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

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

Crash

Tags

Accident, Anxiety, Bike stack, Confusion, Crash, Depression, EMDR, Fear, Gravel rash, Injuries, Intuition, Mojo, Panic attacks, super powers, Unemployed

Been in a funny little funk this week. And its made it hard to write, damnit. Which really doesn’t help matters.

Where there’s movement after a long period of stagnation, often what you get is the discovery of more stuff to deal with. You couldn’t see it before coz there was so much else in the way…

Fell off my bike the weekend before this one. Took a major tumble. I’ve mentioned my clumsiness before… Somehow though, I managed to not break any bones, trash my clothing, and I didn’t wreck my bike. Overall, it was a pretty successful stack (Aussie term for fall/crash).

Returning from my yoga studies course, I was travelling on the footpath (which I don’t do a lot, but this was a busy road), and probably going just a touch too fast (ahem, when would I do that??). So when the broken footpath came into view, it was too late to avoid it. Just beyond this nasty piece of trouble was dirt – not helpful when you’re trying not to skid.

I could see what was gonna happen, and so I called on possibly the only super-power I actually do have… the ability to think clearly as I fall, and do what I can to minimise the end result.

As in, make sure my fingers aren’t in bad places, don’t try to break the fall with an outstretched hand (which can result in broken wrists) and try to relax as much as possible. The opposite of ‘bracing for impact’. Also, I threw myself off my bike, knowing I didn’t really want a handle bar or any other part lodged firmly against my ribs, for example.

‘Course, that doesn’t mean that I got off scot-free. Hardly! As I lay there fully stretched out on my belly, arms in front of me… trying to asses if I was okay, a lovely, well-meaning dude (himself a cyclist) came over to see if I was alright. But then, without warning tried to lift me to my feet, grabbing me under the shoulders while standing in front of me, causing my back to arch upwards… Don’t do that, please, I begged.

He looked offended, but I explained, I need to get up a little more gently. And y’know, its handy to understand if someone is really injured or not, before hauling them up by the shoulders! Rolling to one side and sitting up was much more ideal, once adrenaline stopped pumping so hard and I could start to feel the extent of my injuries.

Thank goodness for cycling gloves, is all I could think while inspecting the trashed palms of my gloves (grateful it wasn’t my hands). Elbows didn’t fair so well, though. The day was warm and I was dressed in an orange North Face t-shirt, not really ideal for cycling (though tempting when you think you’re invincible on a warm day).

Oh yes, it wasn’t pretty.

It was gravel rash.

Both elbows and knees, and my stomach. Found out later I was also gifted with a bruised boob. Ouch!

Left elbow was the worst. But both were nicely mashed up. Blood, dirt, tiny pebbles. Profusely stinging.

And what was that? My left shoulder was putting in a serious complaint. Didn’t have time to think about it too much, coz I was in danger of fainting.

The nice old guy checked my bike was okay and seeing I wasn’t in need of emergency treatment, directed me to a nearby seat. Which I needed, to catch my breath and make sure I was okay.

I needed to regroup if I was gonna cycle another five kilometers home.

Almost there, I dragged my bruised and battered self into the pharmacy conveniently placed on the road home… got pain killers and bandages and stuff from a very unsympathetic looking pharmacist.

Luckily as I said, nothing broken. I did wonder though, where my hot male nurse was… the one who shoulda been there to pick up the pieces!

So, anyway. Here I am, just finished a course of EMDR therapy. I’ll go and see my therapist again in a month. Just to see how things are going.

But on top of the physical meshing of body against pavement… there’s been another sort of crash.

Or, perhaps the best word is… panic.

No job. Again. No income. Limited stores of cash that won’t last forever. The job market is D-E-A-D and I’m not even getting a nibble from applications I’ve sent in! Doom and gloom on the news, unemployment’s jumped x%. Whatever skills I have, they’re only useful as long as there’s demand for them…

But there’s actually a bunch of work in my field in Sydney right now. So what am I doing here, anyway? In Melbourne? With nothing really going for me? The only thing that’s actually working for me here, is my yoga course. The whole move-to-Melbourne-and-become-closer-to-my-family thing was a wash. Of course, there’s my beautiful nieces.

But they aren’t my life. That’s my sister’s family, not mine. As for me? I’m trying to get my life back on track, fighting really hard for that and… its one thing after another.

Not to mention… my mojo has vanished! That little light of intuition, voices in my head that talk to me, tell me stuff… well, its been radio silence almost all of the last couple of weeks.

So what the heck am I doing again? Do I actually have a point, here? I’m not so sure about that right now…

That panic attack it seems, was just waiting for a clearing to have its turn. And so I couldn’t write. Couldn’t do anything much, especially in the last week… and I’m not feeling pulled in any one direction or the other. Nothing to guide me. Nothing.

And that’s where I am, still.

Got ordered out of the house on Friday by a friend… which helped but still, I’m not cool with all this nothingness. Though as a yogini, I darn well should be!

I know, I know. I’m still healing, moving on from demons of the past. Licking my wounds. Give myself a break. Yaadayaadayaada…

~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!

Never-ending nightmare

Tags

EMDR, Fear, flashbacks, Nightmare on Elm Street, nightmares, Panic attacks, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Therapy, Trauma, triggers, Wes Craven

Tried to describe PTSD to a friend, recently. What it’s been like for me, and why my recent encounters with EMDR are so miraculous, given the world I’ve been inhabiting.

To illustrate, I spoke of the creations of Wes Craven’s classic schlock horror, Nightmare on Elm Street. Y’know, how those kids in the movie tried really, really hard to stay awake and out of that nightmare zone.

But inevitably they had to fall asleep. Though, they never saw sleep coming. Didn’t know they were in the dream until, well, they were in it. The slippery divide between those worlds was translucently thin, sliding over the boundaries without realising it.

And Freddie was always waiting for them. Scaring the crap out of them. In some cases, scaring them to death.

Throughout most of that movie, they didn’t feel like they were in control at all.

This is the insidiousness of PTSD. And I believe, it’s partly why it’s so traumatic.

It’s not just the memories being on repeat; it’s that you seemingly can’t control when they appear or how it impacts you. Triggers can be both known and unknown. The unknown ones are the real kickers.

And the trauma is caused by having life as you know it continuously swamped by this broken record, stuck on repeat at random intervals.

The memory itself, was terrifying in the first place. Of course. But repeated over and over… it can stop your heart. Makes dying feel like a much simpler solution. A rest. A break.

But then, it’s not just the flashbacks, though that’s a hefty chunk of the issue. When PTSD arrives, fear and anxiety are the bitter after-taste in your mouth you can’t quite identify. Always there, flaring up when it’s least welcome.

The trickiest thing to understand from the outside looking in… someone who looks perfectly ‘normal’, can, at a moment’s notice become a complete wreck. Can suddenly act like a different person. And mostly, they can’t possibly explain what’s happening to them.

I lost a friend that way, once. She wasn’t exactly a very good friend. But one of the few I did have here in Melbourne at the time.

We were walking to a cinema, and were suddenly walking in very crowded area. There was some sort of festival on, and it became a flesh press… to move from point A to point B, it was necessary to slowly force your way through the crowd physically.

Which completely freaked me out. From my friend’s perspective, I totally over-reacted to what was going on. I had what I can now recognise as classic panic attack symptoms.

But this was only months after I was assaulted, and I had no idea what was happening to me.

My stress levels didn’t evaporate, and when we finally got into the movie, once again I over-reacted to what was going on. Which was (one of my pet hates) people talking in the cinema. It was just previews, which I usually tolerate. But this time I was really angry and aggressive towards the young dorky boys in front of me. Completely out of character for me.

Apparently the combination of these two events was enough for my friend to decide she couldn’t cope with hanging out with me any longer. I was too ‘unpredictable’ for her.

No one likes rejection, and I tried to explain to her what happened (as best I could) but she wasn’t buying it. Which, actually, was kinda fine with me, given she was one of those people who would complain about her other friends to the person she was hanging out with.

But it’s tough… like those kids in Nightmare on Elm Street, it’s impossible to put a stop to PTSD while you’re enclosed in its iron grip. And really hard to properly communicate what’s going on to other people. Especially non-empathetic people.

And it’s a process, waking up to what’s happening to you… to know your triggers (if you ever can know them all), and then… to finally feel like you’ve got a shot at beating it.

PTSD is after all, a kind of warped safety mechanism of the mind, trying to protect the person who’s been traumatised. The twist is, it actually traps them inside a fragile ‘safe space’. Makes them feel like the ongoing trauma is being done to them by someone or something else. Mostly, because the trauma was inflicted by someone else/an external experience.

But its not. PTSD is a defective thought process. It’s broken. It’s stuck on repeat, and in fact, its your own mind torturing you. A tough one to accept, because the flashbacks are so all-encompassing and terrible. It doesn’t ever feel like its something your own mind is creating.

However, it is possible to recover from. That’s what I’m discovering.

For my next trick, I need to let go of the vestiges of this thing. Apparently, I can start getting used to living in a world that doesn’t suddenly shift into a nightmare any more.

I can’t tell you how amazing the idea of that seems to me right now. And I’m slowly trying to trust that it might actually be the truth…

~Svasti

P.S. Note: This is not what I’m experiencing right now. I’m not struggling with PTSD once again. I just felt moved to write this explanation because I realised… there’s a lot of people who really don’t get what’s going on for someone in the grip of this very tricky mind game…

Not quite yet

Tags

Deconstruction of fear, EMDR, Fear, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Recovery, Repression, Therapy

Stumbling, crumbling pathos of my fears leads the way.

While my zombie-like physical personage cycles, walks and shops.

Trailing behind is my butt-naked Self.

Tenuous acknowledgement it all sorta belongs together is, I believe, what creates the coordinated forward momentum.

They’re only words, you know. Words I choke on, sure. But still just words and I’m the one who gives them meaning, and power.

Yet, what if that ‘meaning-making mechanism’ has fallen so deeply down the well, there’s nary a hope of recovery?

This is how it all becomes intrinsic… sandcastles of sadness, salty tears and the slow wearing down of safe ground… we’re accustomed to believe it’s all inter-related and meaningful.

Stepping off the balcony of that derelict world should be easy. Right?

Sometimes the simplest things are worst.

Imagine wrapping yourself in protection with whatever’s on hand? Mightn’t actually help you at all, but then… it was there at the time. When you needed something, anything, between you and what just happened.

All part of the shock and fright.

Should just be on the periphery but, instead, sheaths you with an invisible force field. Nothing enters or leaves. How else can you stay afloat? Survive?

But time comes, eventually, to dismantle such ramshackle efforts. Create proper foundations, ones that won’t tremble and shiver under the slightest of pressures, real or imagined.

No, it’s not easy. Insinuated as they are, amongst everyday things.

And when you try… when you do… that’s what the heavies are for. Big hitters, they don’t play nice and there’s tricks to be learnt, to slip past and out the door.

They’re just words and letters… three little letters, too…

And then, I get it.

Not saying, is much tougher than speaking freely. Really is. At least, in theory.

Finally, courage arises, and even then, those letters get stuck. They’re literally what I’ve been choking on, after all.

When, finally, they come… its ripping-off-the-band-aid-shock. But then it hurts more again, later. Much more. Time to rest and retreat and regroup.

Afterwards, standing up seems difficult. Sitting is easier, even in a very public place. Just sitting for a while. For as long as I need.

It’d help a lot if I could just puke, perhaps.

Once again, sleep has the answers for now. Just hopefully not crashing out on the couch!

There’s nothing easy about this, the deconstruction of fear. Fillet-o-fish gutted, it’s a clearer place to be, but rather hollow and sad, for now.

~Svasti

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!