Continual personal evolution required

Tags

bitch, continual personal evolution, disability, glitches, poor memory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD symptoms, sensory overwhelm, Sookie Stackhouse, triggers

An analogy for you: in the same way a person whose been in a car accident might end up with a limp or some other kind of disability for the rest of their life, there are some side-effects of PTSD that remain no matter how much work I’ve done.

Or perhaps it’s that the work is still there to be done, and one day I WILL be 100% symptom-free. Or maybe I won’t. I’m not particularly attached, either way.

I seem to have three lingering PTSD-related “things” that happen from time to time. My disability*, if you will.

1. Really crappy/patchy memory: remembering names (i.e. of yoga students) is almost futile, it can take months. Remembering that I went out for dinner with friends and had a super-fun time – just days later – isn’t easy. I write everything down. EVERYTHING. Or it doesn’t happen. I have to work exceptionally hard to remember the yoga sequences I’m teaching – which requires a lot of intention and presence.

Sure, there are memory exercises a person can do. I eat and imbibe all the foods/vitamins etc that I’m supposed to. Don’t worry, I’m on it.

But I also get really confused sometimes, in a little fog of weirdness that only time can resolve.

2. Occasional sensory overwhelm: it happened again last Friday night, but the time before that was over a year ago. It seems that even in situations unrelated to my own traumatic experience, if I don’t feel comfortable in a given environment things start to get a little whacky in Svasti-land.

Last Friday, I went with my workmates to some dive of a bar for some farewell drinks. It was below street level, deep and dark… walking in there just felt wrong in the pit of my stomach. I kept asking to leave, but I couldn’t make myself explain to my friends WHY I needed to go. So they stayed, and I spouted a bunch of semi-related reasons why I didn’t want to be there. Eventually I realised they weren’t leaving and I still wasn’t happy, so I left. And woke up the next morning feeling bloody awful: the full fight-or-flight adrenal aftermath, thank you very much.

It happens so rarely that even if the people I’m with know my history, they won’t always pick up what’s going on for me.

In fact, one of my co-workers’ impression of me that night is that I was being a complete bitch. He’s all – how can you be a yoga teacher, and behave like that?

Which is when I tried to explain that no one is perfect, not even yoga teachers. But he was asking me that question from his own intense self-loathing, so he didn’t really hear me.

Anyway… here’s hoping with this one, there’s a way to reduce this reaction even more. Although the main issue is that the trigger’s so random and hard to set off that… well how do you treat such triggers, eh?

3. Under duress, I’m not always a nice person: I’m not entirely convinced this is just a PTSD-thing. I come from a family of harsh and mean people. LOTS of in-fighting on both sides. Then there’s that whole thing where I grew up as the target of an exceptionally abusive older brother. I learned to fight back. Had to.

I’m 100% certain that having experienced PTSD made this personality flaw worse. Because trauma causes the traumatised to be harsh towards themselves, and then towards others by extension.

So, when I’m really stressed out, I can be a Grade A Bitch. Harsh. Mean. Unkind words.

It’s not what I practice or teach as a yogi, but for now that’s how it is. I’m not living my practice 100% off the mat, all the time. And I don’t like it at all. Not one little bit. In fact, I feel very shitty approximately thirty seconds after I’ve unleashed a torrent of evilness. I judge myself harshly for such infractions.

But unlike both sides of my family – who all have a talent for selective ignorance around their own issues – I’m not content to remain like this.

The solution to this one is obvious, I think: more yoga. Deeper immersion in studies and practice. Plus, a change of career, out of a toxic working environment that is always rush-rush-rush and so much pressure, to something more suitable for someone like me with my autoimmune condition and my PTSD disabilities…

Luckily, these are all things I’m working towards anyway. Transitioning out of the 9-5 office world. Reinventing my career to be self-employed (not that I think working for yourself is stress-free!). Going to India.

All of these things are on the cards, and actually not too far away, either.

My intention is the same as it’s been for years: continual personal evolution. This is all we can do, really. The only true change we can invoke in the world. And I’m on it. Might take a while though…

~Svasti

xx

*As a side note, if you’ve ever read the Sookie Stackhouse novels, you’ll know Sookie refers to her telepathy as her “disability”. I use the term very much in the same way – these things are both a blessing and a curse. The curse part is especially because it aint always convenient to be all special needs. But it does make life interesting…

Glitching

Tags

computer virus, ducking for cover, fight or flight, freak show, glitching, human cesspool, illicit hiding places, iron-fisted punch, neurological aberration, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, Recovery is a bitch, triggers

The calm and peaceful view from my Saturday morning - before everything went belly-up

Lately I’ve begun to think about PTSD as kind of like a computer virus: once it’s in, you’ve gotta completely scrub the hard drive to expunge it. Only thing is, there’s plenty of places for it to hide and then pop up unexpectedly. Taking you by surprise and completely fucking things up. Temporarily at least.

I’ve discussed this before with my lovely friend CK – She Who Also Knows – that in some ways, it’s all a lot easier to cope when you’re still mostly crippled by that blasted virus. You’re intimately involved with what to expect and you’re way more used to ducking for cover. PTSD in full flight might suck big time, but at least you know what’s coming. Well, sorta.

But when you’ve worked your ass off to clear the decks and you’ve kicked over as many illicit hiding places as you can, you begin to feel a great deal more normal. Which is completely awesome. It’s nice to be able to function effectively in day to day life. Really.

Until you don’t. Until you start glitching. Until some stupid little trigger you didn’t even know existed, makes itself known.

These days most people I interact with don’t know about my PTSD history. I don’t often feel the need to talk about it because it generally doesn’t incapacitate me anymore.

Until it does.

Not just in the here, have a physical illness to go along with your mental health issues kind of way. And not in the wow, did you know that PTSD weakens the immune system kind of way, either.

I’m talking about the sort of shit that makes you look like a freak show to the uninitiated. One minute all is well and the next, you can barely breathe. Your throat is closing as if someone is strangling you. You unintentionally mess up the lovely night out we were all having until you flipped.

That kind of freak show.

Ah yes. That was me on Saturday night. Out with my beautiful-of-heart friend, M, and one of her mates. A girl’s night out (without the drinking since none of us were, for various reasons).

I’d no idea that I’d be triggered by being in an over-crowded bar/club. We had fun, we were talking and then dancing to some of the cheesy music being played (Whitney Houston or Tina Turner, anyone?).

And it was all good until, perhaps, the crowd capacity maxxed out. Suddenly it was wall-to-wall people. Elbows in backs, drinks in danger of being spilled and no room to move. Forget dancing – it was all you could do to shuffle around on the spot. Not my idea of a good time.

But even then, I was fine. Until something snapped. Don’t know what. One too many up-close-and-personal moments with complete strangers, perhaps? The sensory overload of music, people, voices and being in a place I wouldn’t choose to hang out in myself? Maybe.

All I know is that I couldn’t stand dancing in that human cesspool any longer. The fight or flight mechanism had kicked in and I wasn’t doing so well. My poor friend M was caught between her other pal and I. M’s friend wanted to keep dancing (if you can call standing flesh-to-flesh in a crowd actually dancing) and I wanted, no, needed space.

Now, I’ve been out plenty of times in recent history. I’ll go to music gigs, hang out at festivals where there’s lots of people. But for whatever reason, I was triggered. And the problem with being triggered is that the world doesn’t make much sense any more. I couldn’t figure out that I should just leave, even though I really wanted to.

My friend M had never seen this happen to me before (she’s only recently moved back to Australia from the UK). So she didn’t really understand what was going on, and with my throat closing in I could barely speak. M kept asking me if I was okay, but my basic PTSD modus operandi has always been to deny that anything is wrong.

So I nod my head and plead with my eyes, I’m okay. I really am. All the while, coughing (a classic sign of stress for me) and sucking on ice cubes from my drink (cranberry and soda with a slice of lime).

It’s not like I wasn’t trying to change how I felt. I worked on controlling my breathing, but it was really hard going. When the fight or flight wild horses take off at a gallop, it’s very tricky to regain control.

M’s other friend really didn’t understand why I was being such a buzz kill. The only thing that made any difference was leaving that environment. Which we did, eventually… the night was pretty much over after that.

I took a tram home and slowly recovered, all the while I was kicking myself. Because I know just how weird that sort of experience can look to others. I’ve lost friends over similar incidents before.

And poor M was feeling terribly guilty that she didn’t get me out of the bar sooner. But really, neither of us had any way of knowing what was going on. Just like those viruses that get past your firewall and raise all kinds of weird and wacky hell on your laptop… completely unforeseeable stuff.

Unfortunately this little meltdown caused Sunday to be a total write off. That kind of neurological aberration socks a particularly iron-fisted punch. I slept until around 1pm and when I got up, I was dizzy. As in, whoah, I know which direction vertical is but I’m kinda all over the shop.

I spent the afternoon eating, resting and writing because that’s about all I had the bandwidth for. And to think I used to somehow get by with those sorts of experiences happening multiple times a day! (“Get by” might be slightly ironic).

So it looks like I’m still not done with PTSD. There’s more to do. And instead of feeling devastated about it, I’m thankful for what happened. Because if I hadn’t had that experience, I’d still be thinking I’m further along the healing path than I actually am.

Recovery is a bitch, but giving up just isn’t an option. Not anymore.

~Svasti

Broken stress reaction = suckage

Tags

Acupuncture, amber alert, Anxiety, defense mechanisms, Emergency Essence, Faulty stress reaction, impending doom, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, PTSD goodie-bag, siege, Stress, sub-conscious, WD40

The ‘on’ switch is jammed and I can’t get it to turn off.

I learnt this enhanced fight or flight reaction from my PTSD, from the night that bastard chose to pummel my face, push me around and terrorise me.

My body knows what my mind can’t compute  because it’s busy trying to shield me from the shock of what’s going on. It loudly announces: DOOM! IMPENDING AND IMMINENT DOOM! FAAAARK! DOOM!!

This message carries its evidence in my throat, heart, lungs, solar plexus and belly. It can be hard to breathe. I cough a lot and my chest feels like it’s under incredible pressure. My guts shimmer and swirl and it’s as though I’ve eaten too much fairy floss. I feel sick. I get the runs. I can’t shake the feeling that something VERY BAD is about to happen any freakin’ moment.

Except.

That moment? The one where I really was in some pretty extreme danger is over. It’s been over for years. Anyone who’s read this blog knows how much work I’ve put into making all of that past tense.

But my body still remembers what to do. How to respond. That hyper-vigilance one gets in the PTSD goodie-bag isn’t going to stop just because my conscious and logical mind is cool with everything. Damn it, my body is gonna STAY ready (just in case, okay?).

Because of this, I find myself unwittingly prepared for a siege when there aren’t even any invaders to be reckoned with. If I get stressed or anxious about something – BOOM – my body takes that as a signal to get the defense mechanisms ready. While there’s no need to pull up the drawbridge and hunker down – you just try telling that to my sub-conscious!

Although it’s not just that the ‘on’ switch is jammed. The other thing is that there’s only one speed – go for broke.

And I can’t tell you how much it sucks.

For example, several weeks ago I went for the job interview (for the job I now have). The interview went well, obviously. I had nothing to be worried about but for whatever reason, I was stressed. Possibly because I was so hopeful that I’d get the damn job, but who knows!

Anyway, on the tram on my way home I started noticing the tightness in my throat. Here we go again…

Then there was last night. If you were on Twitter while I was ranting, you’d know what I’m talking about but I seriously don’t have the energy to rehash it all here.

However, unlike my job interview-induced stress, last night’s was a doozy. A genuinely stressful experience with a fall-out zone across multiple areas of my life. Let’s just say it has to do with yoga, although not yoga teaching.

Yoga is one of the main stabilising forces in my life so for something to go askew there, it’s big.

Couldn’t sleep last night as a result and then all of today I’ve been doing whatever I can to calm my inner sentries and get them to stand down from active duty. Because when it’s all guns blazing my body really, really hurts.

The kicker is, while I know I’m okay, my body insists on it’s own version of events because it refuses to be caught unawares this time ’round.

So consequently all of today I’ve felt like shit. Even doing some front-end coding (which I usually find very calming) didn’t really help. Neither did all of the Emergency Essence I sucked back. Eating some fresh fruit, drinking plenty of water and having a giggle at some YouTube videos was good. So was my acupuncture appointment (which I’d rescheduled from last week – talk about great timing!).

Although I’m doing better now, I’m not 100% okay. My body hasn’t calmed down completely – let’s just say it’s currently on amber alert. Hopefully by tomorrow morning when I’m still alive and unharmed, my inner sergeant will call “at ease” to the troops.

This is very difficult to explain if you haven’t experienced this for yourself – hence the description of the jammed ‘on’ switch. That’s kind of what it’s like. I’ve sprayed on some WD40 and I’m working that switch back and forth. It’s starting to budge a little but it won’t move back into the ‘off’ position entirely. Not just yet.

So I’ll just keep on working it with whatever tools seem to make sense, and it’ll get there in the end. Damn you, faulty stress reaction!

~Svasti

(Note to self: Must get faulty stress reaction serviced. This is something for Kerry and I to explore at our next appointment!)

Decompressing on the downlow

Tags

Carried by a Promise, cartoon series, feta and silverbeet pie, Goldilocks and the Three Bears, little girl giggles, Mojo, new job, Nieces, Papa Bear, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, satire, suppressor, The Wonky Donkey, Tinkerbell, update, world of impermanence, Yoga

A little more street art from my 'hood

 

There’s been the odd hint or two from certain people about my lack of blog posts in recent times. I know.

Well, blame it on all the energy I had to put into surviving the Hellhouse of Horrors, but I’ve been a touch short on inspiration lately.

Thing is, I don’t wanna post just for the sake of posting either, and I do know I sort of owe a few posts that I promised in January – more on Carried by a Promise, and reviews of the two yoga intensives I went to.

So believe me when I tell you that they’re still coming. They are. No really, they are!

I haven’t forgotten my bloggy friends either, believe me. I’m still reading your blogs and commenting when I can and right now, I’m preparing for my first day on the new job (back into contractor mode – I jokingly refer to this as the world of impermanence, which is more of a yogi joke than anything else!) tomorrow morning.

Right now, I’m waiting for my feta and silverbeet pie to finish cooking – my lunch for the next few days.

This weekend has been busy, too. First, there was that glorious experience of reveling in not having to go back to my old job any more, not ever-ever-ever-ever. Once I’d gotten over that, I realised how freakin’ tired I was!

And Saturday afternoon/evening was a family thing for my (currently) youngest niece’s birthday (there’s another niece-ling in the oven right now!). That cheeky lil cutie just turned two and is apparently fascinated by “Tubba” (Tinkerbell). So much fun!

I also had my hands full “doing tricks” (yoga) on command, helping both nieces do some acrobatics of their own, and reading Goldilocks and the Three Bears in my best character voices (you should hear my Papa Bear, it rocks!). Oh, and I was introduced to a very fabulous kid’s book called The Wonky Donkey. It’s rather hilarious and another good one for character voices and other exaggerated noises that elicit perfect little girl giggles!😉

So today I just kinda collapsed, and thought very hard about writing a post or two but… not. Instead I had a lazy day of enjoying the rain from inside my apartment, eating an incredibly late lunch at one of my favourite local spots, grocery shopping and preparing for tomorrow.

So, I’ll be back soon okay? I just need to get a lil more inspiration mojo back, which will arrive once I’ve recovered from the stress and exhaustion. Because I’m a suppressor of my own “stuff”, in case you hadn’t realised. I’ll put up with ridiculous things for a really long time and sometimes it takes me a while to recognise what’s going on. Then it takes me a little while longer to recover…

Hey, let’s just call that another very handy side-effect of Post Traumatic Stress, shall we?

Anyway, if you draw all of the above on a graph, then I’m somewhere towards the end of that particular timeline, but just not quite there yet.

HOWEVER, I will have something delightfully wicked for you shortly – a brand new cartoon series called “The Yoga Rebel”… *cackles maniacally*

Of course, I’m no artist so my stick figures could be slightly on the ugly side. But ah well, I read Toothpaste for Dinner and understand the irony of bad art and satire, and it will amuse me and hopefully also readers of this here blog. If I haven’t lost y’all yet with my radio silence, that is!

Catch ya on the flip side, folks!

~Svasti xxx

Happy 5 year anniversary to me!

Tags

anniversary, Assault, Depression, Healing, Memory loss, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, Therapy

Shhhh! Did you notice the date? The time? I did, but only just.

Five years ago tonight and roughly around this time, this was happening.

Yep…

I don’t have time to write about it tonight. Because I’ve just finished writing a post on Facebook, sort of “coming out” to a whole bunch of people in my life that I’ve never really told the full story to. I also told a short-hand version of the story on Twitter – that’s another whole bunch of people there I’ve never told, either. Well, except for those who follow me on Twitter from this blog!

I’m not de-cloaking my Svasti identity though…it’s sort of an open secret these days I suspect, but as long as it remains separate from my professional life, then it’s all good.😉

I never told most people in my life because I used to be terribly embarrassed and ashamed about being assaulted.  And then eventually, I simply couldn’t remember who I’d told and who I hadn’t – it’s a memory loss thing associated with having PTSD.

Anyway. Five years. And wow, SUCH a five years it’s been. Of course, life hasn’t been anything like I expected it might be. I thought by now I’d have met the man of my dreams and perhaps even have had a child or two. But no. In fact, I’ve barely managed to date at all in this time and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had sex (no dirty puns, please!! Hahahaha!!)

Nope. Life has given me a handful of 360 degree shifts instead. I’m still not entirely sure where I’m at as a result, but mostly I think I’m better off. I can barely believe I’m writing that, but I think it’s true.

Anyway, more on all of this soon. Just not tonight.

I’m feeling a bit weepy now that I’ve noticed this milestone. Generally speaking I haven’t paid attention to my “anniversary” dates at all. Most of them have gone by without raising so much as a blip on my radar. But for some reason tonight, I was prompted to check the date (one of those little voices in my head – so I had to look it up) and there it was. Today. Right now.

*gulp*

Yeah… time to go to bed. Process. I’ll chat to y’all about this maybe tomorrow night.

But one more thing before I finish this post… the next five years? I reckon they’re gonna blow the last five OUT OF THE WATER!

~Svasti xoxo

P.S. Here’s to all those out there dealing with PTSD, depression and/or any other mental health issues. Keep on fighting, digging deep and working your butt off, because life can get better eventually!!

Cough and repeat

Tags

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

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

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

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

True Blood is, in a word: Awesome.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ouch!

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

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

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

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

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

I remember, I remember…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep fighting, fellow survivors!

~Svasti xo

And so now for the Epic-ness

Tags

Depression, epic, Epic-ness, Family, Healing, Love, nightmare, personal happiness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, Queue the Epic, sister, sisterly friendship, wide open heart, Yoga

Just to clear things up… it’s not that I meant to be overly suspenseful or anything but when I last posted, I wasn’t quite ready to talk about Friday just then. Heck, I’m still trying to organise my thoughts into something resembling a clear picture for myself.

But in the interests of not over-selling it, I’m writing about it already. Okay? And like most things, writing about it is probably gonna help anyways…

So, Friday morning.

Had to go in to the office I’m working in for the next two weeks, just for an hour. Ostensibly for a handover but it was more like a meet and greet and then I jumped a train on Melbourne’s grandly inglorious public transport system to see my sister and nieces. Way down south about an hour from where I live.

Only this southern far reaching part of Melbourne is not known for its charm. But it is affordable for a young family such as my sister and her brood.

There’s truly nothing like the loving adoration of little children. The eyes of my almost 3½ year old niece light up when she sees me and no kidding, she breaks into a run every time. I scoop her up; covering her in hugs and kisses while she tells me what she’s been up to. The little one is about 1½ and maybe she copies my older niece’s excitement, but I get hugs and kisses and huge cheesy grins from her, too.

Truly, they are a light in my life and if I never get to have children of my own, I will always have them. Wonderful, magical creatures that they are.

And while all of this was good, no, FANTASTIC, that was not the Epic part.

Playing games with them was great; chatting to my sister while we entertained the little darlings was fun, too. Helping my niece eat her dinner by pretending I planned on eating it was hilarious. Getting introduced to Kit and Kat (names she gave her slippers) was brilliant.

Unprompted, towards the end of my visit, she melts me into a quicksilver puddle: We all love you Auntie Svasti.

Ditto, kid!

This however, was still not the Epic-ness I mentioned. Although actually, all of the above meant the entire day was at least ten different shades of awesome.

After we’d all eaten dinner, it was time for me to leave and my sister drove me to the train station.

Queue the Epic.

Might’ve mentioned that in a recent phone call, my sister told me how she (finally) realised that I’ve had a horrendously rough time since I moved back to Melbourne. Doh! Really??

A more cynical person might get angry at her for only just working that out. But hey, in the same time period she had a miscarriage and then gave birth to my two nieces. So she’s been a little pre-occupied.

When she had my oldest niece, a distinct change in our sisterly friendship occurred, and this grew more pronounced with the birth of my second niece. Once upon a time we would text/email/talk on the phone several times a week. We knew what was going on in each other’s lives. But when the babies came, all of that went away.

I never kicked up a fuss though. I understood she was going through a lot of changes, too. I guess the only difference was that her changes were positive – the blossoming of her family and beautiful children.

And mine were not.

My sister never knew the depths of my depression or the sheer insanity I went through with PTSD. No one in my family did. No one kept tabs on me directly afterwards. No one made sure I ate, or was sleeping, or able to get through a weekend without crying for hours on end. In short, no one made sure I was okay.

Hell, I guess I didn’t really realise I wasn’t okay. But when someone in your family that you supposedly love has been assaulted, don’t you check in on them? When you’ve witnessed that person shaking from head to toe, one eye blackened and bruised, when they show no discernable interest in life, do you not try to help them in whatever way you can?

My family did not. They Did Not Get The Memo.

All for their own reasons, of course. And as I hadn’t been to see a doctor, I was undiagnosed and just barely getting through each day. I didn’t understand I was an almost non-functional mess, and no one else seemed to, either. Seems ludicrous now, but that’s how it was.

Yet, here is my sister five years on, telling me in her own words that she can see it now. She sees me and what I went through. And here she is, reaching out in words that usually aren’t forthcoming in my super-buttoned-down-let’s-not-talk-about-ANYTHING family, and letting me know she is pretty much praying for me each and every day. She is wishing good things for me and hoping I catch a break. Yep, me too, sis!

And I try to explain a little, while we wait for my train. I tell her that PTSD is like being awake in a nightmare day in, day out. That it’s almost impossible to explain to another person just how terrifying PTSD really is.

She tells me she is worried that I still want to go to Thailand for my yoga retreat because she knows I have almost no money. And I tell her that yoga and all the teachings I’ve studied over the past nine years are what saved my life. They are the things I clung to when I very much wanted to kill myself. And that this is the final year of a seven year training program and even though I don’t know how, I am damn sure gonna do everything in my power to be there.

I tell her I am at peace with all of these things now, well mostly any way. But I also tell her how much she means to me, and how much those gorgeous nieces mean to me, too.

I explained how my oldest niece was born at a time when my life seemed completely grey and desolate. And how that sweet little baby coming into this world was like a brilliant light of possibility for me. She is in many ways, a complete miracle as far as I am concerned. And as much as I love both of my nieces, she will always be special to me because of that.

My sister tells me that she loves me, too.

I tell her that I don’t understand what the story of my life is meant to be, other than that I feel called to be of service. That I want to do what I can to help other people climb out of their own personal hell realms, much as I have climbed out of my own.

Finally, I ask her not to play the information giver to my parents any more. The same parents who dote on my sister’s family, spend lavishly on my nieces, and yet never call me unless it’s a family birthday or something. And then usually, it’s an email. They seem to vanish even moreso when things are crappy in my life. Go figure.

They ask her about me instead of asking me, wanting to know if I have a job yet and they pass second hand information back to me: I guess if she needs money she will come and ask us for it.

WRONG! So, very much NOT what I will do…

Not that this is the most important part of our conversation. Can you guess what it might be?

Seems, I have my sister back.

The one who used to be my back up. The person I used to be able to tell anything to.

She is trying. She openly admitted she has a hard time accessing her heart and feelings (it’s a family trait). And I explained to her that if there’s one thing the last five years has given me – that would be a wide open heart.

Wide. Open.

I’m starting to believe that I’m willing to trust again (I think). Well, trust those worthy of trust, anyway.

I can feel now. Really FEEL. Whether it’s fear or joy, I am in touch with what’s happening in my body and mind. I am learning to believe that I can have personal happiness again in my life. It’s okay to have that – because having that doesn’t mean that my life will fall apart again.

And I told my sister that it is never too late to access those things. That there is always an opportunity to become more open.

(We haven’t spoken to each other like this in YEARS)

And then my train was approaching and we said farewell. But she is back in touch many times a week, and I have my sister back. A sister who is trying, and who can finally tell me she loves me.

So as you can see, kinda EPIC.

~Svasti xo

Disorderly Echoes

Tags

Balakrama, CBD, city sounds, conspiracy theory, Dreadlocks, Hanumanasana, harried, hyper-vigilant, ocean beach, Panic attacks, patchouli, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, PTSD, rehab, tidal flow, Yoga

All it takes is a second.

The crowded CBD embraces me in its familiar sounds.

*Ding Ding!* say the endless parade of trams, criss-crossing the city.

Buy The Big Issue! Support the homeless and long term unemployed says the familiar face on the corner of Swanston and Collins.

Hustle, hurry, watch out whisper the feet and faces of harried city workers heading home for the night.

Just like me. Heading home, but not so harried, on my way to yoga class and not late as I’d thought I might’ve been, detained at work in a chat with a co-worker as I explained how evidence, any evidence can be used to prove all kinds of things. In an attempt to tell her why I simply can’t get into the whole conspiracy theory thing…

But anyway. Here, on the street and amongst a wash of people, multiple tidal flows and currents, gotta be careful not to get sidetracked from where you’re going.

Until I notice the guy just ahead of me and off to my right. Red and white horizontal striped shirt. My thoughts float off on their own tangential current and it takes me a while to catch up.

And they say things I’m not proud of.

Dreadlocks. Dark skin. But no! It’s not HIM, right? This guy’s too broad shouldered, too tall. So that’s okay. And he has body odour, nope HE never smelled like that. For some reason his skin always smelled like patchouli or something (crap, I wish I hadn’t remembered that!)… nope, it’s definitely not him…

I’m just a touch hyper-vigilant now. I notice everything around me. Though not out of freedom or joy, but deeply held habits.

I don’t feel afraid really, just alert. Just watching. Just hoping against hope, even after all this time, really hoping that I never do see him ever again.

But I remind myself that he’s not my enemy or anyone else’s. I know this. Still, I look. Every time I see a guy that looks remotely like him, I check to make sure it isn’t. I see differentiation and potential danger. Still. It makes me feel a little bit ashamed, almost like I’m being suspicious of an entire sub-set of people – those who look anything like him – for no other reason than their physicality. It feels kinda wrong to still think/react that way five years later.

I’m not completely free yet. Damnit!

But I know I’ve come a very long way. I’m happy. I’m not depressed or dealing with PTSD flashbacks. Even the panic attacks have begun to fade. And I’m doing way better than I ever imagined – in the depths of my pain and terror – was possible.

In some ways, I’m my own hero for surviving, being able to smile and dance and find compassion for all beings, myself included.

But while I confirmed it wasn’t HIM, I was engulfed in a burst of adrenaline that left me feeling drained. And tonight in Shadow Yoga, it was back to the Balakrama (Stepping into Strength) prelude. I was not feeling strong, and as such had my asana royally kicked.

My shoulder by the way, doesn’t require surgery (HOORAY!). It does however need lots of rehabilitation to break down the scar tissue surrounding my AC joint and rotator cuff. Let me tell you that rehab makes me want to say LOTS and LOTS of rude words.

So I now feel safe to push my shoulder a little more in yoga, but the stiffness is pretty bad. Yet tonight, it wasn’t the only part of my body feeling weak. My right leg wouldn’t stop shaking during standing poses, and after the fourth (two per side) Hanumanasana, I couldn’t do much more than roll sideways out of the pose.

Gotta find my legs again, regain my balance. Just like learning to handle yourself at an ocean beach: when you’re wading in or out of the water, you’ve gotta keep an eye on the upcoming waves and choose whether it’s best to stand your ground, or dive over or under the crest of the wave…

~Svasti

ANZAC Day musings

Tags

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~Svasti

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