It's All A Balancing Act...

This healing process is like a rollercoaster, sweeping up, higher and higher and higher until I feel like I can fly and then plunging down, so fast it feels like I'm going to be sick and wondering all the while why I got on the ride in the first place. Except I don't. Well, maybe, sometimes I do.

I've been doing a lot of self care, battling my own inner critics and the old tapes from the abusers saying: "you don't take care of you, you take care of others" or "you can shower all you want and you still won't be clean" or "no matter what you do, you don't deserve to love, no one will ever love you, you are simply a toy to be used." But, there's a difference now, a small voice that speaks up, whispering that none of those words matter, that those words don't belong to me, they belong to long dead abusers and I won't honor them anymore. A voice that whispers that it doesn't matter if I don't deserve love, because I'm learning to love myself. A whisper that my only real job right now IS to take care of me.

I'm so full of gratitude for those tiny voices from deep inside that are speaking up and helping to combat the ancient tapes of the past, of the abusers. I'm grateful for the circle of support I have in family, friends, my therapist, my support group. I've reclaimed my meditation practice, changed the way I eat (mostly), reclaimed my bathroom and kitchen and I'm slowly making my living space someplace to feel at peace.

But there are still days like today, where night terrors plague me all night long, and there is a depression that threatens to drown me, and exhaustion seems so thick that I cannot breathe. I'm learning to stay present even to this space that holds sadness and depression. I'm learning to not question why or how, but simply to be aware of it, hold it almost as tenderly as I do the moments full of joy. This week I ate things I shouldn't have, and I'm feeling guilty and knowing I will feel worse because of it. But even with that, I am trying to simply be aware of it, not judge it, not beat myself up over it, but simply to recognize it and let it go.

I am still learning the balancing act between black and white. Between doing nothing and over doing so much that I am beyond exhausted. Learning and teaching myself that it's not only okay for me to set time aside for art and writing, but it's imperative, it's what I'm on this planet to do and that it's just as important, more important than doing the laundry or washing the floor. Writing still feels selfish, like I'm doing something frivolous, that any moment I will be caught, that I'm doing something wrong. Old tapes, again, rising up to poison the present moment.... so, taking baby steps to remind myself to be aware of those old ideas, those old brain washed thoughts, and to soften into allowing myself the room to express myself in paint and collage and words.

I am 44 going on 19, learning what works for me and what doesn't, what I truly want and need versus what I was taught. Learning how to be a friend, or a sister, or simply me. I'm enough, and I deserve to do what makes my heart happy, I deserve to take good care of myself, I deserve to follow my heart's desire and write. I deserve to play and laugh and feel joy with no guilt.

So, today I am being kind to myself, simply being aware of the sadness and the fact that I ate wrong, and trying very hard not to judge myself. Learning to give myself the same compassion I would give to everyone else. Compassion, that's my lesson for today.

Be kind to yourself, show yourself the same compassion you show anyone else, thank you for your work, your healing, your words and your presence to my own words... May this day be a blessed and beautiful one for you. <3

The Taste Of Fredom

“Love opens the doors into everything, as far as I can see, including and perhaps most of all, the door into one's own secret, and often terrible and frightening, real self.” 

― May Sarton, Mrs. Stevens Hears the Mermaids Singing

Doors.   Lots and lots of doors, one after another, running, tripping unsure if I'm running toward the next door or away from it.  A crazy mixed up maze of door after door, all of them the same, that particular color of rust...the door knob looks menacing and I expect the thing to come to life and grab my hand, dragging me in, snapping it's teeth, drool dripping from its gaping jaw.  

But it's just a door.  A door from my past, not here and now, but from the way back time when I was little and lost and unable to protect myself.   I'm not that tiny girl anymore, I have her by the hand, Me.... the grown up version, the kick ass version, me NOW.. who would never let ANY child be hurt, not even herself.   And so, I grab the door knob and look once more into little, tiny me's eyes, and reach out, grabbing that damn door handle, which after all, IS just a door knob and yank open the door, smiling because even me, the NOW me, thought perhaps behind that door was death, but.....it's just an open door, a surrender, an acceptance of what was, and not what IS.

Opening  that door and walking through, knowing that nothing and no one can touch us now....is freedom.  It's the way through, and my path and my goal all at once.   Every single time I open that damn door and walk through I win, we win.... and they, the abusers lose, again.

I am not afraid anymore.  Right here, right now, I am free of fear and able to look through that door, step through it and let what comes, come.   The other side of that doorway is simply what has been  and not, what IS.   What IS:  I am 44, a writer, a Survivor and learning to be a woman who thrives, not just exists, not just goes on, not just fights for this moment and the next, but who revels in it, in this life.

Truth is, every moment is a gift, every moment that I am still here and doing the healing work is a victory and I am learning to feel the joy that is present in every moment, unhindered or bound by fear.   The Truth is, I've already Survived, I've already lived the horrors and they can't touch me now.   I need only witness them, those fragments of the abuse that need to be seen and heard and felt and recognized, given  honor and gently held.  

This is a new space, uncharted territory.  This space where I hold and respect and honor the memories, where I give them the time and love and space to be, and to be done.  This space of light and joy and this sense of wonder at it all, this process, the Survival, the awareness that each new moment is a gift if I only recognize it... feels like freedom.. like running down a deserted beach, feet splashing through the waves, sun on my face and wind in my hair.   It feels like riding a bike down a hill, when it almost feels like flying.  Feels like peace, like possibility and laughter and love.

I understand and accept that tomorrow may feel different.   That this process is ever-changing, and tomorrow or the next day or the day after that may bring back fear, terror, but I also KNOW that this space, just here, will forever be part of the core of me now.  This certainty that I can do this, that I am on the right path, that I need only take the next step and trust in this process, it will not fail me, I will not fail me.. we have already won, and we win every single moment that we are alive.

Thank you for the work you are doing, for the steps you take on your healing path, thank you for being a Survivor and lighting the path ahead for me, take a few minutes today, try to honor and cherish yourself, you Survived, you won, be good to you..... 

I'm a Survivor

I'm afraid.   Afraid of what comes next.  Afraid of what lies behind that damn door.  The door that has been haunting me for years now, or maybe taunting me is a better word, or both at the same time.   Huge, rusted metal, looming bigger and bigger as though I am Alice and have taken a sip and now I'm tiny, insignificant in the face of this huge, big FEAR.   Red light seeping out from around the edges of the door the scent of smoke and something darker, dirtier, nastier that makes me want to cover my face and run as hard and as fast as I can in the opposite direction.

The thing is, I already know some of what's behind that damn door.  The thing is, I wish I didn't.  It would be so much easier to never know, to leave those nasty bits of memory where they are, lost, buried, forgotten.   Easier, nicer, safer, better.... but in truth, I know it would be none of those things.   Because in the disassociation of those memories, in the burial and forgetting of them, comes dis-ease.   Life without peace,  without safety, without joy and laughter.   And yet, there is the FEAR.

I'm softening, easing all my walls down bit by bit, doing it so softly and slowly that the movement isn't easily seen or recognized.  Hoping, I can get past the FEAR if it doesn't notice that I'm doing anything at all.

Blood, gore, fear, smoke, candles, hoods, darkness, flickering, a low thrum of mumbled chanting, terror, pain and the fear that if I ease those walls down too much, if I really look, listen and be the witness to what is behind that damn door, it will kill me, I will cease to exist at all, or be so uncomfortable in my own skin that I cannot go on.

I want white wash, I want an eraser that works on my past, making it clean and wholesome and good and .... a fantasy.   It's ironic that before my memories started leaking through, I felt guilty that I had the "perfect" childhood.   That irony tastes like blood and sour like vinegar and like ashes from a funeral pyre.   I want joy, I want freedom, I want big bravery that lets me say "BRING IT, bring your worst, I can take it, I can hear it all, remember it all right now, so I dare you.. Fucking.. Bring... IT."

But, I'm not in that space, in fact I don't know how to find my bravery just now, it seems to have gone on sabbatical leaving me empty and scared and bound.   Acceptance.  Right, okay, no problem. Except it is.   Except I don't know how to do it this acceptance thing, this softening thing, this allowing what comes next thing.  

For now, I'm accepting a new version of me who deserves to have a clean kitchen, to not be afraid of her own bathroom, who deserves a clean welcoming bedroom to sleep in at night, who deserves enough self care to get well and stay well.

And inside the old voices clamor and grow angry that I think I deserve anything at all.   Old VHS tapes of negative commentary on me, how I look, how I clean or don't, on what I deserve.. nothing.  Eject.   I yearn to tape over the fucking things with positive input, positive imagery, positive thoughts and feelings and desires.

I do deserve good things, whole things, light-filled things, joy, happiness and laughter... a clean house and good food and good people who support and care for me.   Maybe, just maybe, I don't need the BIG Brave, but just a little bit of brave.. just enough to crack that door and let a little bit through,  Maybe that's enough?  Just maybe I can take it in in small doses, small bites, and one small bite at a time, one after another will not only be enough but is the key to getting through this fire of healing.

Is that acceptance?   It's a kind of reclaiming, learning how to do things in small bits and letting that be enough.   Maybe, I can see, feel, hear, know that what's behind that damn door can't hurt me now, not really.   I am a Survivor, and I have lived it already.   I am a Survivor and I am strong and brave, a Warrior.   I am a Survivor and I can do this, I can reclaim every bit of memory and let it be fertilizer that makes me grow stronger, taller, thriving with life.   I am a Survivor and whatever IS behind that door, can't touch that.  I'm a Survivor and every single fucking moment that I'm alive and doing the work, I WIN, and they lose.  I'm a Survivor, yes, yes I am.

Cultivating the Garden of Compassion

I've been fighting the urge to shut down, resist, run away from what comes next in my healing process for a very long time.   The door to what comes next looms in front of me and I feel clearly my body and mind and heart as terror washes over me and every muscle, every fiber of my being shouts: NO!    I've been working hard trying to figure out how to stop fighting, stop resisting, to let what comes, come.   And yet, still I found myself running the opposite direction.

All along I've known, the only way out is through, but knowing that and being able to go through are two separate things.   The internal terror from years of brain washing are fierce - flashing red lights, an ear-wrenching alarm sounding and screams of STOP, GO BACK, RUN, DEATH AHEAD are overwhelming.

Memories are knocking at the door, kinesthetic body memories sneaking through the cracks, sliding under it, making my body spasm and cramp and hurt.  And still, I've been resisting.

Perhaps I've been looking at the whole thing in the wrong way.   Could it be it's as simple as being more compassionate, more tender....having a little mercy for myself and whatever comes next?    Maybe I don't have to face it all with a fierce "Come and get me!" attitude, but rather a softening, a gentleness and understanding for it all.

I'm going to cultivate compassion, for myself, for this healing journey, for the memories to come, for the child I was and for the woman I will be.   It's strange that I have limitless compassion for all beings on this planet, except....myself.   I'm going to tend my inner garden, sowing seeds of compassion, tenderness, love....selfishly this time, all for me, who I am, who I was and who I will be.

In the end it seems, it's not about fighting or resisting or even silent acceptance.... it's about becoming as tender hearted toward myself as I am toward others.   It's about softness and opening up, trusting that as my petals open the sun will be there to help me grow, that the world won't end because I see my history or tell my story.   Those fears are old, like old VHS tapes, and it's time to record over them with a different story.  A story of survival, yes, but also a story of learning to thrive, grow, reach, be free and find joy.

Yes, there is still fear here, but also, tentatively....hope.   The truth is those that hurt me are dead, and those that aren't, well, they can't touch me now.   These memories, that damn door to what comes next, these body memories are asking me to simply be present to what WAS, not what is, or what will be.  I will honor them, and the strength of who I was to have survived it all.

Today I will begin gardening, kneel in the rich soil of my heart and begin turning the soil, making it ready for these seeds of compassion, tenderness, understanding, acceptance and love for myself.

Sometimes the answer we search for with such determination, is closer than our breath, if we only stop, listen, feel and be present, no matter how hard it seems.

There is a softness today,  in my body, mind, heart...and this is new and magical.  So, today I will whisper softly: "Come, come out, it's okay, I'm here and able and willing to listen and hear and see, we are safe now, but I will be your witness and we will be fine, more than fine, we will be whole." 

Thank you for your work, your compassion...for yourself and others... and for the light you shine on this healing path for me... I am grateful

From The Beginning....

From the very beginning she knew she was....broken.  Fractured down deep where no one could see.  Perfect. Slut. Dirty. How could she be all the things she was labeled at once?  She couldn't, wasn't and knew it, so what did that leave her, this small child/woman/baby/crone?  A liar.... she knew that much, for she wasn't perfect, could never be that unobtainable word, so she always knew she had to hide herself, the REAL her, hide herself buried so deep in the mountain of her body and soul that no one would see. 

Hide, under the covers, behind the door, in the closet, down deep inside at her very core, she always knew if she could hide well enough, no one could touch her......not really.  She became the absence of herself, the void, the empty shell, watching from far away as the abusers did their worst, and worse still, trading, selling, using, torturing....and she was the great emptiness.  She learned how to smile, or not to smile, how to look the right way in every moment.  Though often she guessed it wrong. Tossing on the wrong costume at the wrong moment and knew the moment she had by the glint in the abusers eye or the color of their face.

Becoming, with each misstep, a better chameleon.   A better charlatan,  salesman of lies.  She had to you see, to survive.. and to survive was all that mattered.   Well, not all that mattered, for in her search, her diving deep into the center of herself to hide, she found a mystery.   Down deep in her very heart, soul, self, there lie a beautiful waterfall, pouring into a breath taking body of water... she spent most of her time there, bathing in the pool, lying on it's banks.   She found the treasure that the abusers could never touch, never rip from her, never destroy.   She found she could be whole, when she dove into the waters of love, floating in that sweet, sacred pool, she found joy and unconditional love and knew she was THAT, and nothing and no one could take that from her.

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~ 

On Tears and Fear

I've been crying for days.   Crying at sappy commercials, TV shows with emotional story lines, the written word by writers I admire and in the cracks between all that, for love lost, years of my life lost and this strange space I'm in right now.    I'm tired, not body tired, but heart and soul tired.   This battle for healing, for becoming the most whole version of me I can be feels never-ending just here, just now.   I don't want to hear how the journey is a spiral and it only "feels" like I'm back at the beginning.  I want to know it, know it from deep down in my soul that this path is nearing completion.  I want to feel the sun, the light deep down, so deep inside that it illuminates all the darkness, burns it away leaving nothing but joy and love and light.

This space, just here is exhausting and feels unending.   A  moment that lasts for an eternity.   I'm tired of the darkness the abusers left behind, tired of questioning my own right to be here, alive, breathing.   I yearn to know peace...  To know that I deserve to be here, that I have a right to be here, that I don't have to apologize for the space I take up in this world.

In truth I feel as though I am false, that I somehow create a negative space, a black hole, that I shouldn't be here.   It's a battle between heart and mind.  My heart feels, knows that I have something to give to this world, that I want and can make a difference, even if it's in some infinitesimal way.  My mind argues, knowing that lives have been lost in my story.    That the abusers did damage far beyond what they did to me.. that there are empty places in this world where others should be doing their own healing.   Why did I survive?   Why me, here on this path, and not those that were lost along the way?

Perfect.   The label I was branded with so deeply, far more deeply than any physical brand could do, a branding of my heart and mind, of that unobtainable thing, perfection.   I have always felt I was a lie,  I knew I wasn't perfect, that fucking word that they tattooed on  me from birth.  

Somehow I have to stop resisting.   I am closed down like a fist, fingers wrapped tightly around thumb.   I want to scream to the universe that I cannot take another moment, another memory, any more knowledge of what I've survived, can it be enough that I did... survive?    But my body and mind are beating their drums, waiting to tell their story, and I know... I know, that so long as I resist, their war drums will grown louder, kinesthetic memories will continue and I will continue to feel like I'm drowning.

But to not resist?   To open to what comes next, feels like death.  I hear the sound of those damn hospital monitors, the sound of flat line, no breath, no beating heart, no brain waves, hear the wail of sirens, and terror rises up like water, choking me.  Death.   Because to break the rules, any  of them, always meant death.  There was no other thing.  If you remember you die.  If you tell you die. And yet here I am, putting word to paper, I am here and they are dead and gone.  Mostly.   Except when their not, in dream and night terror.. flashback and body memory.

There are stories I need to know, my body is reminding me that it needs me to listen with every panic, sweat filled night terror, every kinesthetic pain and spasm.

So, where does that leave me?   Still trying to sort out how to open that clenched fist, how to open my body and heart and mind to the truth, still trying to stop resisting no matter how loud those drum  rhythms of impending doom may sound.   In the face of terror how do I open, soften and simply be with what comes next? That is the piece I need to figure out just now.  And so here I am, putting word to page and fighting the screaming fear that is raging through me.... Today I will try to soften, just the littlest bit, instead of fighting the fear I will fight to unclench my hands, my  mind and just be, present.

I hear you body, I hear and I will do my best to listen, to feel, to see.  Today that will be enough.

Fear, PTSD and the Light

I remember when I was first diagnosed with PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) thinking, "Well, okay, I can handle this, and I won't be one of those people that has it for ten years or the rest of their lives, I'll be "done" soon."  I also remember asking my first therapist over and over at every session, "When will I be, like, you know, DONE." 

The first month or so was a nightmare, though looking back now I see the humor in it, the absolute chaos of it.  I was cold or hot, needed to be inside, no OUTSIDE, crying or laughing, laying down, no sitting UP, and if I misplaced something, my lighter for instance, the panic that would rush over me, Oh My God, WHERE IS MY LIGHTER?  Everything was a ten on a scale of one to ten.. there was no middle ground....It was all panic and fear and tears.  Flashbacks and horror, the world upside down and inside out.

This year marks ten years, ten years from the moment I had my first flashback, ten years of fighting my way through all the flashbacks, fear, night terrors, panic attacks, kinesthetic body memories and agoraphobia.

This year has been transformative for me, I have conquered the agoraphobia and am no longer bound to my home.   I have seen the light, tasted it, felt it run through my finger tips and bathed in it.  I have felt pure joy and abandon for the first time in my life.

And, now.. just when I felt my most whole, closer to freedom than I ever have, when I felt nothing on earth could stop me from doing anything I want, that I had won...

The rug beneath me was yanked out again, and I am lost in the sea of PTSD again, flashback, body memory, panic attack, sorrow and grief and yearning to scream out to the Universe: "This is NOT fair, I'm too tired, soul weary, I have fought too hard to be lost again, how strong am I expected to be?"

I am reminded of a quote my therapist shared with me from Mother Theresa:

“I know God will not give me anything I can't handle. I just wish that He didn't trust me so much.” ~Blessed Mother Teresa

Right? Hey God, Universe, Divine Spirit could you cut me some slack here? Could you NOT trust me so damn much? 

Despite feeling impossibly low and exhausted and empty, I went to both my group therapy and regular therapy this week.   I went after letting my Therapist know that I was on empty, that I had nothing to give, that I was a mess.

The women in my group amaze me, every single time we meet, I am in awe of their caring, support, unconditional love and acceptance.  I am blessed to know each of them, and learn from each of them every time we meet.  I learn how to be more whole, I learn that it's okay to simply be, me.

I went to group this week feeling I could not take the next step, I could not deal with this moment, let alone contemplate the next.  I went even though I was deep in mourning for the light, and terrified I would never see it again.

This amazing group of women held me safe, both literally and metaphorically.  They listened, and held each word I spilled out on the floor safe, without judgement, with compassion and love.  I looked in each of their eyes and saw the light reflected  back to me, felt the power of unconditional love and acceptance and  realized how very blessed I am.  I knew in those moments, and even now as i type this, that if I was not strong enough, they would be my strength, if I could not see the light, they would guide me, and that no matter how dark and impossible the next step might feel, they would help me find the way.

Today I feel so Graced, so Blessed. I have my sister who knows my history because it's her history too, who loves me and is a beacon of light on the path ahead. I have a Therapist who understands what I'm going through and always shines a light so I can find my next step, a group of women who I consider sisters who care about me unconditionally and support me on my path.  I have my best friend, who knows how hard this work is, who has been there and who loves and supports me in every moment.

I am blessed to still be on this planet, that alone is a Victory. Each step I take is a Victory.  Each moment I'm walking this healing path, I win.   I will take this next step toward the light, and the next step, and the next and the next and the one after that.


To all of you that are Survivors, I say thank you.  Thank you for surviving, thank you for doing the hard work of healing. Thank you for lighting the path ahead for all who may follow.  Thank you for being the brave Warrior that you are.

I wish each of you a beautiful and blessed day~

Fear

There is something about showing up to this page, to any page, that sends fear ricocheting through my body, head to toe, hands shaking, heart racing, that old too-familiar panic showing it's face.  Then I am forced to take a step back, and I wonder to myself, "Why?"   Why panic, fear, anxiety at this writing, the thing I love most in the world to do, why.. now that I know... that I dare to dream of writing as something I'm Supposed to do, rather than some stolen, hidden secret that I dare not imagine?

The "Why" is in the act itself.   The "why" is in daring to break the radio silence that is so ingrained, so trained into me, it feels closer than my own breath.  Don't tell.  Don't talk. Don't write. Don't even think about it.   Those dire warnings still carry the chemical, body remembered follow up of: ... Or Die.   I wonder is the anxiety and terror in part the bodies reaction to that dire warning, that follow up fact of death?  "Oh yes! If I talk/write/tell/whisper.. death."  says the body as my pen hits the paper or my fingers hit the keys.

And I'm full circle almost, and I feel as though I'm getting repetitive. Reclamation!   Even here, chest tight, breath fast, sweat beading on my brow, hands shaking as the letters appear on my screen... This space, this moment, these words... all MINE.   I claim them again and again every time a letter appears on this screen on this stark white terrifying background, each letter, each word, each phrase is a victory and is my own. Mine.

There is more work to be done today, more writing, probably the dark, scary writing that feels too oily black, thick and dark and tainted to ever see the light of day.   And I am scared.  Terrified. The urge to run, to NOT write it, to not put it on the page is strong and fierce like an undertow of the ocean, grasping at me, threatening to take me under.

That too, that terror, I claim as my own, the urge to run but the decision to NOT run, to let the fear be present but write the words anyway, I claim. Mine.  I wonder if the fear, the terror will ever fade completely one day?   I wonder too, will letting those dark, scary, fear-filled words hit the page, despite the terror, will that begin to shed light where no light has reached before?   Will surrendering to the process, accepting it all, fear, shame, anxiety and words written despite it all.. transform the words into something entirely different than I could have ever imagined?  Perhaps so, perhaps not... but either way, they will be MY words, written by me, claimed by me, owned by me.  Mine.

May your day be filled with love and light.

This Moment.. just now

I have always loved Fall.   There is something in the way light falls, at least here in the North West, it takes on this golden, buttery, soft, rich, full hue, something in the very quality of the light itself seems to shift.... I always have this sense that at this time of  year, if I just reach out, just a bit farther, I can grasp the light itself, and hold it for my own.  Or perhaps it's that I feel held, cradled in that sweet golden light, and that I can rest at last.

Then too, there is the dance of the leaves at this time of year.   The way they slip from their moorings and begin a slow spiraling dance down to the ground, whispering softly their secrets that I can never quite hear.   Watching them scatter off the toes of my shoes as I walk, every movement a dance, an offering up, a surrender.. and it makes me want to run, or  perhaps dance with them, falling to the ground, laying on my back amongst them, one of them.. surrendering myself as I stare at the sky above and ponder what comes next.

This Moment, And The Next.  The beginning of this blog was somehow scarier and harder and more anxiety filled than I thought it would be.   I see it as a reclamation.  A beginning, statement of what and who I am, where I want to be, where I'm going, where I've been, and hopefully along the way it will all become clear and cohesive and maybe, just maybe, some word, or turn of phrase will ease someone elses way on their path.

So, I begin this on the first day of my favorite month, as the sun streams in my window and the breeze seems to be calling me outside to play.  I had a bout of fierce anxiety and had to stop for a bit, reach out and ask for help. (Something that is still fiercely hard for me to do and seems still, fraught with danger.)  I had to step away from the page and the ink that hits the page and makes solid and real what I sometimes still wish were a dream or made up.. or untrue.

The first "This Moment" came unexpectedly and snuck in quietly unannounced on a day very similar to this one.. filled with the scent of apples and burning wood, the light golden and soft and the leaves beginning to abandon their branches.   I still see the first "Moment" clearly in my mind's eye like a snapshot... except with taste and scent and touch.... a nearly perfectly kept memory, something I have very few of.

I feel myself grasping for this to be so much clearer than it feels.  I feel as though I need to fill this page with back story, history for it to be understood, felt, accepted. But perhaps today, just here is enough, feeling the Fall breeze play across my skin as it did ten years ago, when I began to truly live.  On a sweet September afternoon, when a simple question.. an innocent question, began to let the light in.   The light of the truth, the light of knowledge and of more questions.  That was the first day of my life I could truly claim as my own.  The day I realized, I am a Survivor.   The day I committed to healing, to finding my way along my path of healing to the end, no matter what.  

That was the first day I realized the only way to continue, to go through something so hard, and exhausting, terrifying and overwhelming is one step at a time.   This Moment, and the next, and the next.  That's all I had to worry about.   And it still holds true to this day. 

This Moment.   And this Moment.  It's enough, for today.

May you have a blessed and beautiful day.