed. Oh I crave that kind of relationship, someone that can understand the craziness and then , then not judge me for it!!! Yea that would be kind of a miracle. I know I had that with one friend, Cheryl. She was more than amazing she was my miracle. She flew with me to Boston when I had to testify, and the nightmares were about as bad as they had ever been. I warned her about them so she wouldn't be alarmed. And with out a doubt when we woke up in the morning she told me the story. She was like man what did you dream about last night ? And I got a little quiet she was like man you screamed bloody murder and were kicking the covers and you about sent me out the window, waking me from a dead sleep. And we laughed and laughed, she understood where they were coming from and she thought nothing less of me. That was one of the most amazing, hard, terrifying trips that I have ever had and I was more real and I was not for a second judged. I am grateful for that friend, for the laughter, the trueness the time to be me. I am not asking people to walk on egg shells around me I am wanting them to think, to be kind with their words. The world that I live in; that I come from is not funny not a joke and we, survivors like I am, live in a place that is more real than you can even imagine. The things we have seen and experienced are life shattering, life altering that changes absolutely everything about us. Its not about pulling our boot straps up and "getting over it" there is so much more to it than that. I want so much for people to understand and that doesn't always happen. What I think and feel are often the brunt of many jokes like what are you doing here, isn't there too many people for you ? And then the laugh that makes you feel like you are an idiot, but you laugh too because its better than feeling the shame and wishing that you were different. Or the well whats the difference you don't go out anyway, and its followed by that laugh they don't understand. Believe me WE KNOW and UNDERSTAND that its crazy but its those little things that we do that helped us survive that sometimes we carry as a means of protection, even all this time later. If it was so easy as to just cry once wipe the tears and all is well, that would be PERFECT; true healing doesn't work like that, as much as we would like it too. Its a long process and it takes time, precious time, and lots of patience lots and lots. I get mad at myself all the time for not being done yet. The last time anything happened was over 10 years ago ? I know you think that, I should be done, I am dwelling I just need to get over it. But I am trying, my heart works long hard hours trying to be ok, to do just that 'be over it'. There is a point to my story, if there wasn't I would be able to close the book and wipe my hands clean and all would be well. There is something more, so much more than I am searching for. A persons doesn't work as hard as I work to just be dwelling. From the outside some may think that and I can tell you times I Have gotten stuck there in the ugliness but now is not one of those times. I just have to figure what I am supposed to be doing and what I need to do next. And I am on my way and WILL NOT STOP.
I Heart your Heart, Here's to my Healing.
No comments:
Post a Comment