Travel and Healing [day 7]

I didn't grow up doing much in the way of travel. My husband, on the other hand, travelled quite a bit. 

He loves to have a trip to look forward to, and even enjoys the process of planning the itinerary.

This year we celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary, but we couldn't seem to get excited about the same kind of trip to celebrate. So . . . I leave tomorrow to spend a week at a beautiful spa in Texas all by myself!

Let me be clear, my husband offered this trip to me. I would NEVER have come up with this on my own. I am very grateful for this gift and looking forward to it in a big way.

It took me a long time to embrace the travelling vibe, and I still don't crave it or have the energy for it that my husband does. I have learned to navigate flights and airport to hotel transportation on my own. It's something I'm proud of accomplishing. As an introvert, I like the idea of visiting places and getting to set the schedule to please me and having a room all to myself. The downside for the introvert and travel is all of those strangers I have to interact with, but that's probably good for me.

I'll do my best to keep posting (hopefully without making anyone TOO jealous!) while I'm out of town. In the meantime, I hope to have some time to catch up on all the reading I'm behind on. 

Travel is a good method of healing. Yes, it can be expensive, but it doesn't have to be. A change of scenery gives me the opportunity to walk away from the stress and daily struggle for a bit. I can be someone anonymous or someone completely different. I highly recommend it if you have the means.

This is day 7 in Write 31 Days

Books and Healing [day 4]

I am a librarian by profession, so books have always been my first line of defense. When I was diagnosed I went looking for books to verify the diagnosis and help me understand what it really meant. I also love to read fiction and was surprised at how certain novels impacted my recovery. Spirituality became difficult and yet incredibly necessary, and so I looked for books to help me reconnect with God in a more authentic manner. The following are just some of the titles I've found helpful.

Allen, Jon G. Coping With Trauma: A Guide to Self-Understanding. Washington, D.C.: American Psychiatric Press, c1995.

Benson, Robert. A Good Life: Benedict's Guide to Everyday Joy. Brewster, MA: Paraclete Press, c2004. (out of print)

Claiborne Shane, et al. Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals. Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan, c2010.

Engel, Beverly. The Right to Innocence: Healing the Trauma of Childhood Sexual Abuse. New York: Ivy Books, c1989.

Evans, Rachel Held. A Year of Biblical Womanhood. Nashville: Thomas Nelson, c2012.

Godden, Rumer. In This House of Brede. Chicago: Loyola Press, 2005.

Herman, Judith. Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence – From Domestic Abuse to Political Terror. New York: Perseus Books, c1997.

Lucado, Max. God Thinks You're Wonderful! Nashville, TN: Thomas Nelson, c2003.

Martel, Yann. Life of Pi: A Novel. New York: Harcourt Inc., c2001.

Meyers, Robert R. Morning Sun on a White Piano: Simple Pleasures and the Sacramental Life. New York: Galilee Book, c1998.

O'Connor, Flannery. A Prayer Journal. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, c2013.

Palacio, R.J. Wonder. New York: Alfred J. Knopf, c2012.

Peterson, Margaret Kim. Keeping House: The Litany of Everyday Life. San Francisco, CA: Jossey-Bass, c2007.

This is day 4 in Write 31 Days

Break

Do I "break" -- fall apart, fragment, shatter -- or do I "break" -- pause, take a rest, a respite?

Another flashback. Another reminder of pain from the past. Knee jerk reactions to deny, run and hide, beat myself up. Is this the one that takes me down? The one that smashes me permanently? The heel of his palm to my nose. Searing pain that leaves me staggering, ripe for the attack that follows.

My husband points out that it means I fought back. And he never showed up at my door again. It was the last attack. Something good from this latest reminder of pain? 

So I write about it. I cry on the massage table. I talk to my husband. My therapist. I seek help. I feel all those feelings again -- fear, guilt, paranoia, self-loathing, denial.

I pause and take a respite. A retreat with my husband for the weekend. We may talk about it or we may put it aside for the time being. More than likely it will be a bit of both. 

But I choose the second definition. Because this time I get to choose.

linking up with Five Minute Friday and Writer's Workshop

It's the most wonderful time of the year . . .

But is it really? Let's be clear I enjoy the holidays. I especially like Thanksgiving because it's all about being appreciative and grateful for our families, friends, homes, and food. We actually have one day each year set aside to stop and really think about how blessed we are. And there is FABULOUS stuff to eat!

But, but. The holidays bring out a lot of other feelings besides gratitude. A lot of those other feelings are the result of societal expectations, but others are experiential. The commercials tells us to feel one way, but our memories remind us of past holidays and how we felt let down.

I'm attempting to write something with depth and meaning and the reality is I'm depressed. Not as depressed as I was a few days ago, but I know it will be a see-saw from now until after the new year. Because it's hard not to feel bummed when my holidays won't look like the TV commercials, and I'll be reminded of family dissension. Reminded of family I don't interact with (by my own choosing and for my own good), but I miss the idea of a family filled holiday.

I have this little voice in my head that reminds me over and over again that it's all my fault that I don't have a TV family. It's all my fault that I'm not over the top happy for 2 straight months of the year. It's all my fault that I'm tired and headachy, and would rather sleep and watch TV than decorate my house, bake cookies, and shop. So I wind up feeling like the Grinch. And I'm not the Grinch. I'm a basically happy, upbeat person. Yes, parts of the holidays are difficult because they aren't the way I want them to be. But I have family and friends that I share the holidays with -- I am not alone. I have more stuff than I will ever be able to appreciate, let alone use. 

I sat in my therapist's office on Tuesday and felt relief wash over me as tears squeezed from my eyes. She reminded me that PTSD from childhood abuse is one of the most difficult diagnoses to deal with, because these traumatic events happened during my formative years. In my case throughout my formative years. The negative patterns are imprinted on me. It's not that I am unwilling to let go of the past, but rather that it is imprinted on my brain. So, yes, it's going to crop up. There are going to be triggers. Getting over it doesn't mean it didn't happen. Just like getting over the flu doesn't mean you don't remember how sick you felt when you had it. 

I read a quote this morning -- 

“If you believe you deserve nurturing only when you’re extremely upset, you’re like the majority of survivors who feel they have to be totally falling apart before they slow down and take care of themselves. But taking care of yourself should not be confined to times of crisis. Nurturing and taking care of your needs should become a daily habit, not something special to be pulled out in an emergency.” The Courage to Heal Workbook by Laura Davis

and it reminded me to take care of me. So that's what I'm doing. I drinking lots of water, paying attention to what I eat (but not too much!), resting when I'm tired, getting some exercise, doing yoga, seeing the chiropractor, talking with my therapist, and planning some fun things just for me. 

When I dream about the episodes of abuse, it is as if I am reliving them. The key is to remind myself when I awaken that I didn't cause the dreams to come anymore than I caused the abuse to happen. I'm learning to see the return of the dreams as my subconscious telling me to slow down and take care of me. It's not my fault, but I can do some things to help myself.

With those ideas in my head (and in writing) I can enjoy lots of things and people and food this holiday season, hopefully release some those expectations, and just be in the moments to come. 


linking up with Just Write

Still

It still crops up. Usually when I least expect it. Memory pain. Last night and this morning I had that recurring pain in my leg. I haven't struggled with it in a while, so I immediately began wondering. Trying to figure out a cause. Fussing at myself for hurting again.

It still comes. Pain and memories. I don't seek them out, and sometimes I can't figure out the trigger. And maybe there is no trigger. Maybe it's just part of the reality of surviving the abuse. It becomes a mind race of sorts. Don't let the pain throw me back into old coping mechanisms. Don't start berating myself for things that aren't (never were) my fault.

So I am reminded again of that phrase that my counselor has used and that I have read too many times to count. Be still and sit with the pain. Don't panic. Don't run from it. Accept it. And in my stillness the pain may not subside, but it doesn't increase. Deep breathing. Being still. Accepting. These are all good things. Things I can do. Reminders it is not my fault. Not then and not now.

linking up with Five Minute Friday

Authentic Living

There's a lot of stress in my life right now. 

Some growing pains on the home front. I'm seeing my parents this weekend. A few news items that have triggered some bad stuff and made me angry. And then there is NaNoWriMo. I am determined to carry through. I've chatted with other NaNo writers, my husband, and my therapist about ways to work around and through the triggering the writing is setting off. But I've only written one day, so theoretically I'm behind. I've got 1385 words written and I should have more like 6800! I'm fighting the panic driven need to catch up. 

So I'm trying a new approach today. I'm going to write. No order. No outline. No plan. Free writing (more or less) for set periods of time, and see what happens. No one imagines that after 30 days this is going to publisher ready. It's a rough, rough, rough draft. It's a starting point. 

I'm also considering moving my computer to a different location for NaNo writing. Maybe a change of scenery will encourage me to see this writing as different, and give me a bit more focus.

Meanwhile I'm reading lighter material for rest and relaxation. I've still got a few projects to finish for Presents with a Purpose which is this Saturday. And I'm going to see a play with my parents on Friday night. Lots on my plate. So I'm reminding myself that working at my pace is perfectly acceptable, maybe even appropriate since I am me. No one else can set my pace for me. And I'm stopping at the top of each hour to regroup a bit. Saying the Lord's Prayer to re-center myself and remind me of my true calling.

This authentic living can be a tough act when you haven't been doing it all your life. But more and more I see the beauty and value in it. 

linking up with Just Write

NaNoWriMo and PTSD

Let me start by saying, I promise every post in November will not be about NaNoWriMo, and I doubt I'll be sharing much, if any, of that writing in this space.

I wrote almost 1400 words on Saturday (11/1) and was surprised at how quickly I began to struggle with PTSD symptoms -- shaking hands, racing heart, roiling stomach. It's difficult to want to write things out, but still be so overcome with emotions while doing it. Unfortunately it also makes me question how "healed" I truly am. I think there is still a part of me that believes I will get to the point where talking about it (or writing) will not induce any emotional response -- that is how I will I know I have arrived at healing. Not very realistic. 

So the question becomes "How do I write it out without suffering from it?" I pulled out my journal from the beginning of therapy Saturday night to check some details and dates. As I began to read I was drawn into denigrating myself from that time. I shook it off and reminded myself to think kindly on this person, as I would for anyone else with a traumatic story to share. When I set the pages aside, I realized I had no idea what time or day it was. That is how quickly I fell back into the old coping mechanisms.

I reached out for help. I posted a query on the help thread at NaNoWriMo --

Okay I'm new to this whole thing. I am writing a novel/memoir based on healing from childhood sexual abuse. I REALLY want to do this, but already this morning I'm getting hit with dizziness, upset stomach, and mild panic from just beginning to write about specific episodes.

I have been blogging about this topic for 5 years, and I really want to create something more lasting that will get my story out and hopefully help others.

Here's my question: How do I pace myself and know when to take a break? I know I need to write around 1700 words a day to complete this thing. So do I break it up in smaller timed sessions and just walk away when the timer rings, or do I just keep writing even when the PTSD symptoms start to kick in?

Any insights would be greatly appreciated.

And these are the responses I got --

"Agh, I can't answer your questions.  But I'm suffering from the same thing, although very much milder.  So just wanted to give you a hug."

###

"My sympathies for your situation.  :'(  

I'm not sure what to offer, but I think the MOST important thing is that your mental health > NaNoWriMo. Maybe you'll be better off writing something like this over a longer period of time so it doesn't inflict too much. Remember, NaNoWriMo is just a self challenge, and if it becomes too distressing to force yourself to do it, you aren't under any obligation to carry on. 

Other than that, take breaks, and make sure you always put yourself as a priority. Maybe, if writing one scene is painful, you could switch to writing a lighter & more positive scene if you still want to make up that word count."

###

"Normally I'd not message someone in a generalized place like this site, but...  

Considering I just had to take a full dose of xanax (I prefer half) and beta blocker to get a ptsd episode under control by an accidental triggering (got to love random conversation just triggering ya out of no where, hmmm?), I can thoroughly relate to your comment about not knowing if ptsd/bouts would wreck your NaNo efforts.

###

Of course the good news is I got some caring responses. Comments that validated the same things I had been thinking. Give myself some grace. This is ultimately for my benefit, so I can set whatever rules and guidelines work in my particular case. 

Yesterday I talked with Alan about it, and he used those exact words -- Give yourself grace. He also reminded me that the writing didn't need to be primarily about the episodes of abuse. It's not a recounting of horrors, but rather about how I became who I am in spite of the abuse. He also "gave me permission" to stop and change subjects at any point. There is no need to stay with a particular arc if I need a break, but that doesn't mean I have to stop writing. Just switch gears.

Yesterday I took the day off -- one of the recommendations from other writers. Today I am setting up a way to establish a routine for getting the requisite time in to accomplish this goal. I need about 2 hours a day of writing time to get in my 1700 words a day. What I'm realizing is that for the sections specifically about the abuse, that time will need to be broken up into much smaller portions, maybe 5 to 10 minutes. But that's okay, because it's my story, my method.

I keep coming back to that Anne Lamott quote --

And that keeps me going.

Finish

All those years ago I said I'd finish this. 

I'm not sure I realized what I was agreeing to do. 

It's been nearly 14 years since I was diagnosed with chronic PTSD, the result of childhood sexual abuse. I swore when they diagnosed me, I'd stay the course until I had dug through it all. Until it was finished and I was "better".

There may have been a flaw in my word choice. 

I don't think this will be finished until I'm dead and gone home to heaven, because these things that happened to me also helped to fashion me into the person I am. If I finish investigating my life, my experiences, my hopes, my dreams -- well then I'm done, I'm finished. And the only way I see that happening is through death. 

I'm still okay with finishing this process, but I'm not feeling the need to hurry it along. 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, 

But I have promises to keep, 

And miles to go before I sleep, 

And miles to go before I sleep.

--Robert Frost

linking up with Five Minute Friday

many thanks to Lisa-Jo Baker for creating and hosting this wonderful meme, and welcome to Kate Motaung for taking over the helm

Hands

He reaches out for me and I feel refreshed. A hug. A pat on the back. The pressure of her hand on mine. 

That touch of care and tenderness. I'm not sure tenderness can be expressed without touching. Words just don't send the same message. Nothing like the touch of a hand. And I crave those feelings.

After all the years and episodes of "bad touches" you'd think I'd shy away from physical contact, but I don't. I want it so desperately, but am so afraid of what might come with it. But I'm learning that most of the hands reaching out to me these days are hands filled with love and hope and healing.

I'm still not totally comfortable with receiving what those hands offer, but I want it so badly! So if I cringe or flinch, don't misunderstand. It's not that I don't want it. I'm just still programmed to assume it may hurt. 

linking up with Five Minute Friday

Yoga and Tears

Last week was tough. Saturday morning my husband and I went to yoga class together. I was struggling with sadness, low self-esteem, worthlessness. All the classic signs that summer is upon me.

He introduced me to the teacher when we got there, and I told her I have PTSD so if she was planning on touching me during savasana to please whisper to me beforehand. She agreed.

I organized myself in the back of the room. The class was quite full, but everyone was chatty and pleasant. Looking around the room I could tell that all levels of skill were present. Val started the class and I could tell right away I was going to like her style. And she played good music.

I got absorbed in the poses. Successful in most of them. My body remembering asanas I hadn't done in a long time. Slowly we moved into savasana -- final relaxation. I always joke and say that this is the reason I do yoga. That 5 minutes of total relaxation is bliss.

This time I knew she was coming around to offer soothing touching. I crave it, but I fear it as well. I heard her step next to me as she bent over to soothe my neighbor. Shortly after that she whispered in my ear, "I'm here", and moved to my feet. She rubbed and massaged them, and I felt the tears. I fought hard to suppress them. I don't know why. A knee-jerk reaction, I suppose. How do I explain tears from a foot massage?

She moved on to the next person, and I continued to fight the tears and question them. Why am I crying? Is this just attention seeking? What is wrong with me?

After a few final stretches, class ended and I, keeping my head down to hide the tears, packed up my gear. My husband came to check on me. I apologized. He asked why I was apologizing. Our usual dance. He left to gather his gear.

A couple of others in the class checked on me. I tried to assure them I would be fine. They offered comments and support -- but I didn't want to to explain the specifics to these kind strangers.

Val came and hugged me. She invited me back to class. 

I have a love/hate relationship with yoga. I love the way my body feels during and after class. I love that I connect with my body -- recognizing skill and power and strength. But I never know when all that peace, quiet, and relaxation will open the door to the feelings that stay just below the surface in my brain. I know it's good to release the salty tears, just as it's good to release the salty sweat -- but it seems less acceptable.

But I find myself craving that release again this morning. And I am reminded of a quote --

“The cure for anything is salt water….sweat, tears or the sea.”

~ Isak Dinesen, pseudonym of Baroness Karen von Blixen-Finecke

Filling the Hole

"When you were a child who did you go to for comfort?"

Is this supposed to be an easy question? Is there a trick in here somewhere?

I am supposed to say, "My mother and/or father" right? That's the "right" answer. But what if it doesn't ring true? What if I can't remember that happening?

I don't think she meant it to be a difficult question? I wasn't really supposed to have sit and think about it. But I did. 

She followed it up with, "Have you ever felt fully accepted -- for who you are?" Another question where the expected answer is clearly, "Yes". It's self-indulgent to say "No". Needy. Attention seeking. 

The truth is this all my life I have been hunting for someone, anyone, to accept me warts and all. It could be that those people are already in my life and I just can't comprehend that they are okay with me. It might be that I'm just so afraid to trust, that I constantly hold back.

So another box has been opened. Another set of tears flowing as I realize that, while things are much better, there is still a hole waiting to be filled. God is there along with one or two flesh people, but there is still a lot of empty space in that hole. Space that needs -- longs -- to be filled with love, admiration, and acceptance. 

Like so many other things along this path of healing, I am going to have to fill that hole myself.


linkup with Just Write and Imperfect Prose

Drawing Pictures on Walls

Yesterday I went through an experience I've had before. I did a genogram -- much like a family tree but with additional information regarding relationships beyond bloodlines.

Genograms are used in treating medical and psychological complaints, but also as a form of learning more about our personal development. I've talked about genograms before especially as they have impacted my healing. In the past I've had strong responses to helping create them. The first time I did one I developed a pounding migraine that forced me into a dark room with a cold compress on my head as I willed myself not to throw up.

Thankfully yesterday's went more smoothly. 

I didn't know until I got to the office that we'd be doing a genogram. When the counselor informed me of it I was hit with a wave of anxiety. She asked if I'd done one before and I assured her that I had. As she was preparing her workspace I mentioned that under the circumstances I would take some medication to ease my anxiety. She offered to postpone the process, but I really wanted to get it done. So we proceeded with the proviso that I could call it quits at any time.

As she drew the outline and filled in my information I concentrated on breathing deeply and fully, not hunching my shoulders, and answering her questions honestly. I didn't backtrack too much and I don't think I over explained (a common problem). As we progressed she expressed dismay over certain things that came to light. Most of them were things I'm used to eliciting sympathy.

Some of her queries surprised me and caught me a bit off guard. In the past genograms have been "just the facts" experiences, but she kept asking me to describe certain people on the chart. How did I feel about them. I found myself answering as honestly as I could, but still feeling obligated to minimize certain things.  "She wasn't all bad." Or "I'm sure there are lots of good things I just can't remember".

When we had completed the layout, we continued to talk for a bit. The counselor then expressed gratitude for my willingness to share and she went on to say that she felt I was a very strong woman to have survived all of the trauma. I believed her, but there was still that little niggle in the back of head. Not a full out voice, but just a hint that I was undeserving of her comments. She told me she really liked me and would like to give me a hug if I was okay with that. I assured that would be fine as long as she warned me in advance.

Her comments and the hug brought tears to my eyes. Any expression of kindness, especially from someone who has just sat through hearing some or all of my story, tends to have this effect one me.

It took me a few hours and a couple of mugs of herbal tea to get my bearings again, but I think this has the potential to be a good thing. Perhaps a very good thing.

linking up with Just Write and Imperfect Prose

PTSD and Triggers

"There will always be triggers."

But so often in such unexpected places. A pin on Pinterest? Really? A simple crochet pattern?

It never occurred to me to steel my courage before going to Pinterest. Why would it? But there it was. Harmless to others and an immediate reminder for me of terror and pain.

Life can be a minefield for abuse survivors. I find myself going along just fine. Fully accepting my past while living in the present and moving toward the future with so much less fear. And then WHAM! The rug is pulled out from under me. I am a terrified 5 year old again (or 6 or 7 or 8 . . . ). 

I talked with my therapist about this after the last trigger hit. It caught me so off guard, and she reminded me that's the way of triggers and PTSD. I was reminded how much I hate the lasting impact of trauma. Trauma isn't a one time event. It stays with me indefinitely. Even when it's dealt with, it can still rise up out of nowhere and stab me in the chest. 

The key is to apply those lessons I've learned. To put all the therapy to use in that moment. To recognize what's happening and address what is real -- the abuse is not happening now. I have already survived this episode. This is just a reminder, and if I breathe deeply and focus on the present, I will survive this too. Being shaken is not a sign of weakness, but rather a normal reaction to a traumatic event. I'm not a bad person, living in the past, because the present reminds me of the past sometimes. I am a person who survived trauma. It's part of who I am. Every day.

Truth

The truth will set you free . . . but first it will piss you off. 

My therapist told me this years ago. He was trying to help me see the importance of knowing and admitting the truth of my history while warning me it wasn't going to be pleasant.

It was good preparation. I don't know that it's really made me angry (my current therapist is thrilled if I tell her I'm angry about anything!), but it's been a long, circuitous road, this healing path.

Truth is the answer to all of my struggles. Telling myself the truth, the real, honest, gut-wrenching truth, will always make my path clearer and straighter. But it is often an unpleasant truth. About myself, about others, about episodes from my past, and current relationships. 

Jesus is truth (John 14:6). And Jesus is setting me free.

linking up with Five Minute Friday

Yahweh Shalom

warning: triggers

I retrieved my shawl and crochet basket from my room and moved to the screened in porch. 

As I sat with several others in silence, I began to work on the Danish shawl I am making. I thought about the warmth of the bamboo hook and the yarn gliding through my fingers, and I remembered I was raped with a metal crochet hook, and truth be told, that is why I don’t use metal hooks. 

The thought caught me up short. I closed my eyes and turned away from the others. I touched my survivor pendant, and remembered the verse from this morning – Ps 91:14 – 

He loves me. He will deliver me. He will protect me. He will answer my call & bring honor to me. He will show me his salvation. 

I began to breathe Yahweh Shalom. 

Beauty from ashes – the irony of the joy, pleasure, and comfort I feel while crocheting. He has truly redeemed what could have been lost, and made it something beautiful and of value.



linking up with imperfect prose

Validation

Validation is a huge part of recovery. Initially I sought validation from others. I tried talking with family members -- checking their memories of events. Any time they remembered even a small piece of the puzzle it helped me have a little more faith in my own memories. Validation = To establish the soundness of; corroborate. Synonyms --confirm.

So when my sister remembered the night I threw up at my cousin's house, it helped. When my dad volunteered that his uncle's whiskey of choice was Jack Daniels, it helped. When my mother suggested the name of an abuser I could only describe, it helped.

But validation comes in other forms as well. When I called and emailed the girlfriend of one abuser, and she wouldn't respond to me, my counselor showed me the validation in that. I figured she just didn't remember me. His take was different. Maybe I had scared the s**t out of her, because she thought I was going to "out" her.

Ultimately, validation, has to come from myself. I can't spend my whole life waiting for someone else to confirm my own memories for me. Validation is about trusting myself. Trusting my memories. Trusting my motivations. 

It's a long and curving road to that level of validation. I'm further down that road than I used to be, but I can quite see the end just yet.

linking up with Writer's Workshop

Helping Others Learn to Help

Today I am going to be part of a presentation to help counselors in training understand a little more about PTSD from the survivors perspective. They provided me with a list of questions, so I'm sharing them, along with my answers, here. 

1. How did diagnosis go for you?

My husband and I went into counseling together because we didn't seem to be connecting well. He really wanted to talk to someone. I didn't. After a few initial sessions, the counselor asked to meet with me alone for a few sessions. We talked about an assault that occurred in college. I felt my husband and I had dealt with it, but it became obvious it was still causing disturbances for me. I had begun having intrusive thoughts about the episode, and nightmares that were difficult to describe. I became anxious and lightheaded on my way to counseling sessions. Eventually I recalled an episode from my childhood that I had never told anyone about, and that opened the door for a diagnosis of PTSD and an understanding that I had been abused as a child, and re-victimized as an adult. I found a certain amount of comfort in having a specific diagnosis, because it removed the personal stigma of "just being crazy", and replaced it with options for treatment and hope for recovery.

2. How was treatment for you?

I've seen 2 different counselors over the course of my diagnosis and treatment. Initially I began with a marriage and family therapist. He used cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT) to help me begin to recognize the abuse for what it was, and encouraged me to journal. In the beginning about all I could do was write, and then bring the work to him. He would read through my journaling and then ask me questions to open discussion of the things I had written about. Later I moved to a specialist in PTSD and continued with CBT, but also added EMDR in an effort to address the emotional responses I was having in addressing the repressed memories.

3. Can you tell us a little about how EMDR works from a client perspective?

In my sessions, an episode is chosen. We determine a visual to represent the episode, and then identify what the negative belief is that I currently hold, then we establish the positive belief I would like to have. There are two scales that are used to determine where I am -- one determines how truthful I believe the positive belief to be, and the other identifies how disturbed I am by the memory we are working on. Bilateral stimulation is used, which in my case means that my therapist pats my hands while I allow the episode to play out in my head. The room is silent and my eyes are closed during this phase. After a certain amount of time (I think around 2 minutes?) she stops patting and slides her hands from mine, and I begin to recount what I saw play out in my head. She takes extensive notes, and when I finish, picks a new location in the memory as the beginning point, then we begin the process again. We may do this 2-4 times in 90 minute session. She checks in with me at least twice to see if my answers have changed on the two scales. Generally what happens is as the belief in the positive message increases the disturbance decreases. Once we have completed the EMDR itself, we spend the remaining portion of the session processing the information and doing relaxation exercises.

4. What were some turning points in your treatment?

I remember when I began seeing the first therapist, he asked me how I had felt before I began counseling and experiencing the panic, disturbing dreams, etc. I answered that I felt afraid. He replied, "Not all the time?" And I said yes, most of the time. I had never told anyone about these feelings, and never fully acknowledge them to myself until that moment. When I told him about the first memory of abuse (which I couldn't identify as abuse, but rather as something terrible I had done), I recounted the episode to him with my eyes closed. When I finished, I peeked a look at him, and asked if he believed me. He assured me did, and then I ask why he believed me. He answered with a question -- why wouldn't he believe me? Both of those sessions help me recognize that this was a safe environment to begin to really look at my past.
When I changed therapists, I remember at the initial meeting with the specialist, after I had told her, what I call, "the quick and dirty" version, she said she believed she could help me. That "believe" was wonderful to hear. She didn't say she thought or hoped she could help, but rather she believed she could help me. Early on in my work with her, she was helping me to understand that simply size difference between a child and an adult was scary in and of itself. She asked me to stand up and she stood and faced me. We discussed that we were essentially the same size and she verified that I did not feel afraid in the situation. Then she stepped up into her chair, now towering over me. I immediately fell onto the couch, cowering in a fetal position. That visceral reaction helped me to understand that these memories were true, and just how much terror I was holding inside.

5. What are some things outside of therapy that have helped in healing?

I tried to reclaim portions of my childhood. I got my self a stuffed animal, Yolie, which led to other stuffed animals. I started coloring as a safe creative outlet. I learned more about prayer beads, and began making them. Having something concrete to hold on to when the panic started was very helpful in keeping me grounded in the present. For our 25th anniversary my husband asked me to learn to scuba dive, and I did! Every positive step forward has helped me in my healing path.

CSA, PTSD, EMDR, SAMM and Other Acronyms that Mean Nothing to the General Populace

I throw around a lot of acronyms on here. It's the nature of my history, diagnosis, and life. Sometimes when I'm talking with other people, I forget that they don't know what all those letter mean. So today I'm giving you a crash course in CSA and it's lingo. 

That's the first one. CSA is child sexual abuse. Essentially it is a subset of child abuse in which the abuser uses a child for sexual gratification.

PTSD is more commonly recognized. Post traumatic stress disorder is generally seen in veterans, but is also common in survivors of abuse, survivors of accidents and natural disasters. It is an anxiety disorder that develops following some form of life-threatening or perceived life-altering trauma.

There are many forms of treatment for PTSD, but one of the most successful is EMDR. Eye movement desensitization reprogramming therapy "combines dual attention to a traumatic memory with back-and-forth eye movements, or alternating sound or vibrations. The sensory stimulation triggers the brain's 'investigatory response' that leads to neurophysiological changes that diminish or resolve the effects of trauma." (citation)

SAMM is the acronym for Sexual Assault Awareness Month which is April.

I hope this information gives you a starting place if you are a survivor, friend or loved one of a survivor, or just interested in knowing more about helping survivors.

Peace and blessings.

Cherished

I have cherished her as long as I can remember. Since the Christmas morning I rocked her in my new red rocking chair. She was my constant companion throughout my childhood. A witness to some of the horrors. The only comfort at times. I mistreated her at times -- unintentionally of course.

She came with a pink plastic crib. Dressed in a pink gingham bubble suit. Over the years those were lost, and the mother made more clothes for her. As a teenager, I still gave her a place of honor in my room.

She moved with me when I married. And I allowed my daughter to occasionally play with her. But she was mine.

Not long after the diagnosis of PTSD and beginning to unravel my past, I found a doll doctor. A lovely lady who did repairs from her home and treated these beings with the honor they deserved.

It was difficult having her away from me, but when she returned it was worth it. She was refreshed. She was getting a second chance. And maybe I was too. It was turning point for both of us.

She is cherished still. She sits in a place of honor at my tea table. She and I have traveled long and treacherous roads together. 

And we have miles to go before we sleep.

Dahlia

linking up with Five Minute Friday

The Perp's Depressed

Thanksgiving brings out the best in people . . . well not always. This Thanksgiving was no different. First a little history. Several years ago after being diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder, I told my parents that I would not attend family get togethers as long as this particular abuser was present. This was very hard for me to say to them for a variety of reasons: I hate confrontation; I thought it would be obvious to them that I would not want to eat with a man who had raped me; I was not used to standing up for myself. Unfortunately they chose to have him continue as a guest in their house instead of supporting and understanding my feelings. Since that time (some 8 years ago) I have not been to holiday gatherings at my parents house. No Thanksgiving, no Christmas, no Easter, no Mother's Day, no Father's Day, no July 4th -- none of them. Every time a holiday comes around, I wish that I could be part of a familial celebration. I like the ideas of traditions and extended family, but I can't get past having to be in his presence for that to happen. It makes the celebration feel like a lie, not to mention that fact that no one mentions the gigantic elephant in the middle of the room!


Anyway, my dd went to my parents' house for Thanksgiving dinner this past week. She celebrated with us at my father in law's house, and then went to see the other side of the family. Shortly after she left our house, I received a text message from her telling me that the perp and his wife weren't coming because he is depressed and his doctor had recommended they get away for the weekend. I'll admit many thoughts rushed through my head at this point. Some were not very nice! What does he have to be depressed about? Seriously! He's gotten off scott free from where I sit. But almost immediately, I thought, I wouldn't wish depression on anyone. I hope he gets help. I hope he feels better. I think that's a good sign. It validates my belief that I have forgiven him. 


What actually stuck in my craw was the realization that my parents had KNOWN he wasn't coming, but didn't take the opportunity to see if I would have liked to be at their dinner table for Thanksgiving. For 8 years I have worried about their feelings. How my absence was impacting them. Was it hard for them to enjoy their holiday without their younger daughter present? Did they miss me? Were they angry with me for not being there? This Thanksgiving answered some of those questions, and not in a good way. Apparently, I don't cross their minds in relation to holidays much at all. 


Now believe it or not, I don't think this was a deliberate or malicious act on their part. I believe it never crossed their minds that here was a golden opportunity -- an olive branch that they could extend to me. Yes they are that shallow. And yes it hurts all over again. I thought about confronting them with the situation, but I've determined that confrontations with them never seem to lead anywhere positive for me. The anticipation of the confrontation just leads to stress and anxiety, and I just don't need that. 


So last night, I went to their house and ate a turkey sandwich, and sat around talking about nothing of any significance. Part of me wondered why I bother, but another part of me embraced a little bit of familial celebration. 


I just hope someone will smack me up side my head if I ever pull anything like this with my kids!