Motherless sod gets another clue

Tags

get a clue, Grief, hypothyroidism, Kali, misfiring hormones, Mother’s Day, mothering, Rage, raised by wolves, scrappy, self-mothering, self-nurturing, Shiva, stupidly low iron levels, yogi

This post is inspired by the turn of events since my last post (wow, I’ve learned a TRUCK-LOAD-LOT since then!), Rachel’s post on honesty and Christine’s post on self-mothering.

Full disclosure: technically I’m not really motherless given that my mamma is alive and kicking.

But sadly, her capacity for mothering never developed that well. The loving, giving, selfless put-my-kid-before-myself stuff isn’t really in her repertoire, and she’s emotionally unavailable in many ways. Sure, if I need money it (might) be given, but as for open arms to curl up in when my world is falling apart… not so much.

She’s too busy still dealing (or rather, not dealing) with a lifetime’s worth of her own grief and rage. In some ways, she’s still a seventeen year old girl having her child taken away from her and always will be. But she’s a motherless sod, too, having had a pretty poor example of a mother to call her own. So there’s no room for anyone else’s emotional needs to be addressed in my mother’s world. I’ve mostly accepted that these days…

But as a result I’ve been on my own in many ways for most of my life. A street urchin. Raised by wolves, I was. I really don’t know any better about lots of stuff.

I’m painfully aware of my lack of motherly nurturing, and have been for quite some time. My self-mothering skills are super-lame, although I’ll mother the heck out of my friends and loved ones. I’m more than happy to over-compensate in the outward direction but generally have little patience for my own needs.

Which makes sense really, since those needs were pretty much ignored as I went through endless mistakes in my teen years (some of which are documented on this blog).

However, it’s pretty difficult to turn that sort of street urchin-ness around. Why should I suddenly take up caring for myself when no one has in the past? I’ve survived this long as-is, so why should I change? Right?

But if like me, you’ve noticed all this and wanted to make a change… how does a semi-wild critter like me even begin to learn what’s needed to develop a self-nurturing instinct?

Here’s how it works for me: I’ve gotta have a damn good reason. Motivation. Something important has to be on the line to make it happen.

Now let’s just say that last weekend I was feeling pretty crappy. Not only had I just received a scary diagnosis from my doctor – with precious little in the way of actual information about hypothyroidism, thanks Doc! – but I also started my monthly cycle the very next day (apologies to any squeamish people/men-folk who might be reading).

When you’ve got stupidly low iron levels and you start bleeding, basically it’s like PMT on steroids: it blows. I had a three-day headache, my body ached and pain-killers gave no relief. My misfiring hormones were clearly having a merry old knees-up at my expense and I wasn’t invited. I was emotional, devastated at having a brand new “thing” to deal with courtesy of PTSD, and I could barely move. I slept through most of Saturday.

Somewhere in there I remembered that I actually know some really amazing people, like a friend of mine in the US who is both a GP and a naturopath. I emailed her and she very quickly gave me some awesome advice, including what questions to ask my doctor. The other part of her advice was to cut gluten and sugar from my diet, and to buy this book:

On the Sunday, I had to pull family duty: Mother’s Day, which is sadly not one of my all-time favourite days of the year. I slept most of the time I was at my sister’s place, too. There was some conversation about what’s going on with me but my mother accused me of “keeping them in the dark”.

Heh. I wasn’t, actually. It’s just that when you don’t talk to or see people on a regular basis, you tend to be less inclined to volunteer personal information about your health. Especially when you’re just trying to come to terms with it yourself!

But anyway, there was a point to this post and it’s about me getting another clue. So here it is…

This diagnosis of hypothyroidism is not as horrible as it first sounds. Well sort of. I do NOT subscribe to the standard western health model, so just because there’s an accepted “treatment” – aka synthetic hormones for the rest of your life – doesn’t mean that I have to lie down and take it.

And holy Shiva, I’m a yogi! But in my panic and fear, I forgot myself. I forgot my yoga and I forgot my relationship to the Goddess (Ma, Mary, Parvati, Kali, Durga etc). My patron Goddess form is that of Kali – who isn’t really as scary as she looks and/or is made out to be.

My lady Kali, she takes everything a part so it can be rebuilt. Become purified. Stronger. More refined. But first she takes you down to the bare bones, past whatever you think of as the possible end to it all. It aint easy, but in the end it’s a good thing. And her work is done with compassion and 100% motherly love.

This illness isn’t another reason to feel bitter, resentful and pissed off at my lot in life.

Rather, it’s a call to arms from the Mother Goddess, disguised as a really REALLY good reason to get my self-mothering act together.

It’s almost shamanic, the way this has come to a head in response to my statement/question: “I don’t know what to do next”.

The answer is this: get my health sorted out and develop my ability to self-nurture. Coz that’s important in the whole physical healing thing.

And if I’m EVER gonna kick my Grand-Bold-Stupid-Reckless-Awesome-Totally-Kicking-Life-Plan into action, then I need to be firing on all cylinders.

I suspect this next phase in the healing process aint gonna be easy. But then, nothing has been to-date, right?

Regardless, my hat is in the ring for this one because after everything I’ve been through, I’m sure as hell not giving up now!

~Svasti

P.S. The fiery warrior Svasti is back in the house!

A little more on forgiveness…

Tags

demon folk, Forgiveness, gut feel, Intuition, Kinesiology, omniscient, self-forgiveness, shouty, sociopath, wholeness

Some of y’all wrote in the comments of this post that when it comes to forgiveness, we need to forgive the action rather than the person. And I agree. But actually, I forgave my abuser quite a while ago now.

I was able to see that he was a deeply flawed and wounded person, and that his need to control things caused his desire to assault women (I wasn’t the first one he’d beaten up, I found out later). And I also know and accept that what happened wasn’t personal – none of it. What he did… he did out of his own pain.

Others commented that forgiveness is one of the hardest things to deal with. And I say abso-freaking-lutely! It really, really is.

The required forgiveness I mentioned in my last post was all about me.

I’m the one I have to forgive.

Somehow I have to find a way to stop blaming myself for not seeing him clearly enough.

I carry around a lot of blame about those things, even though I know I’m only human, that mistakes get made, and I’m not omniscient or a mind reader. I certainly don’t know everything AND particularly, I didn’t know something that I really wish I had.

I’ve rationalised and discussed it endlessly. I know the story inside out on a whole bunch of levels, too. All those people who almost automatically say “it’s not your fault” aren’t really helping. Because in some ways I really get that. I do.

But the seed of the thought remains: how come I didn’t know he was a violent and manipulative sociopath?

Generally I have a razor-sharp gut feel for the “rightness” or “wrongness” of someone in my world. Yet at the time when that particular skill really mattered, I let myself down.

Or so a very unforgiving part of me says, anyhow.

While I don’t have a 100% strike rate with my instincts, it’s right up there in the high 90% range. Mostly I listen very carefully, because those messages are always right. So… my inner debate has been about whether I just didn’t know that time (and if so, why not?!) OR if I knew and somehow ignored the red flags (blame, blame, blame!).

The other thing I have to forgive is “the past” – as a tangible thing, and something that has (from a certain perspective) been stolen from me. Stolen away years of my life. But then I ask myself, who did the stealing? Certain answers might suggest that it was me and not him. Sure, I wasn’t the one who turned my face into a bruised (and so NOT hot) mess, and I definitely had little to do with my (probably but never confirmed) cracked cheekbone that hurt for weeks and weeks afterwards.

But I was the one who didn’t get the help I needed. Who hid all of the pain as best as I could. So others couldn’t see, because heck, it was just too embarrassing. Yeah, I’m the loser who was beaten up in my own home… I couldn’t stand the pity. People looking at me as if I was weak or stupid.

It would be too raw, too hard, too much to ask when I could barely keep myself from falling apart. (Of course, if someone else told me about something like this, I would NEVER think of them that way. But it doesn’t stop my mind from telling me what I loser I was!)

After a while, I guess I did know that I needed help but I just couldn’t make myself go and get it. And I wouldn’t let anyone else close enough to see what was going on. Just like a wounded animal.

I was pretty good at the hiding all of that apparently, because lots of people, including my own family claim not to have noticed that anything was up with me. Or they simply ascribed my behaviour to other things… *shrugs* It’s impossible to say now.

Anyway. Those stories of blame are the voices of some of the nasty little demon folk I have to contend with. They like to get all shouty and geez, but they can be persistent.

The kinder, wiser, more yogic part of my being (who is doing her best to forgive the shouty demons, the parts of me that won’t forgive other parts and everything else)… she gets it, that none of it matters. That in some ways, there’s nothing to forgive.

That yogi-part is all: hey, so life hasn’t turned out the way we wanted it to. So what? There’s so much to do and learn! And while it’s meant to be easy to let things go, in the real world with it’s thousand and one inputs, sometimes it just isn’t. So, we do what we can to heal, and then go and search for happiness! Because sure, life has sucked an awful lot, but it doesn’t have to keep sucking. And yeah, it hurts that in all likelihood we’ve missed our chance at being a mother. That just blows in so many ways! Still, there are plenty of things left to do in this life…

And so on.

I called this blog “A journey from assault to wholeness” because when all this began, I felt like I was in a million little pieces scattered all over the floor. These days, I am much more whole than I used to be, AND I know my life isn’t as terrible as many others. I really do know that.

But to be very truthful, there’s only a handful of things that keep me going when those shouty demons get extra loud: the notion of transforming my life into one of service to others, practicing and teaching yoga, riding my push bike and giggles and kisses from my little nieces.

That’s all I have. They are the thoughts and experiences that actually kept me alive when I was rather seriously thinking about the alternative. And now… they help keep me focused on creating a new life for myself.

Things are better now… much better, actually. Heck, it’s all relative, right? But still, forgiving the events that sucked me into an alternate reality for so many years? And forgiving myself for allowing things to stay like that for so long?

Uhhh… that’s still a work in progress.

So thank goodness for things like kinesiology, yeah?

~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

Everything is different, nothing has changed

Tags

aftershocks, Birthday, detachment, faeries riding rainbow coloured dragonflies, Mexican, muddle-headed, Pinot Noir, radically altered, self-birthday present, Shadow Yoga, tamasic, time, Yoga, Yoga teacher

Friday night I drank perhaps a couple too many of a totally lush Pinot Noir (note: too much in my books is still relatively sober for others). Alcohol and yoga don’t mix very well… seems to mess with my balance and joint flexibility. Weird but true!

Next morning I awoke another year older and feeling somewhat tamasic, but not enough to keep me lying down. See, I had work to do.

At my yoga school for the last official day of my training – a place I’ve spent nearly every Saturday of this year and many other days in between. Taught my final practice class (a little Pinot muddle-headed), and walked out with a letter in my pocket suggestively claiming I’m now officially a yoga teacher.

Weird.

Exciting.

Best. Birthday. Present. Ever.

Hung out with my fellow fledgling yoga teachers and discussed our plans for conquering small patches of Melbourne with our mad yoga skillz.

Yeah!

Ate at my local cafe and chatted to my favourite proprietor (I’m soooo brave now!), shopped and eventually wandered home to find this in my mailbox…

No silly, not the contents! Just the wrapping… (thanks Yoga Dork, and also for the little YD sticker that came in the package!)😉

All gussied up, ate a truckload of authentic Mexican food that night (as verified by a newly acquired American friend we prevailed upon to join our little sortie).

Sunday, final Shadow Yoga class for the year, pedicure, facial (self-birthday present) and late lunch with the family, purportedly in my honour, even if I was the last to be invited (don’t ask!). Ah well, that’s how it goes here sometimes…

But actually, I’m not different to who I was yesterday (or perhaps I am?). I’ve been becoming both this age and this yoga teacher all year. Some (including me) might argue, it’s been going on for much longer than that. And yet, Saturday marked an official status for both. Curiouser and curiouser.

See, I have this theory about the passing of time, in that it doesn’t really pass at all. But then, I never quite know what to do with all that stuff that looks very much like time gone by? Maybe I’ll figure it out one day. Til then, I simply nod and smile, looking at the pretty coloured lights.

Guess the point is… I still feel like me. But the ‘me’ that I feel like was never a yoga teacher before right now. I recall the non-yoga teacher ‘me’ but she isn’t here any more… there are vast miles between the ‘me’ of five, ten, twenty years ago, and now. But would I be here if not for that person?

Ageing, I increase my happiness. My self-knowledge, self-honesty and wisdom. But was I never not this age?

There’s a quote that says something like… “you must lose yourself before you can find out who you really are”. Which I interpret as having as much to do with concepts of detachment from materialism, as it does with beginning to see the world (including oneself) as it all really is.

I’m almost certain I lived a large portion of my life in some kind of imagined version of the world, starring an imagined version of myself. It all looked pretty much like reality, but slightly veiled or tinted with imagined flourishes: perhaps a spray of violet overlaid with a mother of pearl mosaic here; a host of faeries riding rainbow coloured dragonflies over there, just beyond my very own pirate ship anchored off-shore in the distance.

And I resided as much in those flourishes as anywhere else.

Still do sometimes – I think it’s just a part of who I am. Things have always made more sense as pictures, energy and colours than in any other form. But nowadays I can see the difference, because I did it: I lost myself.

I lost who I thought I was when a fist connected with my face and the back of my head smashed into a concrete wall. All illusions were shredded as I was terrorised by a stranger I previously thought I’d known. And my view of the world altered drastically when I was more than half-convinced I was going to die… I burned and descended into hell, taking everything I thought I knew with me. Which, it seems, triggered the emergency warning signal – resulting in a re-boot of my brain and sense of self.

‘Course, I had to deal with the aftershocks and the confusion… so much confusion…

Spent four years being lost (or maybe it was much longer than that?), wandering aimlessly adrift.

But… I’m beginning to see how my new operating system works, especially now that it’s all loaded up with new programs (e.g. Yoga Teacher v1.0) and a healthy dose of (growing) confidence (note to self: must keep up maintenance on confidence!).

I’ve learned I have strengths I never imagined I could possess. And I’ve begun to understand what makes me truly, utterly and inexplicably happy. Things that make my soul sing.

So here I am. All new and yet not. Radically altered and yet the same.

~Svasti

Oceans of Milk

Tags

changing of the guard, Friendship, Intimacy, iron-clad cloak, non-dualism, oceans of milk, PTSD, reticence, Samudra manthan, summer solstice, white rabbit, Yoga

Such a strange weekend, the one that’s just said its farewells with the typical indolence of the underappreciated and often harried. Even marginally less busy than most others in recent months, still I felt its melodramatic sigh as I scurried towards this morning’s tram.

I can sense the tenseness and tentativeness, and a knowing that right now is almost the end of a number of things. But it’s also almost the birth of others. It’s another one of those sandhis, and yet there’s no lapse in activity this time. Rather, everything is swiftly accelerating.

So it seems it’ll just be all go-go-go while the changing of the guard occurs… it’s a churning (once again) as the solstice draws near, marking the slow death of the sun. Which is nothing more than a re-birth in disguise, is it not?

Been reading a bit more about the life of Swamiji, courtesy of @SatyanandaYoga – here’s a handful of interesting posts:

• Childhood Years
• The Discipleship Years under Swami Sivanananda
• The Parivrajaka Years: Wandering Mendicant
• Swami Satyananda: The Mission

I was especially struck by a paragraph from The Parivrajaka Years (third link):

…Once he was roaming about in a town which he had never visited before. Feeling tired and hungry, he approached the shopkeeper of a large shop and said, “Hari Om.” The shopkeeper replied, “Go away. Find someone else to feed you. Young man begging, have you no shame? Learn to work.” His devotees would be very upset to hear about such treatment, but Swamiji, being unmoved by both praise and blame, would just laugh…

I pray for that state of attainment. That view of the world where neither praise nor blame is important. Where non-duality isn’t just a concept, but a permanent way of being in the world.

For now it’s like speckles of sunlight through the trees – present, but not my moment-to-moment experience. Not yet, anyway. Not until I walk out into the sunlight, eventually, when I find the way…

I bring this up because I’m having to contend (yes, I know, it sounds like the wrong word, isn’t it?) with someone seeking out my company in a way I’m not really used to anymore.

I’m not talking about romance here. Just a person being friendly. Wanting to get to know me. Alright, full disclosure: a person of the opposite gender. And that, well… it is still very much a struggle for me.

It’s been four years since I was assaulted, and now I’m pretty darn functional in most ways. I’m doing very well, even if I say so myself. Especially this year, which has included some of my worst lows, as well as this ever-present and miraculous path of opening.

But it bugs me sometimes that I’m able to meditate and do yoga, and study wonderful books on various yogic topics, and get the whole non-duality thing and even have some experience of what that’s like… and then sometimes I’m still like a frightened rabbit around strange men.

Because right now, I still see difference instead of non-difference.

Probably it’s because I haven’t practiced that whole letting people in thing too much. Mostly, I haven’t had to. But then when I have, it hasn’t really worked out too well.

Mostly I’ve lived like a monk – no contact, not even trying. There were three exceptions to that rule, and none of them were good. There’s also been the odd platonic friend or two that I trusted, but later discovered they weren’t the best ideas I’ve ever had. My view in this respect has been heavily compromised.

Okay, there have been a couple of good eggs – others like me, finding their way out as best they can. And they are still people I count on (they know who they are!!). Thank goodness for them! But they’re kinda different, because they’re in the same boat.

So in response, I’ve grown this reticence – not allowing people to get too close – especially men. It was very necessary for me, to survive living with PTSD. I had to create boundaries, as much to keep myself in one piece as to keep others at bay.

But I don’t need that iron-clad cloak any more. Yet it won’t be shrugged off as easily as that!

So when on Saturday afternoon, the proprietor of my favourite local cafe came over for a chat… it was a bit dicey for a moment there. I mean, it took me at least three weeks of brunch every weekend before I’d look him in the eye as I paid my bill. This, despite absolutely loving the food, music, the way the place is decorated and so on… it’s still not easy for me to be more than polite to a complete stranger of the male persuasion.

There’s a fear that arises when someone reaches out. It’s not rational. It doesn’t even relate to what happened the night I was assaulted.

And this is strange for me, because I am fierce and brave in almost all aspects of my life. But not in this way.

Once the afternoon trade slowed, he sat down next to me for a chat. I froze for a moment. But then one of his mates arrived, and suddenly I was invited to join them for a beer. And what a beer – White Rabbit – a sumptuous local dark ale. Followed by a Czech beer with a distinct honey-ish after-taste (mmmm!).

And we were talking, swapping stories and learning things about each other. And not because he was trying to hit on me. He is just a genuinely nice man, who was busy explaining the passion and magic that goes into creating his cafe and why he does what he does.

He seems to like me. As a person to hang out with. He doesn’t want anything from me, but to get to know one of his loyal customers and be on friendly terms. I suspect the drinks would’ve kept on flowing if I’d stayed. I turned down a third as it was!

I feel welcome at his establishment. I feel liked and appreciated beyond the money I spend eating the divine food that emanates from his kitchen.

And that is strange to me. And I get that it’s strange for it to feel strange. It shouldn’t feel strange when someone offers genuine friendliness, should it?

Then I read how Swamiji laughed at the shopkeeper who berated him for being a wandering sadhu. I get that the limitations of a person’s view can keep them in a place of judgement on others. Like mine have.

My (sub-conscious) judgement has been that men are not safe or honest and I can’t trust them (all good reasons to keep them at arms length). Which is quite unfair, of course. And a rather exaggerated response to the many resulting from the actions of just one.

But I see how my view of friendly relations has collapsed, where a line of innocent questions have in the past, led to terror. Structurally this view has no integrity, that is clear.

And there are demands for change and they want to be heard.

So I didn’t run. Instead, I took several deep breaths and I laughed at myself for feeling out of place in this spontaneous moment of camaraderie.

And enjoyed the sunshine and the beer.

~Svasti

The question: Why?

Tags

abusive relationships, Assault, Depression, general randomness, Healing, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Therapy, Why?

In the treacly syrup of therapy sessions that I waded through last year (and earlier this year), I’ve endlessly tormented myself with a clutch of seemingly unanswerable questions.

Why did this (assault/PTSD/depression) happen? To me? Why did I have such a strong reaction to it given it was a single incident? Why was I having such a hard time “getting over it”?

I had no answers. My therapist suggested that if it was important, we could address it later on. That there might not be any ready answers and in fact, worrying about the why just then was counter-productive to getting on with the healing process.

She was right. So we moved on to other topics, but I did keep returning to them for regular self-flagellation. I should have known better, right? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

We want answers. When something unthinkable happens, especially when it’s personal… we want to draw a logical line from point A to point B and say Ah!!! So THAT’S why!

I suspect that in our hurry to understand why, we create reasons. And then, people tell us things like: Everything happens for a reason. Or… Something positive has to come out of this.

People might even suggest a reason or two of their own. Good people. Well meaning people.

But it doesn’t help.

Rarely will someone say those kind of things about positive life experiences. We don’t ponder (not too much anyway) why we met our life partner, or why we get to travel, or win the lottery…

And to be honest, I don’t know if everything that happens in this world (and to us personally), has to have a reason. Maybe what we think of as “the reason” is not even the real reason. If there is a reason beyond general randomness!

After all, the universe has the capacity for randomness. So perhaps that’s the real reason that seemingly senseless things happen. Perhaps they just are senseless.

Can we live with that? Sometimes, and then sometimes not…

Over at Michele’s blog, we considered the idea that perhaps the reason doesn’t matter in the end (read the comments).

Perhaps.

Although there might not be exact reasons, there’s definitely contributing factors to certain events. Influences that led you to be where you are. Again, there’s no real proof that these actually cause an event to occur. Or not.

Whatever.

Lately, I’ve been considering my pre-disposition towards abusive relationships. All kinds. Friendships, lovers, family. And I do think that pre-disposition was a contributing factor that led to me being involved with a physically violent person.

Basically, it seems I’ve put up with people treating me poorly for many years. [Note: not that I’m perfect, or that I’ve never treated other people badly. I’m not saying that.]

Which is related of course, to poor self-image/self-worth. Similarly, the next level of waging war – in addition to beating ourselves up – is to extend the war to others. And this shows up as abusive behaviour between people. Often it goes both ways. Starting within our family, of course.

Parent to child. Sibling to sibling. Child to friends. Friends to child. And so on. The circle continues to widen.

Much of my young life featured what I’ll call “low-level” abuse on an emotional and physical level. I used to think it was normal for people to be nice to me one day, and horribly upset with me the next as a repeating cycle. There was the bitching, the withholding of affection, the physical violence, regular screaming matches, being given the silent treatment for months on end and bring threatened with abandonment.

To be clear, its not that I think any of the above is particularly unusual. Actually, I think it’s the status quo in a lot of families, and almost accepted as normal even.

But it’s not normal. This is abuse.

We get used to treating other people badly, and being treated badly ourselves. Of course, there are more extreme situations, with children being molested or otherwise mistreated. But the more casual forms of abuse are important, too. Perhaps because they’re so very ubiquitous.

Possibly, growing up like that doesn’t bother everyone. At a minimum the impact would be the way people mimic abuse that was visited on them – they deal what they were dealt.

But for those who are extra-sensitive or vulnerable or otherwise naive (like I was), it can be a disaster.

When I consider the relationships and friendships I’ve had/have, it’s clear to me that I seek peaceful and harmonious relations with others. Well, that’s what I want, but it’s not always what I’ve been attracted to. Certainly for the most part, it’s not what I’ve attracted into my life. Until recent times, anyway.

Maybe that’s one of the great learnings for me – seeing just how much abuse I allow myself to put up with (not to mention the abuse I’ve dished out in return), and why. It wasn’t a one-shot deal though. It’s something I’ve continued to learn about, especially this year.

For example…

I was trying to be friends with someone who didn’t really want to reciprocate. Like a puppy dog, I wanted to be liked. I bent over backwards to be nice to this person. I gave them things. I spent money I didn’t have to do things for them.

In return, there seemed to be a friendship developing. Even if it was uneven. Even if, from time to time, this person decided to take offense at something I’d said and chuck a temper tantrum about it, way out of proportion to the actual event. Even if they gave me the silent treatment from time to time. They still encouraged me to rely on them. And so I did.

Because I wanted to be friends, exhausting as it was.

This was an abusive friendship – both ways. But I stuck it out until in the end, after we’d both torn shreds off each other. And by then it was clear: I was barking up the wrong tree. This situation came about because really, that person never wanted to be my friend in the first place.

If only I could’ve seen the other person’s abusive reactions for what they were – a cryptic message to back the hell off! But because I was used to accepting abusive behaviour, I didn’t.

This time, the end result wasn’t a physical assault. But it was an assault on my heart and self-esteem.

And I think (and hope) it was the final wake up call.

I don’t want to be abusive towards others, and as a yogini I’m working towards stripping these tendencies away from how I move about in this world.

Equally, I don’t want to be friends with people who treat me badly.

Just maybe then, that is the reason why? In the end. Or perhaps it’s just a by-product? Either way, it’s a good piece of knowledge to have on this journey.

~Svasti

The PTSD Fog

Tags

balancing act, funerals, handaball, Healing, nightmares, Parental Units, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, PTSD Fog, Shift, shuffle, sidestep, waiting

Been coming across some interesting PTSD-related blogs of late. Including the boys over at Operation PTSD (looking out for war veterans) and Teresa’s blog: My Embodiment (Misadventures and Adventures of a Psychotherapist in Yoga School).

A recent post (**potential trigger warning**) of Teresa’s has inspired some self-contemplation about the “lost years” of my own PTSD induced fog.

Have a look at my Timeline page. Under 2006 and 2007, there are almost no posts. And the reason for that is simply that I barely remember anything from that time.

Jason from Operation PTSD wrote:

Most people who are affected by PTSD will initially recluse into a world of their own leaving everyone around them searching for answers.

And that was me.

Untreated PTSD is like a 3D tactile, sensory and enveloping version of acid reflux on a loop, wherein your trauma repeats on you frequently, engaging ALL of your senses. Sometimes multiple times a day.

Can you imagine living every day of your life in terror of your own mind?

The following is about as much as I can remember of that time…

I didn’t want to think, I didn’t want to sleep. Or rather, I wanted to sleep, but without the nightmares (they eventually went away and then I just wanted to stay asleep – I often slept away whole weekends).

I didn’t want to do anything or be seen by anyone. When I wasn’t at work, I was a hermit, living alone and not going out, except to the corner store for more ice-cream or DVDs. I forgot more than I remembered. I couldn’t manage to get anywhere on time. And I absolutely couldn’t stop crying for the life of me.

I remember wishing away months of my life. I’d think things like “another six months or so, and I’ll be okay”. I wasn’t though. Healing from PTSD doesn’t really work that way.

Some people are amazed I didn’t take medication. Maybe I should have. Maybe it would’ve made my life a little less stressful.

But the truth is I didn’t see a doctor post-assault, because I was too ashamed. I also didn’t know there was anything to go and see a doctor about as I didn’t understand what PTSD was, or that someone like me could end up with it.

Eventually, I think I learned to coat myself with a layer of protective numbness. The Fog. Maybe this is nature’s way of medicating a person from the horrors? And right then (whenever “then” was) is when the Fog really set in!

The Fog was insurance, protection.

It was hard to remember to buy food to eat, let alone anything more important. However, during this time I was also being bullied at work, had bone graft surgery, a crazy neighbour and a mother who almost got me arrested! Stressful much? You bet!

There’s one thing I managed to do pretty well in that time: keep it together at work. I’ve now shared my story with a handful of ex-workmates and they’re amazed. One response was: You always seemed so happy, smart and confident!

Heh. There you have it. Externally, I had an excellent cover story working for me. I needed it desperately, to keep the Fog in tact so life didn’t hurt quite so much. And I think I know where I got that from: the Parental Units are experts.

Something that punctuated the ongoing sameness (apart from the above mentioned) was my grandfather’s passing in early October 2006.

It was just a month after his 85^th birthday, when Dad had driven an hour each way to pick him up (he refused to move after my grandma died even though he was far away from family).

For some reason, I felt inspired to take a few photos of my dad with his dad, arms around each other – they were the last photos ever taken of my grandpa.

He died at home, his heart finally giving out as he made his way from the bedroom to the living room, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown.

At a family conference the next day in my grandpa’s living room, I somehow agreed to speak at the funeral on my dad’s behalf because he said couldn’t do it without breaking down. I don’t know what made me think I could, either.

But maybe this is just what my family does by default? Shift, shuffle, handaball, sidestep… we wrap what’s really going on in layers of silk, never really looking at it directly. It’s possible to survive like that for a while, but not forever. At least, not for me anyway.

The day of the funeral I arrived early because I wanted to say my goodbyes in private. I was nervous because I’d only seen one other dead person before – my grandmother. In contrast to her plumped and pristine condition, my grandpa looked small, shrunken and stone-like.

Sitting in a chair, I could just see his forehead over the top of the coffin while I said mantra and prayers. Perhaps it was my numbness but while in the presence of his body, I felt incredibly peaceful. Here was someone who’d lived a full and happy life and now he was done. There was no lingering energy of his presence. And in a way, the nothingness was soothing.

Thing about my grandpa was, he never wished away any of his life. Even once he’d lost his wife – the love of his life – he still made the most of his time, socialising, flirting with dental nurses and maintaining a perrenial twinkle in his eye.

But that was then.

I kissed his frigid forehead, wishing him well in his travels as I tried not to look at his shrivelled and sunken eyes.

Of course I didn’t get through the service without tears. They were too readily available. And after, I was back to dealing with the balancing act between the Fog and dealing directly with PTSD.

But I guess in some ways I was glad to have an “acceptable” reason to cry in public for a few weeks. Because I couldn’t always control it, and I’m pretty sure that a lot of the grief I was feeling was as much about my own life as it was for my grandpa.

~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

Proverbs, Yoga & Stretching

Tags

Asana, chattaranga, Clues, Proverbs, Stretching, Untold stories, Vulnerable, Yoga

All too often, we humans keep ourselves moving in the same patterns. We have what we perceive of as our boundaries and rarely do we stray from them.

It’s not often that people question or challenge how we move through this life… unless we do.

This week, I’ve been having some rather interesting conversations with a friend. Which in itself is not unusual.

Some of the topics we discussed however have tied neatly in together in the mind of this crazy yogini.

First up – a discussion about yoga practice – and how the so-called limitations of the body are in fact only limitations of the mind.

Flexibility of the body, we agreed, isn’t ‘fixed’. Under anaesthetic, human beings enjoy a full range of motion (well we might enjoy it if we weren’t knocked out cold). Yet when we’re ‘awake’, many people can’t so much as touch their toes.

And we talked about how surprising it can be sometimes when ‘suddenly’ you find it possible to do certain yoga poses (asana) when previously you couldn’t. But, actually, it’s possible you’ve been building up your capacity for some time and it’s just that you still thought you couldn’t (my detested chattaranga is improving all the time!).

Then today – nattering over IM as usual, we started approaching darker topics for both of us… although at first very light-heartedly… then I suddenly found myself on somewhat shaky ground. A question came up, one I couldn’t answer directly.

But – I felt brave enough to try to provide the answer, if somewhat cryptically. The only way I could get it out was to provide clues pointing the way.

Even that much though, was really, really hard. It was enough to bring pain to my throat and tears to my eyes. But I wanted to try, anyway. It felt like a moment of possibility, one I could choose to ignore, or go for it and see what happened.

Jay thought it was a little odd I didn’t seem to mind telling him the things I did (even if he did have to guess through my clues) – it’s just that for me, getting the information out… well, it’s the thing that hurts so very, very much.

Yet despite a little anxiety this evening, I’m doing okay. Much better than I thought I’d be.

And it’s a step in the right direction.

Because really, unless I try… then how will I ever find my way out of this darkness?

Sure, during that conversation I felt incredibly vulnerable. But sometimes that’s the point when I feel the most open to attempt something new. As scary as it might feel, it’s even scarier to think my only option is retreating away each and every time.

And just like taking another crack at an asana you’ve always found difficult… if you don’t try you’ll never know. Your attempt requires you to stretch both your body and mind just a little more than before. Until finally, you find you’re already there.

There’s still a lot of information I’m not okay with voicing. And I know why, I think.

Something my therapist said is that perhaps this assault was the proverbial straw so to speak… the final extra load I couldn’t carry.

There’s more, you see.

Much more – some of which I’ve shared here a little, but there’s much that I haven’t.

I think it’s true, that there’s been some kind of slow toxic build up. So my terror, the suffering – all of it – isn’t really just about Andre and that one night.

And I’m hoping as I get braver, that digging deeper into the mire is something I can do.

Part of the problem though, is that while being assaulted was something I couldn’t control… possibly there are things in my past that I did have control over.

Things I feel shame and guilt about. And I certainly wonder what anyone reading here might think if I were to write about them. I wonder if they’d judge me, form different ideas in their minds about who I am?

I don’t know really. But I’m willing to try.

~Svasti

Defenceless

Tags

Defenceless, Fear, Happiness, House of mirrors, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Pustule, Strong, Vulnerable

It’s time for the invasion.

Though… seems it’s me, willingly opening the gates.

One by one barriers and boundaries have dropped away. The deeper I dig, the less I have by way of protection.

That’s a good thing, I say, to no one but me.

Dangerous… fighting for my sanity half-naked. Perhaps…

Yet, how else to reclaim what’s mine? How else to eject a festering seeping pustule?

I see now how you’ve held me. With your naturally repugnant scent inducing fear at twenty paces. Hackle-raising, gut wrenching, agonising.

But it’s a trap.

A scary house of mirrors playing mind games so real… so real I can’t remember what it’s like ‘outside’.

Wisdom arrives and says: The constructs that protect me also keep me within the grasp of those I’m defending against.

One begets another, each making the other more real, more concrete, self-perpetuating…

And then I know the only answer there is: There’s no going back to how things were…

If it’s my happiness I want, the way isn’t back to a place where that pain never was.

That place, it doesn’t exist any more. If it ever did… there is only now.

And neither is it the way, just sitting where I am. Waiting. Hoping. Ignoring won’t work any longer. Can’t truly forget… and distractions never last.

I must walk through the center. Spot-lit and unlovely, not even ready for a fight. No defences.

Here I am, so I say. Come on, then…

I’m learning your ways. Just a spectre here, not real. Your entry is via my waking nightmares… where you live again. Solidifying in my projections, gaining strength.

I’ve just remembered something though, standing here bereft of armour.

A lesson learned once, and now returned.

You can hurt me all you like but I won’t be giving in. There’s a point (perhaps I’m not there quite yet) at which vengeance loses impact.

So while I may look weaker, I’m prepared.

And I grow tired of this game…

~Svasti