SHATTERED- CHAPTER 22: SHATTERED

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or more commonly PTSD: I wondered if that applied to me after years of overly exaggerated responses to everyday encounters, like my kids, husband, or anyone coming from behind or around a corner. I feel a rush of terror, let out a scream and jump away from the perceived threat as if my life were in danger.

Kids thought it funny and scared me purposely until I turned on them, snapping, “That’s NOT funny, stop it!” I attempted to explain, “I get scared very easily and become extremely frightened when you do that.”

It began to sink in that others don’t react as I do; my responses are out of whack. I read about trauma and its effects. Could this be it, so long after childhood?

Trauma causes post-traumatic stress, and one symptom is an exaggerated startle response. That must be it, but what’s the timeframe? I didn’t read anything about how long it lasts. A lifetime? Mine does. I read about veterans returning from war, the suicides, drinking, and the inability to hold down jobs or their marriages. I have deep empathy for them. But I wouldn’t compare myself to them. War? I can’t imagine what they saw or experienced. It’s no comparison. Or is it? I underestimate what was expected of me, how I was trained to feel, which wasn’t what I really felt. I was trained to act like I loved my attackers, so I lived in terror but had to hide it, even from myself.

Like leaves in the wind, parts of me scattered to places I couldn’t reach. How much energy does it take one’s psyche to repress a violent traumatic event, or more than one of them? I became two selves: one that cannot remember, and one that remembers but remains inaccessible. I broke in two, leaving fragments along the way, hard to pick up and paste back into one, not the same one anyway. I am not the me that I could have been had I stayed whole and safe from attack. Our psyche protects us by splitting our spirit or soul apart from physical and emotional trauma. But then we are left that way, broken, with no clue how to put ourselves together again, like Humpty Dumpty.

Could that explain why I don’t have the energy others seem to naturally possess? Repeated and excessive bursts of the hormone cortisol, meant to give us sudden energy quickly, to move us away from life-threatening danger, would spurt through my veins daily, depleting precious reserves. And draining that substance, which was meant to be used and resupplied much less frequently, took a toll on both my nervous and immune systems, burning them up. Chronic fatigue became normal. Though my body’s systems have healed somewhat, full recovery seems unlikely. The glands under my neck, and most likely elsewhere, pop out after very little stress. If I don’t pay attention and go at my own pace, I could weaken what’s left and cause even more damage. But it’s unfamiliar territory, respecting my own needs, because I tend to compare myself with others, and compared to them, I appear like a slug.

Energy used to protect my inner self from annihilation taxed my emotional and physical being, especially during my years as a nurse. But that didn’t stop me from trying to keep up with everyone, if that’s what it took to be “normal.” Being on edge, watchful, crouched internally and cowering in a defensive position for the next attack, exhausted my already limited energy supplies. Just carrying on a conversation with anyone who felt threatening permanently weakened resources over time—and nearly everyone felt threatening.

I craved social outlets, connections, and closeness, but when around others I buzzed anxiously. That feeling, like the excessive speed I experimented with in college, took precedence. I feared connections, yet needed them. I spent much of my adult life split, pieces flying about me like busy electrons, a carnival game trying to catch them and make them stick in the holes. Meditation began to bring the parts together, the feeling of wholeness brand new and magical, even if only momentary.

Meditating doesn’t take away pain, but rather takes me into it. Creative solutions to everyday dilemmas often occur. There’s new evidence suggesting it can help heal a brain damaged by PTSD (1), but I knew none of the latest research over ten years ago when I began practicing meditation. 

1. See Buddha’s Brain: The Practical Neuroscience of Happiness, Love, and Wisdom by Rick Hanson and Richard Mendius for more information.

A DANGEROUS FAMILY

Two from the origin family contacted me on the same day about different issues. Miraculous sleep from the past two weeks spiraled to C-PTSD, my body disconnecting, and hypervigilant in the night to keep me alive.

My body splits when threatened and anyone from the family of origin is a threat. Vulnerability occurs if sleeping, so my body stays awake scanning for danger. The peaceful place inside and out- stolen.

The four attackers are dead, yet the surviving three siblings collude, conspiring as my mother did, grooming me into submission with lies- all for the sake of family, a family that attacked, tore up, and ripped me apart by the silence forced on me and still enforced.

C-PTSD

 

It lives internally like a bomb to explode, the repressed memory of Danny’s rape. That must be why nights sometimes become intolerable, the tiniest concern blowing up causing insomnia. Certainly nothing a friend might have said like thought previously in the last post.

There is no cure.

The following is from WHAT IS C-PTSD: https://www.beautyafterbruises.org/what-is-cptsd

It’s likely you may already be familiar with PTSD. You may know it as the condition that affects war veterans and survivors of car accidents, natural disasters, and isolated acts of violence. Complex PTSD, however, is specific to severe, repetitive trauma that typically happens in childhood – most often abuse.

On the surface, it may seem like PTSD and Complex PTSD are none too dissimilar. They both come as the result of something deeply traumatic; they cause flashbacks, nightmares, and insomnia; and, they can make people live in fear even when they are safe. But, at the very heart of C-PTSD – what causes it, how it manifests internally, its lifelong effects (including medically), and its ability to reshape a person’s entire outlook on life – is what makes it considerably different.

C-PTSD, it is most commonly seen in trauma that occurs during childhood. They are not only wholly powerless in every way, they’re also just beginning to establish those larger concepts for the very first time. Additionally, because the brain is in its most malleable, vulnerable stages of growth, this severe trauma interrupts the entire course of their psychologic and neurologic development. For some, it may even lead to an additional dissociative disorder.

The psychological and developmental implications of that become complexly woven and spun into who that child believes themselves to be — creating a messy web of core beliefs much harder to untangle than the flashbacks, nightmares and other posttraumatic symptoms that come later.

Another important thing to know is that the trauma to children resulting in C-PTSD (as well as dissociative disorders) is usually deeply interpersonal within that child’s caregiving system. Separate from both the traumatic events and the perpetrator, there is often an added component of neglect, hot-and-cold affections from a primary caregiver, or outright invalidation of the trauma if a child does try to speak up. These disorganized attachments and mixed messages from those who are supposed to provide love, comfort and safety – all in the periphery of extreme trauma – can create even more unique struggles that PTSD-sufferers alone don’t always face.

Difficulty with self-perception is another fundamental struggle for complex trauma survivors — particularly because their identity development was either fiercely interrupted or manipulated by someone with ulterior motives. In its simplest form, how they see themselves versus how the rest of the world does can be brutally different. Some may feel they carry or actually embody nothing but shame and shameful acts – that they are “bad”.  Others believe themselves to be fundamentally helpless; they were let down by so many who could’ve stopped their abuse but didn’t, so it “must just be them”. Many see themselves as responsible for what happened to them and thus unworthy of kindness or love because “they did this to themselves”. And, countless others may feel defined by stigma, believe they are nothing more than their trauma, worry they’re always in the way or a burden, or they may sense they’re just completely and utterly different from anyone or anything around them – they are alien. Startling as it is, all of these feelings and more can live inside someone whom, to you, seems like the most brilliant, competent, strong, and compassionate human being you know.

Interruptions in consciousness are also a prevalent – and at times very scary – reality in Complex PTSD. Some may forget traumatic events (even if they knew of them once before), relive them intrusively, recall traumatic material in a different chronological order, or other distressing experiences of what is called dissociation. Dissociation is a symptom that exists on a spectrum, ranging anywhere from harmless daydreaming or temporarily “spacing out”; to more disruptive episodes of feeling disconnected from one’s body or mental processes, not feeling real, or losing time; all the way to the most severe, which includes switching between self-states (or alters), as is seen in Dissociative Identity Disorder. Episodes of missing time can range anywhere from a few minutes, a couple days, or even large chunks of one’s childhood. The larger gaps in time are typically only seen in DID, but those with C-PTSD alone can still endure ‘interruptions in consciousness’ that result in memory gaps, poor recall, traumatic material that is completely inaccessible, or, conversely, re-experiencing trauma against their will (e.g. flashbacks, intrusive images, body memories, etc.)

Difficulty with relationships may seem like a natural progression since each area mentioned thus far can affect how fruitful your relationships are. But, these challenges go beyond a lack in quality or richness. This refers more to a survivor’s potential to feel completely isolated from peers and not even knowing how to engage, to harboring an outright refusal to trust anyone (or just not knowing why they ever should), trusting people way too easily (including those who are dangerous, due to a dulled sense of alarm), perpetually searching for a rescuer or to do the rescuing, seeking out friends and partners who are hurtful or abusive because it’s the only thing that feels familiar, or even abruptly abandoning relationships that are going well for any number of reasons.

One’s ‘System of Meanings’.  Of the many, many well-observed developmental disruptions those with C-PTSD face, one that many find to be the toughest to conquer, even with therapy, is one with which we hope to offer the most help and support. That area is what’s referred to as one’s ‘system of meanings’ ; an area that, after being subjected to such tumultuous trauma, can feel almost irreparable. What this criterion is referring to is the struggle to hold on to any kind of sustaining faith or belief that justice will ever be served to indiscretions of ethics and morality. These survivors’ outlook on life and the world at large can be unfairly contorted, and understandably so.

    They may doubt there is any goodness or kindness in the world that isn’t selfish-hearted. They may worry they’ll never find forgiveness. Others may even believe they only came to this world to be hurt, so there can be no good coming for them. This level of hopelessness and despair, as well as these greater meanings assigned to their suffering, can fluctuate greatly over time. There may even come several years where things no longer feel so bleak or as though they were conned of a meaningful life. But, as more layers of trauma are processed in therapy, or new memories bubble to the surface, they may wrestle with it once more as new feelings strike a devastating chord inside their chest. This is a common experience for so many survivors, and can have lasting ramifications with each plunge. We want to be here to help bring pause to those deep swings into the darkness – doing what we can to keep survivors in the light a little longer. Or, better yet, support them in adding some of that light inside of themselves. That way, even if they need to hide in the darkness for a bit, the light never leaves them for good.  We’re still here.

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REPRESSED MEMORY

An email from Seth set off alarming dreams because of his association with Tom, which pokes at other memories with Chet, Danny, and one other sibling never named. 4 siblings chose to attack me. The nightmare that came with the recurring ache for a home lingers causing nights of chaos unable to sleep.

“Do you have a tape measure?” the two guys asked.

Wanting to continue with my tasks, exasperated, I lied, “No.”

Hating to be anything but honest, (just like real life), I said, “Yes,” moving to get it.

They were both aroused, one coming close enough to feel it. I lashed out shouting.  

The next morning I asked Samuel, “Did I cry out in the night or move suddenly?”

“No,” he said.

But I think I did just like the first attack by Chet as a child when he pinned me down causing a feeling of suffocation threatening my life. Lying still pretending sleep was the only way to survive. But it also allowed him to do just about anything he wanted.   

Naomi Judd shot herself dead. Perhaps her repressed memories drove her to it. As the weight comes off, I feel closer to the repressed trauma of Danny violently raping me. I know it happened, but my mind still won’t allow it up, even at age 69.

Some might say I already lived through it, so I’ll be alright. I might once have said that too, but it’s not true. My child’s brain went somewhere, not knowing, not remembering. To remember would be to live it. How to bear it if it does?

THE PRESENT/PRESENTS

Photo by son, Cory

My boots crunch the frosty grass, crisp, lush, and growing fast, the sun barely peeping over the hill. Round and round, then respite waterside. Get out of your head!

In my head, legs crossed, sitting on a stool in the empty, dim room, with open eyes that don’t see. Brains are necessary, but too much time there squashes the present. Come, awake, experience miracles right there in front of you!

Out of my head into the present. Diamonds sparkling golden orange on dew dropped tips of glistening grass. Dancing ghosts swirling by upon the water, the mist mesmerizing as it glides.

Again, and again the reminder needs repeating, get out of your head into now! Thinking this, or that, when what is right before me delights, enlightens, and is miraculously enthralling.  

Earth, mother loving me with all her gifts.

PRESENTS

And so, the holiday season officially sets in. Snow falls prettily icing the branches like royal frosting, as kitty curls up beside me at the fire. My thoughts jumble negatively much more so than in summer days when light fills me with more feelings of worth and joy.

But joy is to be had if looking and working towards it. When the adult takes the reins to protect the willful, hurt, always hurt child. There is an adult in me that can guide with wisdom, but the child no one saw, protected, or helped is so in need and I must be there for her.

When the cat jumps on my lap don’t dissociate, pet her, feel the purr way down deep inside. So often my erratic brain takes me elsewhere and simple pleasure are not taken in fully. It takes presence.

WHOLE

photos by Patricia

Rather morbid thoughts invade my brain, chased away by simple projects that bring childish excitement, even an over-sized card for my grand-daughter’s birthday. Or puzzles that sit on the table most of the summer untouched. Working on one now lowers anxiety that creeps in as the days grow darker and colder settling the ragged places that threaten tranquility.

Some who grow older wish for youth, not me. No way would living my life over be tenable. It was hard enough the first time separated from myself like super-charged electrons buzzing around my body. My soul in shattered pieces making each decision the wrong one, causing more pain not less. How could one make a decision when disconnected from oneself?

And how can one be connected when taught to act and behave in opposition to the truth of their existence? That those I loved sexually attacked me with violence and malevolence. But Mom wouldn’t have it. You are to love your family. Broken, never to be whole again… but I wouldn’t have that either and worked hard life-long to have a life.

To have the zillions of pieces come home and stay is a revelation that most others take for granted. Whole, at peace, and happy, because feeling peaceful is happiness. That is how my life finally evolved after decades of fracture before piecing back together.

 

AUTUMN

photos by Patricia

And so the windows and doors are shut to protect from fall’s first frost. Heat wafts up from the registers gently warming the rooms and my body like a cozy blanket. The unwelcome shuttered feeling needs counteracting.

Samuel brings in the purple grapes giving my hands an afternoon of slipping off skins, cooking the insides then sieving the seeds out, joining the hot mixture back with the skins and other ingredients to make pie filling.

Miniature sunflowers make a spectacular autumnal bouquet, and walks add pleasure to my day. With the crisp air and vibrant sun the pull is to walk more then a long repose by the creek. A baby blue-bird kept me company along with many other varieties, surprising me with activity and songs. So many have already left for the season to warmer climates so it’s usually quiet as a tomb! 

The sister-in-law Ginny, and brother Don came for the morning staying vigilant about social distancing on the patio then a walk to the creek with more relaxation.

They didn’t mind drinking freshly perked coffee from the tray perched on a pretty cotton tablecloth, and enjoying homemade apple hand pies. There used to be a taboo about food sharing at the beginning of the pandemic, but they heard it’s no longer cause for concern. 

The visit was OK, but left me wanting more that probably won’t come. The closeness craved needs loyalty. It felt like being kept at arm’s length, but perhaps that is coming from me. My truth expects loyalty, but you are not loyal (or safe) if you interact with friendliness towards anyone who abused me so horribly.

I am at peace with how things are, proceeding with baby steps, and that’s OK. Being cordial and open is my choice. Surface interaction will have to do on the rare times we meet. My life goes on bringing joy unfounded, joyful for the first time in over 60 years.

That joy comes from being at peace with my past, and the present. And by being in the present, not something a person used to disassociation could do automatically. What has been automatic was spending most of my time in Neverland; a safe place made for me in another dimension still visited sometimes…zoning out.

When meditation became a daily practice over 15 years ago, the process of learning that one can be present and be safe began. That was not something learnt as a child, leaving my body… and taking a life-time to reclaim it. 

Peace has been found, a peace that as a survivor has been an ongoing struggle. It can last for days until a bout of sleeplessness makes for the need of a sleep aid. That injects a tumultuous barrel of self-pity filling the day after with sluggishness. But luckily that too occurs less and less mostly during the change in seasons.

After spending time with so called ‘family’ it becomes harder to close the door and go on as usual because the pull for clan is timeless. Real closeness remains most safe with Samuel, sons, and friends, the chosen family.

PTSD

A day like others, yet when it was time to sleep, sleep won’t come. Maybe it just happens every week or so for no reason other than the zillions of parts of me flying around are more flustered than usual. The usual make up of my parts are more cemented than past years, but still damaged by a life of PTSD.

Could it be that a friend called for a video chat? Why, no, that happens with some regularity without upset. Maybe the efforts launched to stay productive when it has become so much harder with the drop of mood. Could pushing myself that way cause a break between body, mind, and spirit?

Not writing as frequently? Or does it happen just because my body goes off without me sometimes even when using marijuana oil with great success. Instead of getting up to let my prescription do its work, staying in bed until sleep overtakes me worked best.

But that medication makes the next day unproductive. Despite the sunny weather, only one lap was taken. It feels like the worst thing to do is get my heart rate up because it replicates the adrenaline response which has been so easily activated since the age of 8 when the attacks began.

A day of quiet without doing called for repeated messages to self that it is OK to do just that. Much of my days are usually judged by how much was accomplished, but is that really fair? No, sometimes staying quiet and working on kind messages to one’s self are the best medicine despite my yearnings to get moving and get doing.

Sometimes quiet helps recovery. Though there are improvements in my sleep and quality of life including taming wild, negative thoughts, due to the addition of the pot oil, there is still a disease to manage that knocks on my head with an unwelcome ‘hello.’

 

Know Thyself

What was known all along still is interesting to me, that others who have never been met in person are closer to me than my own family. It is my sense that those called ‘family’ not only commit to silence about the traumas I suffered, collude in the silence and protection of those that chose to commit crimes on their little sister, but also find ways to keep distance from me even if chatting in person face to face.

And even those that are close, like friends, Samuel, and sons, don’t know, really know, how wounding the silence is. But on-line with those who have suffered the same silence, collusion, and conspiracy… respite, understanding, and acceptance is found.

Not just acceptance from others, but learning to accept myself. Growing up with the traumas suppressed as is typical in families where sexual abuse occurs by one of their own to one of their own, compassion for myself was and still is too often non-existent.

Non-existent too when around family who brings up a name of an abuser, whether accidentally, or thoughtlessly, or as a way to say to me that you will say whatever you want even if it hurts me. It rams like a punch to the gut causing instant dissociation needing force to choose between leaving now to that place of another dimension or stay in the present. 

It has taken over a week to find my way back to my core where compassion, self-understanding and confidence flows. That is the favored place, not zoned out to that ether place of safety used to shield myself from unwelcome hands as a little girl, then becoming a habit well into later life. 

Sons are not supposed to be one’s personal therapist, but my sons have been, especially Cory. Each grew centered, connections complete without fracture. Wanting that desperately, it drew me close as if they were the adults and I the child. Perhaps their wholeness would drift into me. 

It isn’t supposed to be that way. Yet they both grew whole, something I sought but instead was lost in a life of fog, confusion, and anxiety. Cory has forgiven my needy ways, assuring me it helped make him a more compassionate adult. But he was put in the adult role too often in my need for assistance to stay afloat.

Gratefulness has begun to flow back melting the numbness of a careless remark. Sons so special despite growing up with a fractured mother. On-line friends, and blogging are magical; getting feelings out, sorting through them, which greatly helps to understand myself and the world around me. A way to finally speak what never could be spoken.