On Fear and Trust and Tears

Rage is an odd thing.  A foreign thing, at least my own.  I'm too familiar with outside rage, abusers rage, rage that most people have, but rarely recognize as such.   All anger makes me panic, even my own.   Stretching into who I am, when I strip away all that I was told I was, taught I was, brainwashed to believe I was....is a bit like trying on clothing that is two sizes too big.  There's all this room for me to move and space for me to discover and grow.  There is wonder at the magic of some things about me and fear at some parts I find as well.

I feel a bit as I did on the beginning of this healing journey.  Terrified and yet in awe of all that I see, all that I can be and all that I am leaving behind.   No, I'm not the "Perfect" girl that the abusers labeled me, and that I knew always was a lie.   But I'm also not the "dirty" girl or the "slut" or any other label they chose to beat me down with.   So what does that leave, or more importantly WHO does that leave?

Yesterday, in my Women's Mindfulness Group, I came undone.   Surrounded by these intelligent, caring, beautiful, inspiring and strong women, I opened my mouth and heart and told them my deepest fear.  I bared my soul, crying and terrified, telling them how stuck I feel just now, that I am busy rejecting and running away from what comes next on this healing path... and that it feels like no matter what I do I can't seem to STOP rejecting and fighting it, even though I know the only way out.. is through.  I told them my deepest fear, of that god forsaken door and what may lay behind it. 

The abusers were good at what they did.  All of them.   They worked very hard to create an abuser.. in me, of me.   Brainwashing, hours of fear and terror, darkness and pain, threats and torture.... all to make sure I would become one of them.  That I would be complicit in their abuse and torture.

What if they succeeded?   I know, already, that I was forced to do things, that haunt me every day of my life, every hour.   Things I will never forget and have yet to forgive myself for... despite the fact I was forced to do them, both physically and in every other way.   What if there is more behind that damn door?   What if I accept what's behind the door, open it and find, that I am just like the abusers?  That I have conned myself and everyone else.

As I cried my way through telling my Group, one member tip-toed over and sat behind me, rocking with me and holding me, and as I looked to each of these remarkable women - all that I saw, ALL I saw, was love, acceptance and support....and reflected back to me, Who they saw.  They do not see an evil person, a dark person, an abusive person at all when they look at me... What they see is a woman who is a survivor and who is strong and is fighting to heal and who radiates light and love.  That is who I strive to be, who I hope I am... and I am forever changed by seeing that reflected in their eyes.

Today I gave myself permission to have a slow morning, and then I reclaimed my Yoga and Mediation practice.   For the first time in ten years, I truly reclaimed my spiritual practice, what feels most like home to me.   I cannot express what this means to me, or how hard I've fought to get it back.   I continued the day taking care of myself, seeking balance and trying to trust that I am NOT who the abusers tried so hard to create.  Trusting that in this too I win, and they, well they have lost, forever.

I am still tired and soul weary.   I am still scared and trying to sort out my way to acceptance of what comes next on this journey.  But I am hopeful.  I am blessed to have the support I do, in my sister, in my sisters of my Women's group, in my therapist - who has held my hand on this healing journey for almost 9 years now, in good friends.  I am blessed.

And too, I am blessed by all of you who are survivors, or friends of survivors or loved ones of survivors.  Thank you for reading.   Thank you for walking your path.  Thank you for inspiring me in moments I feel I can't go on.  Thank you.

May this be a blessed and beautiful day for you~

This Body....

Question
BY MAY SWENSON
Body my house
my horse my hound  
what will I do
when you are fallen

Where will I sleep  
How will I ride  
What will I hunt

Where can I go
without my mount  
all eager and quick  
How will I know  
in thicket ahead
is danger or treasure  
when Body my good  
bright dog is dead

How will it be
to lie in the sky
without roof or door  
and wind for an eye

With cloud for shift  
how will I hide?

My body. This body, just here, just now, that I mistreat in so many ways.  Not that I mean to mistreat it, at least not consciously.. but I do nonetheless.   I'm not sure the "whys" of it.   Though there are many that are fairly clear.   Fear of the bathroom, shower, bathtub.. Fear of the Kitchen, the Bedroom.. fear of fear of fear.    So I will make mad dashes into the kitchen to grab something, anything to eat.. anything that won't take time and effort, anything that won't keep me in the kitchen for more than five minutes before I dash back out to safety.

There was a time before PTSD that I showered twice a day, every day, without fail.  I was beyond compulsive about it.  Now though, when I step into the bathroom, or really before I do actually step inside, I pause just at the doorway my toes just at the edge of the carpet as though I were about to jump off some unimaginably high cliff into shark infested waters.   I hesitate, do I really need to shower today?   Do I really need to brush my teeth? Comb my hair? Use the toilet?   When I stare into my apartments plain little bathroom, that has seen no horror show, no abuse, nothing that should instill this utter terror... superimposed are scenes from my history, different bathrooms, different showers, different colored tiles and linoleum.. shimmering as though it were an oily imprint hovering over the present.  I hear shouted words, gasping breaths and muffled tears, I feel the bodies memories of broken ribs, cuts and skin scrubbed raw, is it any wonder I feel the urge to run away from that space?  Isn't it more amazing that I ever actually do step inside?

I am 43 years old.  I was never meant to be here, alive and at this age.  That was never "Their" intention.   Some days I feel like an imposter or like I've somehow conned my way to this age and at any moment it will be taken away from me, this life... before I ever get to truly live.  Some days, I feel as though I have no right to be here, well, most days right now.   But there are moments, moments where I know I'm meant to be here, that I have something important to give.. to offer.  That there must be some reason I lived through all I have, have fought as hard as I have and that I'm still here, breathing, being.

This body of mine has been through SO much, so much, I wish I could be more kind to it.  I wish I could love it, accept it, be grateful and take better care of it.   I do try, and I have gotten better at it.   Some days it's a vocal thing, stepping off that carpet in the doorway and onto the bathroom linoleum, all the while, saying aloud "this is MY bathroom.  This is my Sink, This is my Shower, This is my bathtub, and YOU, you are dead and gone and you don't get to have this space."  The days that the ghosts of dead abusers lurk around every corner, it helps, sometimes I repeat it over and over, sometimes shouting it, and I wonder what my neighbors must think.   But, it works, so let the neighbors think I'm crazy.

I want peace... I yearn for a time when this healing process is not so in my face every moment of every damn day.   So the question becomes.. how to care for this  body and keep it well enough to enjoy when I do get there, when I am able to truly be free from this constant battle.   How to learn to care about this body, care for this body, give it some love and attention.. rather than hating it and mistreating it.   How to feel the body memories and not take them out on the body.  How to feel the aches and pains, spasms and cramps.. and not blame this poor body as it tells it's story.   It's a puzzle, that I'm still sorting into little piles, trying to put it together in both my heart and mind, and yes.. body.

May this day be a blessed one for you....

......this Moment

I've been sick for the last week, or two?   It's all sort of blurred together with apartment inspections and trying to just do the daily mandatory stuff that we all have to do.   It's sort of typical for me to get really ill after a period of lack of sleep due to night terrors or anxiety or flashbacks or all of the above as it's been for the last month or so.   I think at a certain point the body takes over, getting it's rest in whatever way it has to.

I'm tired of being sick. I'm tired of flashbacks, body memories, anxiety, panic, sorrow, loss, pain, fear.... I would like a bit of "normalcy" for a time.  Is that asking too much?   I'm not asking to be done.  Though I've been demanding that ever since I first got diagnosed with PTSD.  But, please could I have a little more peace, joy, breathing room?   There is this urge to scream at the Universe, the Divine Spirit, God, Goddess - cut me a tiny bit of slack?

Even as I'm typing these words, I'm hearing this internal debate.  How I can ask that, when I know so long as I resist, these things will persist and with a vengeance.   And still here I sit, feeling like a tightly closed fist... feeling, knowing, believing... to open my fingers even the tiniest bit, means Death.  This enormous wave of terror washes over me even at the mere thought, my breath catches in my throat, my chest seizes up, hands beginning to shake, sweat beginning to bead my brow - all at merely considering trying to relax into whatever must come next.

What memory awaits behind that blasted door.  The door that has haunted and plagued me for as long as I  can remember in this healing process.  Knowing something terrifying or heartbreaking or both lays just on the other side of that god forsaken door.  I'm not sure if it's better knowing it's not an imaginary door, but rather a door that did exist and that did hold terror behind it.  I think it's better, it at the very least makes me feel a little less crazy.

So, how to stop fighting the process?   How do I relax or release into whatever must come next when everything inside me is screaming at me to run?  Sadly I don't have the answer just yet.   I will take this question into therapy this week.....   I will sit to meditate today, for in reclaiming that space.. and my right to have that space, I will find peace, quiet, joy.   I will walk my pup today and find joy in the rain, trees, grass and the joy that Bella has when we are out together.   I will write today,  another chapter in the true stories, the deep down, black and white and red, agony and tears truth of my history - because it's what needs to be done, no matter how terror-filled I am as I do it.   I will remember to breathe, leave room for laughter, music... all things that I know will help push the darkness back a bit.

 I will try to remember that so long as I'm trying to fight the river, trying to swim against the current, I will make no progress... and to be my most whole self.... I have to keep working, keep pushing through the memories, allowing them in and through.  It's an odd combination.. keep working.. and at the same time.. relax, lie back and go with the river's current. 

I will find my way through to my most whole self.. I deserve it, I really do.

Thank you for reading, thank you for your own hard work.... I hope this day is a blessed and beautiful one for you~