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!

Judith’s story

Tags

Abuse, Anger, Assault, Depression, Fear, Healing, Judith's story, Netherlands, Post-traumatic stress, Proposition 8, PTSD, Rage, Recovery, Trauma, Trust, Violence

I’m both in awe and kinda in mourning after reading Judith’s story.

**Note: If you’re in any way feeling fragile or likely to be triggered by reading of extreme violence and/or viewing VERY graphic photos, it’s best not to click on the above link**

Judith recently left a comment on one of my earlier posts so I checked out the Willothewisp blog that she and her wife run, (Prop 8 supporters take note: gay marriage has been legal in the Netherlands for years!) and from there found the link to her horrific, utterly terrifying story of sexual and physical assault.

As if the assault wasn’t bad enough, Judith went through months and months of recovery, surgery and rehabilitation that sounds like ongoing torture. Add living with post-traumatic stress, depression and the inability to move or talk for the longest time… and we’re talking about a truly serious survivor.

It’s a rough read, very emotional and heartbreaking. Once again – don’t read her story unless you’re in a stable frame of mind.

There’s ten chapters to date, and the story isn’t fully told yet. And it’s taken me a while to make my way through each one.

Judith’s lucky to be alive, although given what she went through I’m sure she didn’t feel lucky for the longest time. Her body is scarred, she lost her hearing, and she had to learn to speak and walk again.

Any one of these issues would be tough enough to handle. But Judith has triumphed through them all.

More than that – she’s married and she and her wife have three children. She has made a life despite what she’s been through. Through her words, I sense a very determined lady!

I can’t wait to read more and see how it was she made it to the life she now leads. I’m sure the past is still not 100% buried, but she is not cowering in the corner away from the world.

She’s a mother and a writer and living her life bravely.

So Judith, here’s to you. Much respect.

~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!

Jigsaw puzzles

Tags

Abandonment, Adoption, Anger, Anxiety, Assault, Brit Lapthorne, Confusion, Panic attacks, Pinocchio, Post-traumatic stress, Rage, Wrathful

Pinocchio’s nose is less obtrusive than the sure knowledge of my mother’s combustible nature, both from my childhood and right up til the present day.

Few are the Christmas or other family holidays in my recollection where she didn’t spit the dummy (in a seriously major league kind of way). Often it was over small, inconsequential things. At least once, if not multiple times during the hours we spent cloistered confusingly and unhappily as a family… this is the meaning of family?

I don’t want to be like that. Ever… I would chant to myself…

Mostly I recoiled in horror from her irrational and emotionally violent outbursts. They froze my mind, rendering my ability to respond practically useless. It was easier to slink away and wonder what the hell it was all about, knowing we’d probably never find out.

The collective debris of these moments gathered and surrounded us til we knew what to expect and how to pretend it never happened.

Eventually through my own wilful misadventures brought on via naiveté and romantic idealism and because I accused my parents of not understanding, very bluntly one night, the poisoned agony driving my mother’s experience of life was explained. Or at least some of it… she jealously guards it… no one can interfere, no one can understand her miserable life and no, she doesn’t want any help with that thank you very much!

The angry outbursts continue to this day. She even rants about people on TV, in the news. Brit Lapthorne’s parents? They spent way too much time courting the media – media whores! Anyone who’s ever adopted a child? Dirty rotten baby stealers, worthy of her scorn and hatred the lot of them (her own child – my absent half-brother – was forcibly removed from her as a single mother in the 60’s). Rant-rant-rant. And she don’t stop.

We three kids grew up with one explosive and unpredictable parent, and another who was mysterious in his own way – very quiet and internalised, never expressing anything much. My sister and I would question each other: Have you found out anything new about mum and dad lately? What do you know about them? Why don’t we know much about them??

I can’t count the number of times we had that discussion…

When we kids tested my mother to her limits she’d become extremely angry and threaten us… she’d leave the whole family – just walk out the door and never come back. Terrifying to a young child. This generated much anxiety… we’d beg her not to go, cry and say how sorry we were…

After several repeat performances we realised she never went further than the car. She’d sob there, before wearily returning silently and ignoring us til dad came home.

To this day, I cringe when confronted with irrational, illogical and extreme expressions of anger. Those who won’t be reasoned with. Anyone who’s really angry at me. I still freeze, I feel physically ill and I don’t know what to say in the face of such a horrible human expression.

Heated and passionate debate? Not a problem as long as there’s logic and open lines of communication. In fact, I enjoy it. Bring on such passionate exchanges any day of the week…

But wilful, wrathful, single-minded fury, the likes of which I expressed not so long ago (possibly for the first time in my life)? No. I run from that sort of anger. Like a rabbit. Whether it’s mine or others’. I lose my communicative abilities entirely.

It seems, despite everything I’ve been through with this wretched assault that I’ve allowed to invade my life and take too many hours of enjoyment and love away… I’ve never, ever, permitted myself to feel totally and utterly pissed off about any of it.

And so, from within deep ravines of my inner being (where wounds never quite heal over) came the furious host, unstoppable til it ran its course.

It dragged its dirty unsanitary claws raggedly across the newly salved scars on my heart tearing them wide-open… awakened, the terror replays in its familiar groove generating intensely painful panic attacks and anxiety, destroying the structure of my brain (leaving jelly-like mush) and my ability to concentrate, bringing to the fore that ever-present teary-ness…

Prickling just beneath my pores. With ridiculous ease I cry (not because I want to) wandering the streets, in private bathroom-break minutes, sitting here alone typing, entirely vulnerable and so completely and utterly sick of myself. And of dealing with this stuff alone, never, ever, with anyone here to put their arms around me and tell me it’s gonna be okay.

I’m temporarily weakened and disarmed. But I know this place. I know I am not that. Confused, for sure, I don’t get it, this return of pain (H tells me its common for trauma to re-visit, damnit). I know this is just energy passing through in a wretchedly painful form… and for now it’s a parasite, not budging, despite my many valiant efforts.

~Svasti

Writing nooks & other stuff

Tags

Anger, Antique desk, eBay, Elephant in the room, Post-traumatic stress, Pounding heart, PTSD, Rage, Sorrow, Writing nook

Most excitingly, this is the first full day in my new home where I don’t have to go anywhere or do anything in particular.

Okay, I had to do one thing, but it was a very, very good thing.

I arranged delivery for my recent eBay purchase: an old antique writing desk!

It’s quite large and sturdy, and fits neatly into my new writing nook (in a corner of the kitchen).

My nook has its own nifty window looking out on the back courtyard which is all leafy and green and stuff. Its private, gets plenty of light and all up, it’s a great spot for writing!

The pièce de résistance has to be my desk though. Apparently it came from Melbourne’s Treasury Building.

I love it – I’ve yet to absolutely cram it with gadgets and rubbish, so my set up is very minimal at present. But I betcha anything I can’t keep it that way!

It’s very me – suits my personality and style…

The two drawers are really deep – which means they’re probably gonna end up holding a whole bunch of crap I should really throw out.

And someone’s written “Colin” inside one of the drawers in pen with a little cartoon head above the name and there are plenty of ‘customised’ markings – carved initials and stuff on the desk top.

So I’ve kicked my old flat-pack desk to the curb. Actually its in the carport right now on account of the deluging rain (which we need as a country that’s been in drought for a good twenty years now). But its going – either free to whoever wants it or… donating it to the local charity. It’s not even worth selling on eBay.

In other news

Can anyone say ‘elephant in the room‘?

Yeah, okay. I’m still on the road back from this unexpected and painful trip to PTSD-land.

And today I’m not ready to write more just yet about what’s going on. But I’m getting there. The words are forming. Well, to be completely accurate, my words tend to form as pictures and images first… (my possibly rather odd writing technique) before they translate into text…

Moment to moment life right now? It’s a fine balance between keeping myself busy enough so I don’t just stay in bed (would be so easy right now) and having too much going on… which just pushes everything back down again. If I’m too busy then sure, I start to feel better, relatively speaking.

But then once I stop being so busy, my heart pounds like a… a… something that pounds really fast… (apparently it has returned, but its all beat up like a wounded animal) and there’s a lot of physical pain involved with that.

I copped that experience last night, and spent an hour wondering if I was gonna have a heart attack. But then I crashed out on the couch and did a lot of sleeping.

The more meditation I do the better, although sitting still for too long isn’t ideal either right now. Argh!

So, I need to walk the line. I want this stuff to come out, but at the same time I have no wish to become a pillar of stone or completely drive myself nuts. Or repress this stuff any more.

I want to feel it and work through it. I want to drain every last drop of this deep, deep rage and sorrow from my body and mind.

And that I suspect, is gonna take some time.

~Svasti

Lil’ update…

Tags

Anger, Fury, Healing, Heart, Memory loss, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Rage, Reocvery, Therapy

So this is tricky…

There’s plenty I’d like to be writing and telling you about but for now I’m just not up to it.

A certain friend (who shall remain entirely nameless) has been engaging me in discussions about things which… well, I really want to post about. Perhaps to distract or amuse me, but really they’re things we’ve been debating for a while now. However I need to be a little less exhausted, a little more back in one piece first.

So, there’s plenty more coming. The post topics, they’re backing up people! Sometime soon, this blog will return to normal programming.

Last night I made it to my therapy session, ten minutes late, thanks to the train choosing to sit motionless just outside of the station for some time. Good thing I had my push bike with me!

It was such a necessary and helpful session. I’m glad I went, and in retrospect I’m kind of amazed I was even contemplating – should I try to get an appointment or not?

I managed to get quite a bit of the rage I’m feeling to surface (poor H!). But there’s more work to do. I’m still choking on the energy that wants to come out. H has suggested to try and visualise this mass of fury – break it down, reduce the size so its not so hard to expel. As a highly visual person that works for me, so I’m giving that one a go.

She talked about alot of other stuff too, but I’m just not ready to write about it yet.

My heart feels a little bit returned… especially with all the brisk walking and cycling I’ve been doing. Causing my heart to pound at least proves its still there, even though the sensation of absence persists. Each day more pieces seem to come back, but it still doesn’t feel particularly normal yet!

And – this has manifested as physical pain too. If I touch the area above my heart it actually feels bruised… the body and mind are just fascinating like that aren’t they?

Intense physical pain is what finally brought me to get some serious therapy earlier this year, actually. Depression masquerading as pain. But this time I think its a side effect of the intense rage spewing forth from the depths of my being.

My memory is shot to pieces. My brain matter, scatty. Its exceptionally difficult to focus on anything for long periods of time right now. Which isn’t so great given I’m in a new job and a position of responsibility. I’m just doing what I can and trying not to suffer anxiety about that too!

But I smiled today. Quite a bit, and it wasn’t so forced.

More soon folks – and many thanks to those of you who’ve been visiting and offering support.

~Svasti

Anger management

Tags

Anger, Burning, Down the rabbit hole, Fangs, Fire, Gaps, Nothingness, Outpouring, Rage, Unknown

There’s a torrent and it won’t stop. A mass of bees swarming, changing shape yet keeping form. Just there beneath my skin and running hotly through my veins. It’s sharp and pointy, jagged and primal. Snarls come easily. My face, I can tell from those reacting around me, appears ferocious. Harsh and lioness-like. Yet I do not, I am not feeling that way myself. Lookout! My fangs are showing, don’t make me bare my teeth right now. I’ve no wish to scare you. My tongue sharpened with sandpaper is rough and bitey, just around the edges – don’t push – you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. Currently I’m zero to agression in microseconds so just don’t go there friends!

Fuck, the top cracked and that was it! A catalyst opened the door and now it’s raging furiously with a life of its own, an entity of pure murderous anger spewing forth if I open my mouth or stop attempting to smile. I’m puzzled…

Falling between the gaps… I’ve no idea what that means, only what it feels like. Where to? Down the rabbit hole… Why is it, in this place there’s no frame of reference, no easy-to-grasp gnosis? Shimmering and losing sense of the physical representation of outer form. It’s gone. Well, I still see it but I also not see it. I see its not there, I understand the wrapper was never more than just a trick of the eye and the mind. Like a mirage but somewhat more tangible. I see there’s nothing there really…

What is it about this recent experience of loss of differentness that’s given flight to such a vicious outpouring? I’m not personally angry; it’s a beast in need of restraint lest it injures those in range. Is this the end of anger’s repression? The burning of more samsaric seeds? Wherefore does this energy field, so separate and vibrant mean to go? How does it resolve back to Source?

This is not the anger of my personality display. It lingers. It consumes, feeding on available fuel. It subsumes… My anger is faster, more mobile, less volatile. More like a lightning strike – brilliant, dangerous, swift and then its gone. Almost like it never was and I forget in minutes its brief existence. There’s no grudge holding, no ill intent, no malice to my anger.

It’s been days now, two full days of this bristling simmering growling ever-present fiery malcontent attitude of a smoking seething bubbling hurricane sweeping through my body and blazing forth from eyes, lips and fingertips.

‘Course its mine – I lay claim to ownership because it can’t belong to another. But from where does this rage originate? And when’s it leaving please?

~Svasti