More info on EMDR

Tags

EMDR, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, Therapy

As you may or may not be aware, the most significant healing work I did in regards to my PTSD was via EMDR therapy.

It’s quite an amazing technique in that how it works exactly, is still unknown. Also, if it’s the right therapy for you, healing can be very swift. It is said that for more chronic/protracted types of trauma, the process can take much longer. In my case, I had about six sessions. That was enough to completely resolve my flashbacks, the unbidden terror I was living with and other related symptoms.

I’ve made a few attempts to explain EMDR to the best of my ability. But I’m not a therapist and I can only draw from my own experience, so of course any explanation I can provide is limited.

Recently, Dr. Kathleen Young (a licensed clinical psychologist, EMDR trained therapist and fellow blogger) has written a series of posts about EMDR. I think they provide some very useful information about the process and how it works.

You can check them out here:

• Trauma Treatment: EMDR
• EMDR: What Exactly Happens During the 8 Phases?
• EMDR: Questions and Concerns

If you or someone you know has developed PTSD, then it may be worthwhile considering EMDR.

I will say this however – the swiftness of my healing process left me feeling a little overwhelmed. All of the protection mechanisms and coping strategies I’d developed to handle the frequent onslaught of trauma symptoms were suddenly not required. Which is a good thing, right? Of course it is! But I still felt like my nervous symptom needed a moment or two to catch up.

Another issue I faced when realising I was suddenly flashback-free is something that Michele of Heal My PTSD has written about before:

• Treating PTSD: What’s Your Post-Trauma Identity?
• Treating PTSD: What’s Your Post-Trauma Identity?, Part 2

Most people with PTSD have lived with it every day for a very long time. As a result, it can become a part of your identity: “I am a person with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder”. Letting go of that identity can be just as scary as dealing with your trauma on a daily basis.

It is natural to want to cling on to what we know, even when those things are painful or damaging. And so if you do decide to try EMDR and find that it works for you, it’s important to prepare for a life free of the patterns of trauma that have haunted you relentlessly for so long.

Whatever path to healing you take, I wish you all the very best!

~Svasti

More on EMDR

Tags

EMDR, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Recovery, Therapy

Okay, so its a little bit of an ad for the guy’s practice, but this video is a nice explanation from the perspective of the therapist, on EMDR.

I found this because Google had listed my EMDR and me post as a related link from the video!

EMDR and me

Tags

Anger, Assault, EMDR, Fear, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Rage, Recovery, Trauma, Trust, Violence

We still don’t know why EMDR works, really. There’s research going on, and a number of theories. What we do know is that it provides relief for those dealing with deep-seated trauma, so says my therapist, AN.

Heading to the session last Friday, I was nervous, as always. But perhaps because of everything else going on, I didn’t feel quite as sick to my stomach as usual.

Though, AN barely started talking and I was already in tears. Again.

I thought she might’ve wanted me to recount the whole story from start to finish. But she just let the parts of the story that needed to come out, appear of their own accord.

We talked through the process thoroughly, to make sure I understood what would happen.

Apparently it’s important while undergoing EMDR to try and say whatever comes up – be it an emotion, a thought, an image, etc. And regardless of whether it ‘seems’ relevant or not.

Sounds easy perhaps, but it was interesting to observe how many of my thoughts I dismiss out of hand. How many are just tiny faint little voices, despite having something important to say.

With EMDR, nothing is considered unimportant.

AN asked me to bring to mind a memory or feeling about the assault that still caused me a lot of discomfort.

Didn’t have to think long. It’s always been his eyes – how they looked just after he’d hit me.

Those eyes kept me awake the night of, and several days after the assault. It’s not that I couldn’t see them with my eyes open… just that they were less threatening that way. Closing my eyes made them glow iridescently. They’ve haunted me nearly every single day of my life since that time.

AN asked me to rate my level of discomfort out of ten (or seven?). We rated each ‘scene’ (her term) as they bubbled to the surface (not that I can recall the ratings I gave, nor for that matter, were they necessarily accurate).

What came up varied greatly.

There was a ‘stream of consciousness’ feel to the way each scene appeared. Sometimes related to a post I’d written about a specific aspect of that night. Then, I’d be talking about how I feel right now, admitting to myself and AN things I really haven’t spoken about before. Next thing I knew, I was back in the moments just after he’d gone, in shock, where… I couldn’t figure out what needed doing the most.

Each time a new topic came up, I’d rate it, talk about it for a while (amidst many tears) and then I was asked to look at the pen. That standard issue black pen.

AN waved it in front of my face, from side to side and my job was to follow it with my eyes. And focus on whatever specific emotion we’d just been discussing.

Some ‘scenes’ took multiple pen waving efforts. But eventually, this deceptively simple process seemed to… lessen the intensity of how I felt. Lessen the emotions attached to certain memories and experiences.

An early realisation in the session was how incredibly humiliated I felt, that this could happen to me. So much so, it’s been tough trying to look anyone in the eye.

Not to mention… I felt totally responsible for what happened. I blamed myself entirely for his actions and mine. As though I should’ve been able to control the situation. Which clearly doesn’t make sense.

And no matter how many people would say ‘it’s not your fault‘, it was never enough to convince my very own vicious inner Supreme Court Judge.

There’s also my extreme anger at both myself and Andre. And my latent desire for revenge (hampered by my inability to act on revenge fantasies coz I’m just not wired that way! Which kinda pisses me off!).

Don’t know how far along we were when grief surfaced. Deep-voiced and stricken… wordlessly expressing the loss I’ve felt… my zest for life… my bravery… part of my innocence… all gone. Three years in hiding from myself and other people, especially other people… uncontrollable sobbing gushing forth thickly, like syrupy slow moving old dark blood…

Sifting through the rubble, I almost tripped over what probably lies at the root of the ongoing trauma I’ve experienced:

What happened… it could happen again.

If it does happen again, it could be worse. Next time I could be killed.

And hence my terror, apparently.

Which makes sense, of course. Though, the fears are somewhat irrational. Most definitely. But not to the very scared and freaked out part of me that has never ever stopped living in fear since that night.

This led to a discussion around my trust issues, and a whole host of other things. Stuff I can’t fully recall. But I’ll attempt to write about soon.

By the end of the two hours, AN asked me to recall his eyes again.

Funny thing was… I couldn’t.

Not at all. I couldn’t believe it.

I just no longer had a faster-than-a-speeding-bullet recollection of his eyes. And a week later… still nothing.

Thinking about it, there’s a tiny bit of discomfort. A touch of anxiety. But nothing like the horrible sense of being drawn back into the never-ending nightmare of PTSD stuck on a loop…

‘Course, it’s way too early to say it’s all over with any kind of certainty. In fact, I’m heading back to see AN this afternoon. For a ‘mop-up’ session.

I’ve learned too, from experience, there’s many layers to something as complex as PTSD. So this time I’m saying, sure, I feel a heck of a lot better. But there could be more to come.

So let’s not get cocky here… instead, I’ll just focus on gratitude.

~Svasti

**UPDATE** Check out this video I found on EMDR!

It’s all about my brother

About six weeks into my kinesiology studies, a whole bunch of my “stuff” started arking up. Causing a kerfuffle.

So much so that another student and I ended up having a bit of a falling out. Unintentionally, her stuff and my stuff interacted badly.

Like an alchemist whose experiment went all ker-blewey. Just like that.

Not that either of our stuff had anything to do with each other. Of course.

At first I’d no idea what it was all about. It took two sessions with two different kinesiologists PLUS plenty of sessions at home (self-administered kinesiology), several weird physical sensations (nerve pain in your right heel, anyone?), picking up a card that read “sabotage” at the local health food store, and a score of ‘a-ha’ moments… for it all to start to come together.

Well, sort of.

I’ve done lots of talking about being assaulted and having PTSD, both here on the blog and IRL (in-real-life). I’ve had scores and scores of therapy – CBT, EMDR, Kinesiology, tarot readings, shaman healings (Bali, Thailand, India) and more. So. Much. Work.

Then there was the focus on my physical health and regaining my balance there…

It’s not like I’ve been negligent or un-thorough in my approach. I’ve worked my ass off.

Yet somehow… I’ve allowed myself be incredibly blasé about the years of abuse I experienced while growing up.

Even though I knew it wasn’t exactly a good thing. Even though I acknowledged how much it affected my self-esteem, quite bafflingly, I still never really gave those years the same weight as I did to the one-night only assault that triggered my PTSD.

That night and the ongoing effects have hogged the spotlight of my personal healing journey. Strange, huh?

And yet. I know. I REALLY know that the PTSD trigger was NOT just about that one night.

But my memory’s always been really bad. So has my younger sister’s. Neither of us have much by way of recollection of our childhood.

So I don’t really remember exactly how bad it all was or exactly what happened.

But my body and sub-conscious DO remember. And so, the more work I’ve done with kinesiology, the closer to the surface all the sibling abuse has become.

Consciously, I only know pieces of the puzzle. Not the whole story. Just that it was bad, and that I felt betrayed and unprotected by my parents. And that every story I have about myself in regards to my physical appearance, ability to be successful or powerful… has an origin in those early years of my life.

I feel like I’ve been digging up clues. I do my kinesiology homework and I see my practice ‘clients’, and I do kinesiology on myself and get sessions when I can afford them. And I’ve found this or that piece of the puzzle. I know there’s probably more, but I honestly can’t remember.

I know from testing on myself that it started around the age of seven. I also now know that there’s some kind of sabotage surrounding a repressed memory from the age of twelve.

All to do with my brother being an angry, violent and abusive person towards me for over ten years of my life.

Tomorrow morning I go to see my kinesiologist. Thank goodness.

This week I’ve been feeling all super-sensitive and weird. I’ve spent a lot of time curled up on the couch. Last night I felt as though my flesh would vibrate right off of my bones, and today I’ve been surprisingly hungry.

I don’t know what tomorrow’s session will tell me. I just know that I’m reaching in to the main bedrock issue that underpins every life-story I have, of what it means to be me. Or what I think it means, anyway.

And I feel as though someone’s unleashed a wild horse in my chest. With all the hoof stamping, nostril flaring, tail swishing and neighing going on, it’s hard to get any rest around here.

I’m terrified. I’m excited.

I’m onto something big.

And I’ll keep you posted.

~ Svasti

Cough and repeat

Tags

Alexander Skarsgard, Charlaine Harris, hunted animal look, ight-or-flight responses, Lafayette, Merlottes, muscle memory, Nelsan Ellis, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, Rutina Wesley, shower scene, Sookie Stackhouse, Tara, Todd Lowe, triggers, True Blood, Warning signs, wild fire

Just watched the latest episode of True Blood (s03e08), and as much as I love the show and vampire stuff in general, this one left me feeling a little raw around the edges.

For those not familiar with True Blood, it’s based on the Sookie Stackhouse novels by Charlaine Harris. Set in Louisiana (USA), it’s a fantastic and phantasmagorical blend of high drama, gore, nudity, sardonic humour, horror and sci-fi/fantasy. Oh, and did I mention that it’s seasoned with generous helpings of insanity, ridiculousness and Alexander Skarsgard? Yes indeed…

Somehow through this lens, True Blood manages commentary on bigotry, politics, human/vampire rights and also touches on many modern pop-culture and social issues. The show never fails to impress, even at its silliest – and there have been some mighty-fine farcial moments and story lines to date.

True Blood is, in a word: Awesome.

Given the amount of gore and madness that goes on, it’s no surprise that several characters have PTSD. One of the characters – Terry (Todd Lowe) – developed PTSD as a soldier, pre-dating the show’s first story. Two other characters – Lafayette and his cousin Tara – also end up with PTSD, from separate incidents throughout the show.

The most recent episode deals with Tara’s PTSD (among many other things!) and how she’s doing directly after the events that traumatised her.

Really, she’s not doing so great! She’s visibly trembling, can’t talk about what happened and is exceptionally hyper-vigilant and angry.

Towards the start of the episode, Lafayette (Nelsan Ellis) asks: “…I need to know. You gotta death wish?”

She doesn’t think about it for long: “No. I fought like a muthafucker to survive. Never realised how much I wanted to live.”

Okay! That’s good, because a lot of trauma sufferers DO have a death wish. But still, she’s a mess.

This episode made my skin crawl, but not because of the death, blood and gore.

Instead, it’s because Rutina Wesley (Tara) does such an amazing job of acting like a trauma sufferer with PTSD that I found myself sobbing along with her panicked reactions. Her eyes – with that hunted animal look – were disturbing because I’ve seen that look many, many times before. In the mirror.

Ouch!

Seems as if those memories aren’t quite exorcised from my body and mind just yet. Maybe, like a chronic injury, it never goes away completely? Although I’ll keep stretching and working it, maybe there’ll always be just a little weakness there?

I felt the hair on the back of my neck shoot up while watching the shower scene because like many PTSD sufferers, flashbacks used to stalk me relentlessly in the shower.

Can you even imagine being invaded over and over like that in such a private, defenceless and naked place? I can. And it blows.

Then there was the swiftness of Tara’s mood change at Merlottes where she had a flashback to the moment she met her abuser. One minute she’s stacking drinks in the fridge, and the next…

Ah yes… when PTSD is a part of your life, the world can fall to pieces in fragments of a moment, completely screwing with EVERYTHING.

I remember, I remember…

But these days, there’s a difference. I’m pretty sure I don’t have PTSD anymore. I’m okay. Better than okay actually (there’s stuff I want to update y’all on, but this post needed to be written NOW).

Before my EMDR treatments (around a year and a half ago), I don’t think I could’ve watched True Blood, or at least not the episodes where characters with PTSD are losing their marbles. It would’ve been very triggering.

Still, I don’t feel entirely myself right at this moment. It’s almost like someone’s been excavating my insides with steel wool, a pick axe and a shovel. There’s a hollowness in my chest, sort of like my lungs are missing. A tightness in my throat, too. Warning signs.

But none of these sensations are hanging around. Probably, by the time I publish this post, they’ll have faded almost completely.

Because this isn’t my trauma, just my very physical reaction to a TV show. Kind of like a muscle memory, if you like.

However, from watching this episode I think I understand something a little better now. The reason PTSD can be such a hard nut to crack: it’s because it is EVERYWHERE.

Whether a person’s trauma was physical or mental/emotional, it doesn’t matter. PTSD in full-flight spreads through the body and the mind like wild fire. All fight-or-flight responses are on high alert. And it’s very difficult to stop an episode of panic until it’s finished carving a path through your body.

Each and every person who has PTSD needs to find the treatment that works best for them. No two healing paths or timeframes are the same.

But here I am. Living proof that it is possible to stop PTSD from constantly over-running your life. It is ridiculously frightening and difficult work, but it IS definitely possible.

And if all I have to deal with now is a latent reminder every now and then, I think that’s something to be grateful for. Because I can see the difference between where I was and where I’m at now.

And let me tell you that life is about 1000% better, post the nightmare of living with PTSD.

Keep fighting, fellow survivors!

~Svasti xo

ANZAC Day musings

Tags

alcoholic, ANZAC Day, Battle of Gallipoli, DNA, hamster wheel of hell, Lest we forget, mental health, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, Rats of Tobruk, remembrance, transgenerational transmission, Trauma, WWI

Today is ANZAC Day here in Australia – which stands for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. Essentially it’s the remembrance day for those who fought in the Battle of Gallipoli in WWI. Generally speaking however, we honour all of our armed forces on this day – those that survived as well as those that passed.

All over the country, dawn services are held. There’s also one held in Gallipoli every year which is very popular with Aussie tourists, kind of like a pilgrimage of sorts.

In yesterday’s weekend paper, there was a piece about the remnants of an army unit known as the Rats of Tobruk – The Last Rats who fought in WWII. My maternal grandfather was one of their number but unlike the men featured in the story, he passed away thirteen years ago.

This is a photo of my grandfather, taken the year he died. I so wish I had a photo of him in his army uniform when he was young – he looked so handsome back then!

There’s things I know about my grandfather that made me do a double take on each of the former soldiers featured in the article.

Like, I know that he returned an alcoholic – not an uncommon side-effect of war. Somehow, despite his daily drinking he managed 85 years before he finally succumbed to liver cancer. I was living interstate at the time but my mother told me how confused and terrified he was on his deathbed – “…he was convinced the war was still going on and he was in the bunkers, hiding from snipers…”.

One moment he’d be lucid and talking to family members and the next he was re-living the war. I also know that he saw one of his best friends get blown up in combat, and there must be other atrocities he never mentioned but lived with for most of his life.

All of this tells me that my grandfather had PTSD – before there was a recognised diagnosis for it. Without any support for his condition, alcohol became the only way to anesthetise his ongoing trauma. Of course, he wasn’t the only one.

These days soldiers coming back from the war aren’t much better off. PTSD is generally recognised now, but sufferers are still not appropriately treated. Just read this case study, which talks about the soldier’s experiences, but says almost nothing about treatment.

As well as remembering my grandfather and everyone who’s ever gone to war on behalf of their country, today I remember that some of those survivors have lived with untreated PTSD for many long decades. It breaks my heart that some of the men interviewed in The Last Rats possibly still deal with PTSD even now.

On top of that, I’ve been considering my family history of trauma. There are theories and research on something called “transgenerational transmission” of PTSD, and here’s just a few examples:

• Transgenerational transmission of cortisol and PTSD risk
• DNA of PTSD
• PTSD, Family, And Genetics

It doesn’t seem so far-fetched to imagine that changes to the brain wrought by PTSD can impact a person’s DNA, creating an inherent risk of PTSD for that person’s progeny if they too, suffer a traumatic event.

As well as my grandfather, I suspect my mother experienced it, too. In addition to being powerless to stop the adoption of her first child from proceeding (against her wishes), she almost died giving birth. And she’s mentioned things from time to time about “…not being able to stop the memories from coming back over and over…”. It’s reasonable to assume that she too, could be a PTSD sufferer. Undiagnosed and untreated, just like my grandfather.

So if there’s any truth to the research on genetic pre-disposition, what hope did my mother or I have in the face of extremely traumatic events in our lives? It certainly helps me to understand why I had such an intense reaction to a single incident of being assaulted!

But fortunately for me, I grew up embracing alternative therapies and so it wasn’t too much of a leap for me to talk to a therapist or try EMDR, which meant that I got the help I needed and ultimately, I’ve been able to free myself from the hamster wheel of hell that is PTSD. Of course, the study and treatment of PTSD have also advanced significantly in recent times.

All of this makes me think that every ANZAC Day should be a time when we also consider how war affects people’s mental health. How many returned soldiers are still suffering in silence? If as a society, we could make it okay to talk openly about mental health issues without fear of stigmatisation, it would help. I know from my own experience that silence only makes things worse, even though at the time I thought it was a way of protecting myself.

Lest we forget those who died, and those who still live in a daily personal version of hell. Love and healing to you all.

~Svasti

On 2009 and a little history

Tags

2009 retrospective, Depression, EMDR, fireworks, freelance writing, Jeff Martin, Kindness, kirtan, Meditation, Panic attacks, PTSD, redundant, self-knowledge, Shadow Yoga, Suicide, Yoga, yoga teacher training

As I watched Sydney’s fireworks going off from my vantage point at Mrs Macquarie’s Chair (not an actual chair, of course), the following words excitedly slipped from between my lips…

Fuck off 2009! Seeeeeyah! GOOD RIDDANCE!!

Okay, perhaps that was a little vehement. Or perhaps not. Can’t think of too many people I know that had a fantastic 2009. For the most part it was pretty much a total bastard of a year. A struggle. Hard work. Ups and downs. Mostly downs. Generally it was a rather shitful twelve months…

Interestingly for me, it resembled 2005 in that it was both one of the best and worst years of my life.

The worst things about 2009 included:

• Being made redundant;
• Not being able to find a job for four very long months;
• Having a major stack on my bike and injuring my shoulder (it’s still not okay);
• Falling deeply into a morbid depression;
• Feeling suicidal for a fair portion of that time;
• Becoming almost entirely penniless;
• Taking on a job I loathed, because it was the only one I was offered at the time;
• Losing a good friend; and
• Being ignored by my family when I really needed their support (or is that perhaps a good thing?).

The best things about 2009 were:

• Seemingly overcoming my PTSD flashbacks* – I haven’t had one in almost a year, since February 2009. Which is actually pretty major. EMDR saved my life;
• The birth of my second niece;
• Yoga Teacher Training, which also saved my life;
• Being shown great kindness by M, the woman who runs the yoga school;
• Being hired for some freelance writing;
• Meeting my rock star crush (hubba hubba);
• Gaining some good friends;
• Discovering a local Kirtan group, oh and Shadow Yoga too;
• Finally getting a job I really like!!!
• Becoming a yoga teacher;
• Meeting up with some blog pals; and
• Finally, having a really great New Year’s Eve, the first in a long time (instead of being alone and depressed)

* Subject to further observation and continued cessation of flashbacks.

Overall, 2009 turned out to be sorta okay in the end, especially in the final three months or so. But much of the year was such a struggle. And yet, somehow I’ve managed to discover amazing new strengths and self-knowledge – spurred on very much by all the yoga and meditation, for sure.

In the same reflective vein, one of my Twitter buddies recently asked the question: where were you twenty years ago? So, while on holidays I undertook a bit of a mental wander through the past, given we’re now at the start of a new decade and all… the following is what I found.

Twenty years ago… I was eighteen, just finished/failed high school. I was mortified and embarrassed, and my fellow students couldn’t believe it (What? Svasti failed and I passed? I never would’ve expected that, LMAO!). I’d had something of a mental meltdown in my final year and completely screwed up my exams, missing entire sections of a couple of them. Not to mention that inexplicably, I had Physics as one of my subjects, and I’m hopeless at science! I shouldn’t have let my parents and teachers talk me into it. Honestly, I knew I shouldn’t have done it, but everyone else seemed convinced I could. But my brain simply doesn’t function that way – its more colours, shapes and flowers than numbers and measurements. I should’ve stuck with the literature and drama subjects. The assumption was that I’d be going to university. But when I failed, the new assumption was that I’d repeat the year. I tried to do that, switching schools of course, to avoid further embarrassment, but I couldn’t stick it out. There wasn’t a great deal of motivation in it for me as I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life and very little support or encouragement. And so I became a high school dropout and a stripper. Heh, go figure.

Ten years ago… I was twenty-eight, and in a very short space of time I’d met my Guru and left my fiancé of almost three years. It was a brand new phase of my life, not that I knew it so much at the time…

Five years ago… I was thirty-three, and within just a few months, I was finally initiated into my Guru’s lineage, I was assaulted, and began a truly horrifying descent into PTSD and depression. Nuff said.

One year ago… I was thirty-seven, and doing the hard yards with resurfaced PTSD and depression. And I was working up the courage to get some EMDR therapy – I can’t believe I thought it would be scary! Not that it wasn’t super-hard, but living without daily flashbacks is infinitely better than living with them! Also, I was on the verge of starting my yoga teacher training (at the time, I was just going for a yoga studies certificate!). For that, I really have to thank my first therapist, H. When she seemed to be getting nowhere with me, in exasperation she asked me what I wanted to do with my life. What my dreams were. And out of my mouth poured a bunch of things, including: I wanna be a yoga teacher…

Today… I’m thirty-eight, and I am a yoga teacher. Which still feels kinda surreal. I’ve found a measure of joy, and a way to generate self-love and self-joy. Can’t say I’m good at doing those things 100% of the time, but I’m working on it. In fact, part of my upcoming plans for this year will include ways to generate more love and joy in my life on a daily basis. I still get panic attacks occasionally. I still experience anxiety when I’m in massive crowds of people (which has to change if I’m going to go to India). There’s still plenty of work for me to do. But I’m endlessly grateful that I now feel equipped to take on these challenges. That I know how to fend off my depression. And I’m watching as I evolve into an actual yoga teacher – not just by certification. Finally, I think I’m possibly-maybe ready to fall in love again, whenever I am blessed with meeting the right person. I can only hope that that’s on the cards for me. And whoever they are, watch out because I’ve got so much I want to share!

So yeah. A year of pain and triumph, too. And it’s interesting to take a look back and notice that there does seem to be some kind of journey unfolding here. Sorta.

Next post… my plans for 2010!!

~Svasti

I’ve never really thought about…

Tags

Abusers, Assualt, Cary Tennis, EMDR, Rehabilitation, Salon.com, Therapy

His rehabilitation. Apu’s that is.

The guy that assaulted me and who, for a long time on my blog I would only call Andre. I couldn’t bear to speak his name aloud or write it down or even think about it. Although, I did think about it involuntarily, of course.

Thanks to some awesome work from both of my therapists, eventually I was able to get there. H kicked things off, stirring that pot to peel that unmentionable name loose. Then AS, with the help of EMDR therapy, finally helped me elucidate those syllables and expunge the horror and denial I’d associated with his name, something that kept me a prisoner of my own terror far too long.

Thing is, I’ve never thought about him as someone who is likely to change. I know a little of his history, that he’s assaulted and intimidated women before. And I guess my assumption was that his behavioural patterns are simply too ingrained for him to change.

That might be true, but then again it might not.

I’ve just finished reading an article by Cary Tennis (a writer and something of an existential agony aunt on Salon.com), called I’m a former abuser — should I tell my girlfriend?

This is my reply (slightly edited) to that article:

Cary, as someone who’s been assaulted by a former partner I’ll freely admit your advice here did NOT make me very happy at all.

Quite frankly, it causes me some anxiety that the guy wrote this letter in the first place. He abused his ex-wife, has had some therapy, feels as though he’s “cured”, and is kind of worried his ex-wife will tell the new girlfriend of his past actions.

I can tell you if I was that ex-wife, I sure as hell would do exactly that!

And so he says he wants to tell his new love, but doesn’t want to get dumped.

The letter is problematic for me because the way its worded suggests he’s still not fully recovered and/or in control of whatever it is that makes him feel like he has the right to assault another person.

If the guy was in AA for alcohol abuse, his counsellor would recommend he stays out of any new relationship for a period of time. Because he’s not a recovering alcoholic in AA, he’s had ‘some counselling’ and has decided he’s okay… and yet he still isn’t sure he wants to come clean in case someone leaves him.

Therefore, his concern is for himself, not others.

And then Cary, you’ve provided this guy with a plausible framework to help him explain to the new girlfriend how it is that he’s changed. You’ve practically written the script to make him sound genuine!

This is highly problematic. I mean sure, you’ve suggested: “…the more evidence you can produce of your current behavior, the better chance you have…”

Which is implying (but not stating clearly), the guy needs to walk the talk to back up his claims. Great.

But it’s possible for abusers to hold it together for a period of time before they lose their shit. Absolutely.

And so, you’ve possibly helped this guy (if he has the balls, which many abusers don’t) to come clean. So, he comes clean using your advice and the girl he’s dating doesn’t leave him. Probably because he’s a charming SOB (the way a lot of abusers are).

Then, its all puppy dogs and sunshine for a while. Until the guy loses it, because he’s forgotten to stay with the program.

Rehabilitation of abusers. Is it possible? Maybe, but at this point on my own journey, I wouldn’t trust someone who says they’ve got a previous history of abuse. Not at all.

They would have to have years of evidence, not just months, before I’d even consider they were telling the truth. Just sayin’…

Then, some dude wrote a follow up reply to my letter which makes me want to vomit:

Yes, let him “come clean”, and his girlfriend will leave him because, well, it just isn’t that serious yet and she doesn’t need the headache, and he is once again alone and sad. So, by all means, destroy his life before he even has a chance to prove himself.

That is what I hate about America now – nobody gets a second chance. Nobody.

You know, bruises and broken bones heal. But there is no law against the emotional torture a woman can put a man through. There is no law against tearing someone’s soul out. And you KNOW there are women out there who do that. And they are never held accountable.

My reply to him was as follows:

Right, are you saying the girlfriend has no right to know the facts about someone she’s getting involved with?

Whether or not she leaves him is up to her. But like it or not, that man has to prove himself. As Cary has suggested, he *must* show evidence he’s changed. And not just a week or a month’s worth of change. That’s not enough, sorry.

I’d suggest this guy has already had a hand in the destruction of his own life, by being an abuser of women. No one has the right to assault another human being like that.

I am not American. I’m Australian. And yes, bruises and broken bones heal. But unfortunately, it seems the psychological impacts of assault are grossly under-reported.

For example, in my very own personal experience, assault cost me nearly four years of my life. It wasn’t just one night where a former lover lost control and showed me the dark side of his nature. It was the years of post-traumatic stress, the daily flashbacks, nightly nightmares, depression and an inability to function that almost cost me my job.

What did the guy who assaulted me get? Nothing. It was deemed a “his word against mine” situation, despite the bruises on my body and the broken glass in my front door. I managed to get a restraining order taken out but we all know how great they can work, don’t we?

So I lived in terror for months before I moved, changed my phone number, car, and everything that he could have connected to me. And I still didn’t feel safe. The cost for me was four years of not being able to relate to another human being properly. And of course, the therapist fees.

I’m doing much better now, thanks. But I still haven’t been able form another intimate relationship. I’ve only recently begun to feel happiness and possibilities for my future arising again.

Sure, bruises heal quickly but the spectre of assault lingers for a long, long time.

Clearly, I’m not all the way there yet. I can’t respond to this sort of tripe without my blood boiling. And I guess I’ve never considered whether or not leopards with habitual patterns of assault can ever change their spots.

The jury is still out for me on that front…

~Svasti

Cheatin’ on a meme

Tags

big boobs, Broken bones, Cooking, Disorganisation, EMDR, Honest, Honest Scrap Award, Ice-cream, May Day, Maypole, Meme, Mormon blogs, porn, Rabbits, Random, Short attention span, Vegetarianism

Happy May Day folks!

In recent times, I was tagged by two lovely bloggers and a rabbit.

Well, the rabbit actually co-writes a blog with one of the lovely bloggers, but still… how often is it that a rabbit tags you with anything? Usually, they’re too busy eating lovely green food or carrots or philosophising or… I dunno what else rabbits do, actually. ‘Cept this rabbit sure can write (as can the bloggers)!

So, thank you muchly to the very wonderful Tricia and Marcy and Zoe (please go and check out both blogs).

But I hereby declare my intention to cheat… since I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve anyway and definitely on this blog. If I followed the rules of both memes I’d have to find another sixteen (six + ten) random/honest things to tell you about myself.

And I should be really clear – there’s probably a whole lotta things about me you don’t want to know! Oh yes, you should take my word on the matter. It’ll be better for everyone that way!

So, how about I just find ten random/honest things to share, and we’ll split the difference, okay folks?

1. Yesterday I figured out the maximum number of full bags of shopping I can carry home on my bike is five. But that’s pushing it! And I refuse to put a basket on the front of my mountain bike, so that’s how its gonna stay.
2. I was a vegetarian for most of my adult life – eighteen years to be exact! That changed two years ago, but I still haven’t told my family I eat meat now. Mostly, because I don’t want to be expected to eat it every time I go to their place (which I would be if I told them).
3. My attention span is quite limited. Things need to look, smell, sound, taste or feel good to stop me drifting off… which is why there’s an awful lot of blogs I simply can’t read – the layout gives me a headache, there’s no formatting, paragraphs are too long, and people don’t edit. Of course, I’m not talking about any of the lovely readers of this blog!
4. A Mormon blog linked to one of my recent posts (Stooges of Chaos) and that makes me feel a little funny in the pit of my stomach… since most Mormons/religious people would probably consider me to be rather heretical (I think!).
5. I really can’t cook very well. Not consistently, anyway. Often my ‘cooking experiments’ either fail miserably or are kinda wonderful, and I have no idea how I made it taste so good. Right now, I am trying to teach myself how to cook, as I’m a bit neglectful/unimaginative when I’m cooking just for myself.
6. There’s two flavours of ice-cream that vie for top billing as my favourite. I can’t decide though, between Connoisseur’s Cookies & Cream and Chocolate Honey Nougat.
7. Little did I know when I wrote Body Scars (something I should really go back and edit), it would be the most popular post on this blog. It’s because I used the phrase ‘big boobs’ in it, having no idea at the time this gets searched, like… a lot. It’s had over 6,000 views alone. Mostly from very disappointed men, I imagine. It’s always a triumph for me, when another post gets more page views in a week that my ‘porn’ post! 😉
   I am pleased, however, that the third most popular post is EMDR and me.
8. I run the gamut between being hyper-organised and a total disaster zone. On a good day, I’m pleasantly organised and very capable, even if I’m ridiculously forgetful. But you don’t wanna know me if I’m at either end of the scale (annoyingly proficient or completely slothful). It’s painful for everyone.
9. Sometimes in person, I can come across as over-bearing and loud. Part of me finds that quite strange, as I’m also rather shy and nervous at times. It’s possible the loudness is a cover for the shyness, strange as that might seem.
10. In my life, I’ve broken the following body parts: left forearm (both bones), right wrist, right thumb, left little toe, three ribs on front left, left second toe. I think that’s enough. I’ve seriously petitioned the universe to say, please, no more broken bones thanks! But then, let’s not even get started on all the soft-tissue injuries I’ve had as well (see previous ‘fact’ listed elsewhere on this blog about me and my clumsiness!)…

As usual, I’m gonna make this a self-tagging game. If you wanna play, then consider yourself tagged. My only rule is, let me know what you post!

~Svasti

So… I said it…

Tags

Andre, Anxiety, Avoidance, Denial, EMDR, Grief, His name, House of cards, Loss, Therapy, Trauma, Trust

I need to come clean about something.

Actually, I don’t. I could ‘not’ write this, and not publish it either.

There’s a lot of ways I could keep this to myself.

But it would be against the spirit of my blog, in which I’ve truthfully (and often painfully) divulged much of my inner world goop. Always, always with the intent of de-clogging myself, and seeing more clearly what’s going on.

And so, I feel if I don’t get this out there, I’m lying. Mostly to myself, but sorta to those who bother to come here regularly, too. ‘Cept, if I didn’t, you’d never know. But I’d know that you don’t know. And that sucks.

So, yeah. I said it.

It wasn’t easy.

Going back a few weeks, this is my second last session in recent times. AN (my therapist) didn’t even know it was gonna be that sort of session.

Til I start talking…

You know, the reason I ended up coming to see you for EMDR therapy, was when H (my other therapist) uncovered my secret. That I never speak his name to anyone. H said she wasn’t sure how important it was for me to actually ever do it, and neither do I…

So what’s his name? AN butts in briskly.

…

[Radio silence]

And tears.

Could a red flag be waved more obviously?

AN says Okay. It’s time.

Nooooooooooooooooooo… I don’t think I can…

We start another EMDR pen-waving session. Me, stubbornly incapable of turning air into sound and forming that word. His name.

His fucking name. That stupid, meaningless word I’d allowed to assume such power. To mean other things. Become a symbol of terror.

Not saying his name it seems, became equivalent to wearing garlic, hopelessly attempting to ward off those vampirical horrors and fears, preying on my heart and mind.

Here on this blog, I’ve labelled him Andre. Where most other people I talk about have been given an initial only. Why? Well, he’s the main character of my story, right?

Right. Or is that denial? Avoidance? Being exceptionally cagey? Lying to myself?

It’s become so impossible to enunciate that I have violent psycho-somatic reactions. Coughing. Choking. Feeling like I’m about to die. An incredible sense of doom.

All of that, rather than speak that word.

Just a house of cards trying to cover for myself, willing to appear helpless rather than face it all squarely.

He was my friend.

He didn’t just take my safety. He took away my friend and replaced him with a monster. One of the few people I’d met down here that I could resonate with on some level. He was my friend, and he screwed it all up!!

I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!!

Swift-moving bile erupts from my mouth and body, scaldingly hot.

Can’t get that word out, not with all the grief and pain there. Sitting on the trigger like a trap.

AN asks me again, as we work through various emotions.

…

Still, nothing.

Mentally, I say it. Urge myself onwards. But no… nothing, again.

It’s dangerous. It’s scary. It means something… it means he wins. If I say it, I’m somehow bringing him to life again. And I’ve tried so hard to bury him, bury that night.

I’m powerless to command myself. Powerless. But it’s just a stupid name. Two syllables. Three letters. For fuck’s sake!

I can talk about anything else. Everything else. Just not this. Not this. Not…

Quiet now. I’ve sobbed til my heart is empty of tears. Raw raw, and fragile, and yet… false starts. Many of them.

His name is…

It’s…

I can mouth the letters silently. Only.

AN asks Does it start with a B?

No, it starts with an A.

That’s one letter. Only two to go.

But no. Locked into my seat in a small room with a kind but firm therapist, trying to shake me from my precarious perch. Gently, ever so gently.

My world right then, small and sharp. Pointed and painful. Dangerous, dark and terrifying.

It was coming. I wanted it to, but oh my god… the heartache, painfully beating like a foot trying to stamp its way out of my chest.

Like I’m talking to a child I say, It’s okay. Okay…

It’s okay… it’s only letters… its okay…

Why don’t I believe myself?

Just sitting and breathing now. And I can see, it’s just about courage now. That’s all that’s left. Finding a way to be unafraid long enough to squeeze it out. A little breath. A little sound.

His name. Its… its… okay, its… FUCK! Its… (wish my heart would stop aching), damn it, its….

And now it’s dead quiet in our room.

Its Apu.

AN repeats it a few times, loudly, so I can hear it, while I cry like a child. A child in shock, crying because the expression is entirely appropriate. Suitable to work through the pain. It’s shocking to say it. And hear someone say it. But somehow, its better. Already.

We finished things up, AN making sure I’m okay. And I left and went to a movie.

Then later, I wrote this…

And now you know. And I know you know. And again. It feels a little less covert. More real.

Still tender though, weeks later. Still hard to admit I’m okay with it. Even though its out there. And I’ve said it more than once now.

But guess what? I no longer choke (literally) when faced with those three letters. Not any more.

~Svasti