Recovery from assault, post-traumatic stress & depression, plus poetry, silliness, yoga & spiritual stuff…
Namaste
I’m a little haphazard. I haven’t been telling my story in strict chronological order. Start with this post: Once upon a time.
Or check out the crib notes page, for a selection of key posts.
If you’re not new here: all new posts will now appear below this sorta message board one…
Om Shanti!
~Svasti
Looking in the mirror I rolled my eyes. I’d no need for bigger boobs – they were already huge before raging pregnancy hormones had kicked in. They were a little tender, too. It was the one visible sign of my now defunct pregnancy and I fervently hoped they’d shrink again, eventually.
But otherwise I was fine, and with a few days rest I was back to ‘normal’. Only, no one knew I’d been pregnant except for my best friends. And we didn’t speak of it ever again.
It’d been all too easy. Thanks to my rather lucrative-if-seedy line of work, paying for the procedure wasn’t a problem and I could easily afford the time off.
But all the literature and movie portrayals of women having abortions had sucked me in. I believed the hype and found myself feeling guilty for not feeling guilty about what I’d done, as opposed to feeling guilty or remorseful at all. There were no tears for my lost child. No sadness at its ending. I never imagined how old it would be over the years, what it might have looked like or any of those things. From a very deep place within, I’d known all along it was the right decision for me…
And so I went on with my life as though it had never been, except of course for feeling bad about not feeling bad. Was I normal? Was I totally cold hearted? I couldn’t be sure. Of course, it never occurred to me that no one has the same reactions as another person, and that feeling bad about not feeling bad meant I couldn’t possibly be cold hearted. I just thought there was something wrong with me. But then, when did I ever think there wasn’t?
I was still working as a stripper although the fiery anger with which I’d danced had gone – a side effect of one too many stereotyped oafish men paraded in front of me as I (another stereotype myself), removed my lacy lingerie and pretended to be interested in the bug eyed men from all walks of life ogling my flesh mindlessly. Football clubs. Private events held by rich men for their friends’ amusement. Working class pubs all over town. Huge money-making events in Melbourne or interstate where strippers were just a side dish to the more extreme sex shows on offer. Married men at bucks parties. Ermm, yeah…
And then the 21st party I was booked for. Must’ve been someone’s idea of a bad joke because it wasn’t just a bunch of randy post-teen boys, but mums and dads too. Everyone was gathered in the pool room – literally a room with a pool in it. Completely. Unsexy. And just kinda naff.
I can’t recall the exact trigger that made me go back to my parent’s house or when. But it wasn’t the abortion. And I still hadn’t quit the “exotic dancing” industry. My sister was in the last year or two of high school, the same one I’d gone to and I know she was copping flack from the rumours that flew around the school.
Possibly it had something to do with wanting access to the car my parents had bought for my sister and I – my great aunt and uncle’s old Torana Sunbird. Maybe there was another reason, but to be honest I can’t remember.
However before I could move back into my parents’ place there was a Conversation To Be Had. Or maybe it happened the night I returned: Lots of Hard Questions and Answers, and plenty of Berating of My Actions.
Your boobs will sag down to your knees, I recall my mother saying… You dropped out of high school and you’re stripping? You never finish anything you start… think they both chipped in on that one…
Oh really? Are you sure about that? I challenged, I had an abortion, you know.
Silence.
Probably wasn’t as long as it felt. I could almost hear them regain their composure… Well yes, I guess you could say that’s something you finished… What? When? How?
More silence after brief answers designed to give away as little as possible.
Of course, I didn’t think about it but my mother’s emotions right then must’ve been intense. She’d been only a year younger than me when she nearly died giving birth to her first child and was then forced to give him up for adoption.
Two more people who knew about my abortion, and I’ve never talked about it with them since then either.
That was that, so I thought. A hiccup in time that didn’t mean anything to anyone. Not even me. Except for the guilt about not being guilty, of course.
And so we tentatively negotiated the terms of my partial surrender return to the family home, none of us sure what would happen next. No trust in any corner. No Conversations That Matter. I wasn’t giving up stripping, not yet, although my parents were opposed. Oddly though, I was asked to pay rent and I agreed.
Yeah, take the money I made by selling the right to look at my naked body and be damned…
[To be continued]
~Svasti
I’ve been pregnant only once in my entire life, approximately twenty years and eight months ago. Depending on your perspective, that can mean a lot of different things.
For example, right now as a thirty-eight year old woman who’s never had kids and only barely escaped being married to the wrong man in my mid-late 20’s, it makes me sad. And somewhat fearful. In this life I may never know the joy (heartache and hard work etc) of having my own kids. I’d definitely want to if the right guy came along, but not otherwise. Some women I know have had a kid without a partner on-purpose. That is not for me. And, since a large part of my 30’s were swallowed by PTSD and depression, not to mention the desire to be as far away from men as possible… it’s little wonder I’ve been unable to do anything about it.
In my 20’s when I was engaged and planning children with my then fiancé, I was hopeful. I’d often wondered – and found out that so many other women like me did as well – if I’d given up my chance at children when I didn’t have my first. My fiancé assured me gently and we laughed and talked about names. We spoke of how we wanted to school our kids. We both thought it was a good idea for me not to work until they were at least in primary school, but perhaps I’d study in that time and work out what sort of career I wanted to come back to. We planned a lot for those babies that never were. We cared about them even though they were just ideas. We wanted a family. But when our relationship died, so did those dream babies.
For all of my teens and most of my early 20’s I’d been convinced I didn’t want kids at all. I was too messed up! I came from a family of people who fought with each other and/or were supremely talented at suppressing their emotions. I was no exception; I knew that. So why would I want to bring a child into the mix? Do unto them what had been done unto me? I couldn’t imagine it… my younger self would view my current self as vindication of her convictions. My current self looks at that younger me and wonders if my then convictions have helped manifest my current childless state, one I no longer want…
The night before my scheduled abortion, I was having unprotected sex in the car of a guy I barely knew. I was eighteen and living at M’s house, having fought with my parents over my “career” as a topless waitress/stripper (M’s parents knew what we were doing and didn’t seem to mind). The nameless guy and I were in the front passenger seat, parked outside M’s place and doing that dance of awkward half-clothed, can’t-quite-move-around-properly kind of sex. I don’t think it was any good. In fact, I’m certain I remember going inside and thinking what a disappointment it was.
The irony of my actions wasn’t lost on me – it’s just that I’d convinced myself I didn’t care.
Next morning I was on a train into the city with my two best friends, one of whom was envious of my impregnated state. She’d wanted a baby since forever. We blithely ignored the reason for our trip and chatted away merrily. I bet you didn’t know I’m about to have an abortion, I wanted to tell the other train passengers. My friends planned to drop me off at the clinic – a huge Victorian era house in East Melbourne – spend the day in the city and pick me up afterwards.
Truth was, I didn’t want to be doing what I was about to do. But I also didn’t want to be pregnant. And not just because I knew how messed up I was either. I simply didn’t want a baby at that point in my life. I didn’t feel maternal towards the tiny life I was carrying. As far as I was concerned I had no business raising a kid, especially since the father was a huge question mark.
Roughly two months along, there weren’t too many physical signs to give me away. There’d been a little nausea but no hurling. I knew I’d missed one of my periods and then I waited and… nope, still nothing. I think I might be pregnant, I told M, who bought the home-pregnancy test for me and waited outside the bathroom door while I peed on the stick.
No matter how many times I blinked, the damn thing still said I was up the duff.
I wasn’t emotional about it – there was only one course of action as far as I was concerned: becoming un-pregnant and as fast as possible please!
Back then, abortion was only quasi-legal in Australia. There had to be a reason given and it had to be because having the child wouldn’t be in the best interests of the mother… yeah, I was a mother once… if only fleetingly and unwillingly.
I looked up ‘Abortion’ in the Yellow Pages (this was way before the internet, folks!) and found a doctor in the city who could refer me. I was very businesslike and clear: No there was no chance of my having the baby. Not even for adoption (especially not in my family!). No, the father wasn’t around. That’s right, I’m not prepared for raising a child, and I’m too young. Yes, please sign me up for the pill. And thanks for the referral and info on what to expect.
Now it was time and though I couldn’t have told you then, I was numb. I think I’d barely been able to get an appointment inside the all-important three month cut-off window.
When I think of the abortion clinic now, it’s through a lens that’s fuzzy and a sort of greenish-gray in colour. It was on Victoria Parade, I think. Girls and women in a waiting room being called one by one. Changing into a hospital gown, completely naked underneath. Sliding onto the chair/bed and staring at the stirrups. A handful of medical-type people entering in white coats: Please put your feet in the stirrups. But now my errrm, nakedness is on show and you’re all standing down the business end!
I don’t remember the anaesthetic being applied. Time passed in dark unconscious slumber until I woke up on a gurney in the hallway, crying in pain. The cramps. Oh god, the cramps. Someone – a nurse perhaps – gave me painkillers. But it was over. I was de-pregnated. Bun-less. Just like I wanted.
My friends, bless them, brought me a sandwich and I ate it as we walked back to train station for our hour journey back home…
~Svasti
I’ve figured it out: I’m both a literalist and an idealist at heart. Quite a tricky combination really.
There’s nothing wrong with being passionate about things, is there? Or is there? Maybe one can be too passionate? Yeah, I think that’s me. Generally giving a shit about everything in my life and potentially a little too obsessively.
Sometimes that’s okay, other times it’s hilarious in retrospect. Like, how after my tram incident last Friday, I woke up surly and stressed out but didn’t once consider not going to my sister’s birthday lunch that day.
After all, I was bringing the cake.
And a gorgeous cake it was, too. A Mississippi Baked Cheesecake, which just meant it was covered in chocolate, with mountains of chocolate icing on top.
Gorgeous day, last Saturday. A true summery Melbourne day, not a cloud in sight and of course that meant a huge increase in traffic heading down the coast, where I was going.
Not so helpful for a crabby and nervous person post a mid-tram-almost-accident but ah well…
Of course, it wasn’t going to be as simple as that. Nope, had to almost end up in a three car pileup where I would’ve been the meat in the sandwich. On a freeway no less, where the cars in front of me came to a dead stop (seemingly for no reason). Even with the distance between me and the car in front, I was worried that the car behind me wasn’t going to stop.
So I took evasive action, hitting the brakes hard then lifting my foot several times to make it clear I was braking. Luckily they got the message. But it was a little more than I could take! Especially when I realised the beautiful Mississippi Baked Cheesecake had hit the floor (hadn’t thought to put it there in the first place). Yup… it was smooshed.
You could say I was a little distraught at this point. I still needed to pick up my sister’s present. Also, I had this idea I needed to buy a second cake (perhaps just a little one) that looked okay for the photos. Crazy I know, but I guess I wanted to fix the cake, fix the two scares in two days and try not to spoil my sister’s birthday.
All this while trembling like a leaf. No wonder people were surprised to discover I’d been living with PTSD! All that time I was so busy trying to keep the outsides together, the insides never stood a chance. Heh…
Surprisingly, my family were actually really nice to me when I turned up looking distressed, accepting a beer just thirty seconds after arriving and bursting into tears when I tried to explain the two cakes. And there were multiple niece hugs, which always helps.
Did a lot of sleeping on Sunday. And eating. And it was hot, so I did little else. Which was probably a good thing.
Then, today I discovered that my workplace isn’t quite as idealistic as I’d been led to believe. I mean, it’s still a great place to work and all. But I was advised that the end-products we’re creating are third priority behind managing our external and internal networks to ensure we get future funding.
So it is about the money in the end. Sure, they create good digital learning resources, but of course (doh!) the organisations they create it for are the bill payers and end-clients. And the company I work for is entirely dependent on their funding.
Which is… reality. But no one had explained to me (until today) that my main priorities for these projects needed to be turned on their heads. Really, I’m delivering future funding for more digital resources. Which are in great demand and they’re important. But hopefully we aren’t delivering them just to ensure we get more funding for the next round. Hopefully…
And as such, I need to adjust my approach. It’s not about getting the project team to do their assigned tasks in a timely fashion. Apparently, it’s more about the touchy-feely, making everyone feel good and “bringing them along on the journey a little”. Uh-huh…
Although these are some of the nicest people I’ve worked with in a long time, still some corporate bullshit exists. Of course. And it’s the education sector so there’s massive amounts of hierarchy and politics and making sure you say the right thing to people in the softest, most intensely polite way with many thanks and much gratitude for their help.
The tiniest use of the wrong word can cause an uproar. Ah… not my forte. My words and thoughts are not always aligned with my heart, as much as I wish I didn’t have to admit that… I’m having to think much harder about what I say and how I compose emails. It’s probably good for me. Maybe?
I think I’m rambling now. But I just wanted to let y’all know I’m okay. Even rode a tram today.
~Svasti
So I’m riding the number 64 tram home from work, just like I do any other day when I’m not cycle-commuting. It’s the end of the week and okay, it hasn’t been the best day ever, but it’s cool… and now it’s time to go home.
I’ve been on the tram for no more than five minutes when it starts breaking quite jerkily. There’s not much to grab hold of coz the tram is packed – every seat taken and those of us standing are just a few degrees off feeling like sardines. Skin touching if you move a smidge to the left or right.
Within microseconds I’m flying, almost horizontally really. So is every other standing passenger. The tram driver it seems, failed to notice a red light and at the last possible moment slammed on the brakes. The resulting game of passenger dominos roughly throws us all a couple of meters forwards.
Nothing I attempt to hold onto works out. A multitude of thoughts race by… oh no… what’s happening… I can’t stop myself from falling… is this going to hurt… there are people falling on top of me… there’s nothing to grab hold of… oh no…
It is only when the tram stops lurching that we mid-flight passengers land ungracefully and mostly on top of each other. My phone, which had been in my hand, is now on the floor and in pieces. Luckily not too many pieces and it can be put back together. When I manage to stand upright, I’m in a completely different section of the tram.
The haze of shock sets in.
The driver does not apologise. Does not check to see if anyone is okay. The tram keeps moving but much more carefully now.
I am not okay. I’m not sure if anyone else is hurt, but I’m too dazed and angry to find out. My already manky shoulder (luckily I have a physio appointment next Tuesday) is throbbing. My neck and lower back are sore.
I’m asked if I’m okay by a woman and her family. Passengers with seats, lucky things. The woman standing next to me and I are both having separate conversations about what just happened – she, on her phone (she’d helped collect the pieces of mine), and I with the family. The woman says that from her window seat she saw the red light, and how he didn’t even try to break until the last moment. It’s not as though a red light happens without warning.
Indeed.
They get off the tram a couple more stops down and I gratefully take one of their seats. I know I’m going to report this and ah… I can see the tram number, an individual identifier. I check the time… yeah, it happened just after 6pm. Along with the route number that should be enough information for the complaint I’m going to make.
Everything feels a little surreal. I make it to my stop and walk home unevenly. I feel the strain in my body – that always happens in a fall because our muscles futilely brace for impact.
It’s done. I’ve called Yarra Trams and explained very calmly. Yes please, I’d like someone to call me back and tell me what happened as a result of my complaint. No, I’m not sure if I’ll need medical treatment for the pain in my body, I’ll let you know. Okay, thanks for the reference number, I’ll write it down.
Done. And yet not.
Seems that trauma leaves physiological traces not just in the brain but also in the body. Oh…
I remember a little now. Yeah, this is what it was like. I can never remember properly afterwards, the same way you can’t quite recall how painful it was when you broke your arm. You know it wasn’t good, but the details escape you.
Until something happens to open the floodgates. I’m teary. But I don’t realise this, until I’ve been sitting in the dark for about three hours. Tears yes… and fury that looks like fear. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t done anything. Oh right, that disassociation thing… I stop feeling normal at all.
But I am okay. I know that. I know I didn’t die, I didn’t hit my head. I am not seriously injured, but it was close. Another half a meter and I might’ve hit my head on something upright and made of metal. But I am safe now.
And yet I start to hate everything. My body leads the revolt with memories of how it used to respond. Ah… the after-burn of PTSD thanks very much.
Mostly, my mind is not engaged at all in what’s going on. There’s so many reactions and responses going on. Things that make me wary of loud noises. Things that make me move very slowly. Things that keep the tears coming even though there’s nothing to cry about, really.
But it doesn’t stop. I take some homeopathic Emergency Essence (designed for treating shock). Actually I take several times the dose. And I head out on my bike to double check that the world isn’t still trying to kill me.
It’s late, but I find food and I wander around in an attempt to recalibrate my mind. But even once I’m back home eating my Satay Chicken Dinner Box, I’m not okay. See, these things always take time. More Emergency Essence before bed.
Sleep was fragmented and awful at best. And today I am all aches and pains with a side dish of trembling like a leaf.
It shouldn’t be that hard. Yes, the tram driver was a dickhead and I’ve done all I can in that regard. And I am okay, really.
And it’s been almost a year since the worst of my PTSD symptoms vamoosed. Yet a small and relatively harmless incident like this breathes life into the trace elements of my trauma response.
Luckily, I live with a yoga teacher and I hear she’s kinda okay at sorting out physical aches and pains. I’ll find some time for all of that later. Right now I have to go and do family stuff for my sister’s birthday. I’m bringing the cake. And there will be niece cuddles.
And I will be okay eventually…
~Svasti
~Svasti
P.S. Shiv finally wrote about his Aussie Birthday Bonaza Spectacular – check it out!
Why hello my darkly velvet beloved; here for me once again? You offer me my dreams made real even as I reject your enticements. Again.
Is this a denial of what must be? For ‘course I daren’t resist such ambrosial enfoldments too long. You wait, wait, wait, wait, slowly stealing a kiss or caress… but then mostly I just enter through a window instead and forgo the welcoming reception you’ve always prepared.
From light to dreams with no in between. Because it’s rare that I come through your door gently, my love. Prose, not poetry I’m afraid.
Oh Shadow Darling, why do your mechanisms seem harsher than they are? The prospect often foreboding, like I’m about to lose it all (though it’s never the case). I race from you til I no longer can… then I’m yours endlessly. Almost. As my reluctant farewell draws me away from your charms and we start our game over again.
Regrettably I fight you, always… Perhaps it’s that you cast shadow puppets in death’s likeness instead your true form: healer, caretaker, guardian and the world’s best lover. Always happy to spoon. And you never snore.
Despite all this you don’t stalk me ever, no matter how difficult I become. No petty jealousies for you! No overt displays of anger. And I never really run. Your patience endlessly awaits my latest childish turn at hide and seek. You never lose. Nor do I.
Here – another pretty distraction! Light and sound. Must. Stay…
I hear tell though, of a twilight field where fraught lovers (like us) find a neutral zone of sorts. A cosy nook where all defences are checked at the door and I can learn. I’m trying my darling, I am…
And it’s not just in obvious ways that I fight you; I’ve two million and twelve distractions to manifest and justify. So many ways to ignore your addictive appeal for moments longer – but senseless, each one of them.
Heavenly love: you speak my name through bones and blood as no other can. But I pretend it wasn’t you at all. Silly girl!
Then my elliptical longings call me to your side anyway. We blend as one, I’m home again. And I entrust you with my dreamscape of nightly meanderings.
Gatekeeper of my inner world. To you my dearest, I surrender.
~Svasti
Won a competition on Twitter last week that meant I was to receive delivery of not one but five pizzas from Crust. And not over a bunch of different days. ALL IN THE SAME NIGHT!!
Managed to negotiate for a Sunday evening delivery instead of Friday and invited a few people ‘round to assist in the eating. Great competition! I entered on a lark but somehow won the dang thing. Never happens to me. Til now I guess.
Also, just finished making a poster for Nadine to promote Mark Whitwell’s visit to Melbourne in a few weeks. Now I look at it, I can see a few things I woulda done differently or refined… but it’s not too bad I guess. Teaching myself Photoshop is fun… 
Click to view larger image!
Finally had that ultrasound on my left shoulder (from my bike crash) couple of days back. Sure, I shoulda done it months ago perhaps… *cough*. See, I’m just not terribly good at taking care of myself although I’m working on it!
After almost being drowned in the incredibly sudden torrential downpour, I wait almosted half an hour to see the Scanner dude. In the waiting room I was subjected to daytime TV (which I rarely watched even when I was unemployed) and learned of something called a Shamwow, which apparently people like. Even 13 year old boys.
Just as I was getting impatient enough to interrogate the receptionists, my name was called. And it went a little like this:
Scanner dude: Okay, take off your top and put this gown on… are you done? Great, sit over here… *prod poke scan* *repeat* *repeat* So that tattoo you’ve got on your back, does it mean anything?
Me: Yeah… [wincing at prod/poke/scan] I got it in Thailand…
Scanner dude: Does it have any significance?
Me: Yeah… but it’s a little complicated to explain [especially to you right now while I’m half naked and you’re prodding and poking my sore shoulder and there’s a very strong possibility that you’re Jewish and therefore might be offended by my heathenness anyways...]
Scanner dude: Okay… *prod poke scan* *repeat* *repeat*
Me: [sharp intake of breath] *WINCE*
Scanner dude: Ah, you didn’t like that one did you?
Me: *head goes all smooshy* *stomach churns*
Scanner dude: *swiftly leaves room & returns with Doctor dude*
Doctor dude: Hi, I’m the Doctor dude.
Me: Hi…
Doctor dude &/or Scanner dude: So what’s going on?
Me: I’m not sure, but I feel really nauseous…
Doctor dude &/or Scanner dude: Why do you feel nauseous? Are you in pain? Does your shoulder injury normally cause nausea?
Me: *breathes deeply* *head between knees*
Doctor dude &/or Scanner dude: Where is the pain? Do you have the pain all the time? What happened to you? Why is your shoulder injured?
Me: I fell off my bike last year and it flared up again at the end of the year. I’ve never felt sick like this before though. It just came on when Scanner dude pressed down on my shoulder…
Doctor dude: *Asks more questions in rapid fire that I can’t answer* Well, it’s very difficult to diagnose when you can’t give us more information.
Me: *head swirls* *body temperature rises*
Doctor dude: Okay well I don’t think its rotator cuff damage. It might be your AC joint…
Me: Okay…
Yeah, whatever. All I know is that I have a doctor’s appointment Thursday night and my shoulder hasn’t stopped hurting since that little episode. I briefly Googled ‘AC joint shoulder’ but I didn’t like what I read. So very cowardly-ish, I’ve stopped researching for now.
And today for no reason I can tell (although perhaps the abovementioned trauma had something to do with it?), I’m in Panic Attack World. Not too serious. I don’t feel like I’m going to die. But still, it’s far from comfortable. My heart and lungs are heavily congested and my heart rate is up, of course.
I’m safely ensconced in the office and there’s no stress in my job (unless you count having to revise budgets for my projects). And yet I’m in the grip of a very physical reaction I can’t control.
But I’m sans Emergency Essence (note to self: fix that), and it’s all about making it to the end of the day. And the tram ride home.
Everything looks weirder when you’re in a heightened state of anxiety. The person I sat next to on the tram that I thought was a girl? Turns out to be a boy with VERY emo and feminine hair. And how was I supposed to know? I mean, she/he had the kind of thunder thighs you normally only see on a girl (speaking from experience)… Everything is too loud. I want my sound-glasses (a little invention I thought of where putting them on creates an ambient noise filter, no iPod or headphones required). I’m too strung up to read.
So I just breathe.
Normally in these states, I go to ground. Burrow deeply into the couch and try to remain vewy vewy still… not that it helps. But comatose is usually better than anything else. Or so I’d thought.
I’ve had this idea in my head since last weekend that I wanted to make a chicken pie. Never made one before, but seemed like tonight was the night. Had to go get an ingredient at my corner store – another thing I never could’ve done before while in Panic Attack mode. And yet I did. And I liked it, the little walk down the street.
Even spoke to the neighbourhood black and white moggy who always looks seriously freaked out. But he/she is actually very friendly. So we spoke for a bit and puss listened to my ramblings. Even took a couple of steps towards me from its position on the brick wall. I giggled.
A photo of kitty from another day
Maybe it was the air. Or the cat. Or the fact that it’d stopped raining. Or observing my breath. Or all of the above. Or perhaps I’m just getting better at handling the panic attacks when they come. Maybe it’s that, and so I don’t freak out as much (adding to the fun). Dunno.
But it turns out that being active, running around and making food works just as well (if not better) than being comatose for the episode’s duration. Or maybe that’s just how it is now, given I’m less comatose-like in general? Can I mark that one down to progress perhaps?
Almost back to normal after about six hours of stress from no known source… and the pie was good, too.
My chicken & vegie pie!
~Svasti
Bear Coming Out of the Woods by Max Grover
One day Mr. Bear was happily walking in the woods, feeling pretty good about himself and about life in general. He felt soooo good on this particular day, especially when he spied a fantastic looking patch sunlit of grass that was begging to be rolled in. He couldn’t wait! So Mr. Bear gambolled towards it focused only on that juicy rolling spot, but as he came closer he found himself in the middle of some very nasty, sharp thorns! They were everywhere! They pierced his skin and embedded deeply in his body.
Rolling in the sun was forgotten. In fact, everything was forgotten! Mr. Bear cried and fell to the ground, only getting more thorns stuck in his coat. He yowled, growled and screamed. He lay on his back panting, bleeding. He wondered what had happened to him and how he could make the pain go away.
But he didn’t know what to do, and he couldn’t get the thorns out. Eventually, Mr Bear’s body adapted to the thorns and grew a protective coating around each one. Now Mr. Bear could move around without too much pain, as long as he was careful about things.
Mr. Bear lived like that for a long time. It wasn’t as though he could be his normal bear self – he was still in pain every day but it was easier to handle if he only did certain things and not others. So he learned to adapt. Mr. Bear became very withdrawn and didn’t like spending time with other bears, because it made him sad to see all the things he could no longer do. And because the thorns were invisible, none of the other bears could see that there was anything wrong with him.
But after a while, Mr. Bear’s body got sick of protecting him from the thorns and started to work at pushing them out! This caused a whole lot more pain – new pain, too. Different. It was sharp and extended pain, and knew he couldn’t do much about it. But it made him feel very irritable. That is, when he didn’t feel like crying. But in general bears don’t cry!! So Mr. Bear did his best to hold back his tears, no matter how much pain he was in.
A few weeks later, Mr. Bear came across a tree that looked as though it’d be useful for relieving an itch on his hind quarters. Very carefully, of course. While he scratched against the tree, he accidentally rubbed up against a thorn that was now sticking out half-way from one of his back legs. But he noticed too late and the rough tree bark caught on the thorn, pulling it all the way out!
Of course, that really hurt Mr. Bear a lot. But afterwards it was such a relief! So Mr. Bear formulated a plan and slowly over time, worked all of the thorns out in the same way.
Each time he managed to get another thorn out, he felt better. But he also felt weak, too. His body was sore and so used to holding on to all the pain that he realised he was tired from all the stress.
So Mr. Bear took it easy. He didn’t try to do it all in one day. He rested in between his efforts, getting as much food and sleep as he needed to face his next battle.
And when it was finally all over, Mr. Bear had an extra long rest. Because healing is really hard work…
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I’ve been meaning to write this up for a while. It’s a story that’s been floating around my brain and kinda helped guide me through all the really tough times in recent years. I wrote a draft of it as a comment on someone else’s blog, and it was suggested that I post it here.
Basically, the moral of the story is: we can only keep our hurts inside our body and mind for so long. Eventually those thorns/splinters have to come out. Even if it hurts to remove them, it’s much better in the long run. Also, sometimes we’re in so much pain, we forgot how strong and capable we really are.
This little story is dedicated to everyone out there still dealing with their own world of thorns…
~Svasti
Not quite sure how this happened, but a lady named Amy has put together her Top 30 Sites for People Dealing with Depression and included this blog on her list!
Which is cool… but like Trini Girl Blue (also on the list), I think there’s other blogs that could’ve been mentioned. Trini has made a good list, so I won’t mention those sites here again, although there’s many on her list that I’d also mention if she hadn’t.
Here’s a few more (some are specific posts, others are just the blog in general) in alphabetical order:
And to quote Trini coz she already said it so well…
…there are many people that were missed and for that I am sorry, if anyone wants to be added to this list please feel free to drop me a line. This is just a drop in the bucket, it is not exhaustive.
We all struggle with ourselves and while some don’t update as much as they have in the past there are good resources on each of these blogs…
From my perspective I like hearing about how others deal with depression, even if they are still in the woods (so to speak).
It’s a topic that doesn’t get nearly enough airtime and isn’t well understood. Consequently a lot of people with depression put up with it and end up loathing themselves when really what they need is a hug and appropriate mental health care.
Depression warps your view of yourself and also makes it very difficult to dig your way out. It can make you feel like you’ll never be happy ever again. And it’s hard to find a reason to get out of bed when you feel like that!
But it is possible. Like many of the blogs mentioned in the top 30 list and on Trini’s blog and those I’ve mentioned, many people have found healing and have managed to bring some happiness and sunshine back into their life.
And that’s part of why I write these days – to show that it is possible to recover.
As human beings, we have the capacity to destroy ourselves/other people or thrive and find incredible happiness. All people have that same capacity – all of us.
Speaking of depression, human beings and happiness…
Have you donated to one of the Haiti appeals yet? Even if you can only afford $5, it’s still better than not giving at all.
I donated to Wyclef Jean’s foundation Yele Haiti – mostly because he is Haitian himself and I trust that my donation is going directly to the appeal as he says.
50,000-100,000 people are dead. Many more are injured and traumatised, and/or have lost people they love.
The photos of the aftermath are devastating. Please help any way you can.
~Svasti
It’s really only been in the last five years that I’ve started to understand yoga asana more fully. But until recently, I remained very unsure of myself as a yogini.
I can’t really explain why. I think that unlike RB sticking her hand up, my tendency has always been to shrink into the corner.
Around the time I took initiation into my Guru’s lineage, I decided I wanted to deepen my knowledge and ability with asana. But it still took me a while to do something (anything) about it.
As previously mentioned my therapist H, prompted me on what I’d like my life to look like at a time where I couldn’t see fifty meters in front of me. And surprisingly I found myself telling her I wanted to be a yoga teacher. I’d never told anyone that. Not even myself!
I signed up for the Hatha Yoga Studies Certificate course instead of the Yoga Teacher Training (YTT) even though I wanted to do the latter because I still didn’t feel ready (oh ye of little faith in oneself).
But for once I felt like I was in the right forum to ask those burning questions about asana I had trouble with. After all, I’d paid for the privilege of being in a small dedicated class where it was all about breaking down each pose and working through our challenges. For once I felt okay confiding my imperfections and getting the advice I needed to resolve them.
It was heavenly! Four to five hours of yoga – practicing asana and talking theory = my idea of a good time. Oh yeah baby!
Actually, it was only by doing the course that I realised I was ready for YTT (the two courses are identical until half-way through, so it wasn’t a hassle to switch). Still, I’m not sure I would’ve switched if I hadn’t been encouraged.
I’m deeply grateful for a number of things about my YTT.
First up, it was a 500 hour course. Not that there’s anything wrong with shorter trainings, but I really liked how that extra time allowed us to delve into some of the more esoteric aspects of yoga: the sort of stuff I’ve been studying for years and really enjoy.
Secondly, the course was paced out over almost an entire year. I know of others that are completed much more quickly! Some people even asked me why the course took such a long time to complete?! BUT there’s so much information to take in, and not just trying to memorise the Sanskrit names of asanas, or perfecting your practice (you never will!) or learning a little anatomy and physiology. Becoming a yoga teacher or any kind of teacher really… is a process. And the one important thing a process needs is time – to gestate, steep, mature, transform, explore, grow.
Also, I’m so glad I did my training at a school with heart. The heart very much comes from the woman who runs the school – M. She’s a great example of a yogini who takes her yoga off the mat and into everyday life. Not only did she help out many students who struggled financially last year (including me), but she also has a habit of donating to those in need. Something that is very close to my heart. And it shows in how she treats her students, as well as the quality of people who support her and teach there.
I learned many yoga-ish things (of course) in YTT, but also discovered a bunch of insights along the way, including:
As well as facing down my depression and PTSD, the training also made me take a look at my self-confidence. Like… when I was first asked to practice-teach a class, I was terrified. Even if I was only working with one other person!
I was afraid of listening to my own voice, to be honest. Of sounding/feeling confident in leading someone through a sequence of poses. And of feeling comfortable enough to look someone in the eye while I instructed them in how to move their body.
It felt so intimate, and that’s because it is. It’s an extremely intimate and sensitive activity and it requires you to forget about yourself. Put aside your issues and whatever negative self-talk you usually spruik. After all, how can students in your care do the same thing for themselves if you’re busy giving yourself a hard time?
Also, putting aside your ‘stuff’ creates space for miracles to occur both for the teacher and the student. Miracles of love, of being able to master physical movements that have previously been out of reach. Allowing that open space to be free of self-doubt creates possibility…
Most of all, I think I’ve learned how to make yoga practical and doable for myself and others. YTT helped bring into focus something my Guru would tell us repeatedly: yoga isn’t about perfect form; it’s about synchronising your body and mind.
I feel that the repetition YTT over the course of an entire year is what sealed it for me. The fire was stoked in the first half of the year, lit when I switched to YTT and finally, turned into a brilliant source of light, warmth and refinement.
And now it’s up to me – what will I do with that flame? What fuel will I use to keep it alight?
That’s where I stand right now: one foot firmly on this brand new path with an open heart and a desire to share…
~Svasti
