Swaying in the wind

Tags

aneurysm, Anxiety, Depression, Donkey Kong, evil zombie ninja, indelicately explode, newspaper cartoonery, Potential Impending Unemployment Survival Kit, PTSD, quitting sugar, Repression, sapling, Stress, vrksasana, Yoga

Found in a local newspaper this week!

I laughed out loud when I saw this and not just because hey, yoga is now so mainstream it’s an object of daily newspaper cartoonery. But because I recognised myself right there.

Despite our best intentions of being steadfast and strong, sometimes we look more like the right side of that cartoon than the left.

Guess you could say I’m feeling a little sway-ish once again.

Seven more working days in total. That’s how much/little confirmed work I have left right now and believe me, I’ve been looking for a new (and more permanent) job for at least the last six months. But for one reason or another, nothing has turned up. And now this contract is coming to an end and… nada.

So I am very busily finding my balance right now and doing an awful lot of wobbling in the process.

Sometimes I’m all calm and mellow and trusting in the universe to provide.

Others, I’m all twisty leaden bellied and constricted chest and throat on account of the OMIGODDESS it’s-right-before-Christmas-and-my-fully-paid-up-holiday-and-whoooaaaah-what-am-I-gonna-do-if-I-don’t-get-a-job?

Which causes me to batten down the hatches. Which helps me to understand how I did such a good job of hiding my PTSD and depression for years on end from anyone but the most observant of folks.

Because I internalise like a champion. It’s a super power. I mean, if I could take down  a hoard of evil zombie ninjas by internalising my rage and fear, they’d ALL BE DEAD AND THERE WOULD BE NO EVIL ZOMBIE NINJA PLAGUE TEARING APART SOCIETY AS WE KNOW IT…

Whaddya mean there IS no evil zombie ninja plague? And how can you be so sure? Evil zombie ninjas have many faces, y’know!

Anyway, the point is that I’ve got a killer “there’s nothing going on here” facade, which kicks in when I get hyper-stressy. Yet all the while I’m wobbling like a wee baby vrksasana sapling in a hurricane.

Well, sometimes anyway. When I’m feeling less super-heroish, that is. Which is only sometimes.

At this point I could go on and on about all kinds of angsty things and I realise my luverly readers here would probably let me get away with it. But that’s kind of a crappy use of my blog, I’m thinking, over something as piddling as potential impending unemployment.

And trust me, I’m working my connections and contacts to find some work ASAP. It’s on like…like…Donkey Kong!

So instead of letting my anxiety run riot here (which I’m trying not to have anyway because hello, Hashimoto’s), I thought that instead, I’d tell you about my…

Potential Impending Unemployment Survival Kit

Because that’s MUCH MORE fun. Such a kit contains:

• Invoicing slightly early for my October yoga teaching duties, the sum of which almost pays for an entire term of me being a yoga student – until the end of the year. So that the yogas are covered.
• Getting a much overdue haircut this coming weekend so I look stylish while I’m broke.
• Making plans for the 16th November (potential impending unemployment day 1) which include: taking the cat to the vet (immunisations and grooming); and going to see my accountant (still haven’t done my taxes yet for this year).
• Being resolved that even if I do get a job, I won’t work on the 16th so I can get to the vet and the accountant anyways.
• Committing to getting some of my writing work going. On account of if I don’t get it out of my head soon, I might just get an aneurysm or otherwise explode rather indelicately. And nobody wants to see that.
• Putting out the feelers for some extra yoga teaching gigs. It mightn’t pay the bills too well but it’ll sure keep me in a good mood. Which might be beneficial for job interviews.
• Spring clean of the house. It. Must. Happen.
• More riding of my push bike, which has sadly spent a great deal of the last few months doing very little.
• Otherwise spending as much time as I can outside and by the beach.

Oh, and as of Monday, I’m going to be starting a new experiment: the quitting of sugar.

I’ve done it before, many years ago now. But I lapsed. Because of the Hashimoto’s I’ve been seriously curbing sugar anyway, but I’m convinced the timing is right to give it a go once more. For my health, and not just for vanity or because everyone else is doing it.

But I’ll talk more about that next week.

Anyway, the plan is to keep trying to find my balance and engage in activities that’ll make me feel good. Well, except for the cat grooming – although that’ll help with less cat hair to clean up. And the accountant – although hey, a tax refund will be in the works, so yay!

Also, my giveaway winner finally turned up (HOORAY!!) so there will be no re-draw of the yogAttitude cards.

Til soon, lovely peoples…

~Svasti xxx

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My love for you is a flat screen TV

Tags

Anger, concrete, flat screen TV, Forgiveness, highly sensitive person, Kinesiology, Love, Repression, thyroid, unicorn sightings

Forgiveness. I’ve written about it before, both in terms of forgiving myself and others. For ages it was a very nice concept but like the top shelf in your wardrobe, out of reach. Seems that understanding how to forgive is about as elusive as unicorn sightings.

I’ve worked out why though. It’s because forgiveness isn’t so much about getting over stuff that’s happened. Instead it’s about seeing things as they really are. Like, really. Down to the bones, with no elaborations.

Like a lot of the work I’m doing lately, it’s all been going down on the kinesiology table. That’s where I was when I saw for myself how it’s always been and why.

A few weeks ago, I lay there on the treatment table staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at my kinesiologist. Joining the dots and dropping pennies in slots.

Fuck! So THAT’S why I’ve never been able to forgive my parents for anything, my whole life!

Clarity provides space and understanding and suddenly forgiveness isn’t even an issue any more.

So what happened, I hear you ask? Something came up in that session around the idea of “feeling overlooked and betrayed”. Immediately I knew this was OLD. Sure enough, back we went (back… back… back) and further again, to four year old me.

What do I recall about being four? Not much really. I was in kindergarten, I guess. I remember painting, the sandpit, story time, and the room with the hooks for our wee bags. The odd flash of kindergarten kid faces. My sister was two, my brother was six. This represents the sum total of my conscious four year old knowledge and memories.

But the conscious mind knows jack-shit sometimes, yeah?

Without a doubt, I’m what they call a highly sensitive person.

Highly sensitive people are born with fewer filters between themselves and the world than “regular” people-types. We feel everything more intensely. Our highs and lows are more extreme because that’s the way we’re built. There’s nothing wrong with us. It’s just a slightly different way of being.

For example, today the fact that I live in a place where there’s too much concrete was causing me a great deal of pain. Yeah, I know. It sounds stupid, right? But a lot of creative types are like this, and I suspect most people with mental health problems are, too.

My parents are NOT highly sensitive. A thousand and one times while growing up, I was labelled “too sensitive/emotional” and made to feel as though my reactions and experiences weren’t acceptable.

What I learned in my kinesiology session is that four year old me was both enraged and deeply saddened at being overlooked like this. At having her feelings belittled and constantly being told she was “too much”.

That rage? I’m pretty sure it’s fuelled all the anger I’ve ever felt in this lifetime.

The way my parents dealt with me must’ve been similar to what they told me about how they deal with my eldest niece. She’s like me – extra-sensitive – and to my horror, they calmly explained how they tell her “don’t be so silly”, or to “shake it off” when she’s “in a mood”. I saw major red flags right there, both for myself and my niece (I’ve had words with my sister since then)!

Of course, I was born to a mother who began grieving for my stolen half-brother way before I was born and a father who is so emotionally shut down that he remains a mystery to me, even today.

Knowing all of this, and working on my shit with kinesiology allowed thirty-nine year old me and four year old me to put all the pieces together. We finally got it!

Four-year-old me never felt acceptable just as she was and this set the stage for feeling like an alien pretty much my whole damn life.

My parents, despite their own emotionally crippled natures, did the best they could (I know – such a cliché right?). They never meant to wound me the way that they did. They didn’t know any better. However, that four year old girl has been seething in anger ever since.

Until now.

I was telling my neighbour about this and she asked – so how do you let something like that go? It’s like this: seeing things clearly and getting kinesiology work done just clears it the heck out.

This has allowed me to transform my relationship with my parents. No, we’re not best buddies all the sudden but I find I’m just not triggered by their actions the way I used to be. Even my sister has noticed the difference.

My folks don’t really do “I love you”. They also don’t do love and caring the way I do. They’re not so much into affection or the cooking of meals or the offering of lifts – the sort of practical things that would’ve been so beneficial to me when I was very sick earlier this year, not to mention all of the years I lived in PTSD-landia.

Instead, they’ll do stuff like give me a flat screen TV.

Yep. You heard that right. I might not see or hear from them for weeks or months, but I’m the first person they thought of when they wanted to off-load their old (but not actually that old) one; they’ve bought a monster-sized replacement (looking at their new TV makes my brain dizzy).

It should be said that spending money on a TV is possibly one of the lowest priorities in my life. But the gift was welcome enough, if only because I now watch DVDs on a better screen.

If this was a different time in my life I’d be cynical and bitter about inappropriate gift giving instead of more useful and supportive actions.

Now, I just see it for what it is: its love.

A few weeks back they also gave me their old digital video camera and I couldn’t really turn it down because I get that it’s their way of showing me they care in lieu of hugs or conversations.

And I’m good with that.

As my thyroid heals, so do many other things. After all, our minds, immune system, physical body, our sense of well-being – none of it is separate.

~ Svasti

Healing in 2010 #reverb10

Tags

#reverb10, Broken, Depression, disassociation, dualistic experience of the world, Healing, injured, Kinesiology, Nieces, patience, pranayama, PTSD, Repression, ringlets, Shirley Temple, Yoga

Healing. What healed you this year? Was it sudden, or a drip-by-drip evolution? How would you like to be healed in 2011?
~ December 19 prompt

I read another #reverb10-er’s post (I lost the link) suggesting that in order to be healed, something must be broken or injured. While this is true, I think many people don’t realise the hurts they are carrying. They’ve pushed their pain so far down inside, they can no longer feel it. I know that was true for me. But we can only lie to ourselves like this for so long.

Almost three years ago my body kicked off a rebellion against the intense repression and disassociation I’d been forcing it to swallow, just so that I didn’t have to. Which led to a bunch of scans, which led to a life-changing discussion with my chiropractor. Before long I had a referral to a therapist, a diagnosis of PTSD and depression and a long, LONG road to recovery ahead of me.

All this healing business has been much harder than I ever thought it’d be. But it’s been absolutely worth it. And this year I’ve begun feeling soooo much better than any time in recent memory. All of my hard work is starting to pay off!

I can’t tell you the number of times this year I’ve found myself just groovin’ along, finding pleasure in all kinds of things and noticing how it resonates through my body and mind.

Now maybe that sounds like a normal day/week/month/year to you. But it’s still something of a novelty for me! There’s still more work to do however. I think there possibly always is, even if the wounds aren’t quite as serious as others.

Because to me, the definition of healing is having an open heart that’s available for anything or anyone. And life in this dualistic experience of the world creates an ongoing pattern of opening and closing. Healing is about making more openings than closings, yeah?

And so without further ado, a short list of the things that have healed me this year. They’ve healed me in different ways – physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Some of it happened like a lightning rod and other kinds of healing were more gradual. Some of that healing is still ongoing, as I think it is for most people.

Hugs and kisses from these sweet little darlings – spending time with them makes life worth living. They light me up with killer smiles, their very well developed sense of humour and hilarious antics.

My older niece is a sensitive, observant, thoughtful and sweet little thing, with chocolate-brown puddles for eyes and ringlets worthy of Shirley Temple. She’s also a clown of the highest order.

The younger one has moods that range from the blackest of scowls through to the silliest baby giggle you’ve ever heard. Actually, her giggle sounds like it belongs to a black man! She’s wildly determined, stubborn and knows EXACTLY what she wants…

Yoga – for anything and everything that ails me. Shadow Yoga for teaching me to see my body in new ways and understand that my perceived limitations are just that: perception and not reality. Teaching yoga for understanding more about how to share the gems of yoga wisdom and do so with grace. Yoga is also a measure for how the healing of my shoulder is going…

Physiotherapy – extremely painful but absolutely necessary for helping to sort out my crazy left shoulder. It’s much better than it was, but still not perfect. The physio was important for a while, and gave me a chance to work on my pranayama (as opposed to swearing at or punching the poor guy).

Kinesiology – when this happened, I was suddenly very aware of how much gunk must still be clogging up my body and mind. Luckily, I already knew a rockin’ kinesiologist and we’ve had two appointments so far (the next one is in late January). Each session has been very to the point and as such, quite intense. Also, highly amusing. Especially when unprompted by me, Kerry says things like: Okay, what happened in your life when you were eighteen? Or twenty-seven?

Ha-frickin-ha, body. Clearly it’s time to get a whole bunch of internal house-cleaning done. This work has been right there, in my face and with nowhere to run. Not that I want to run, but y’know…

Acupuncture – the ongoing journey of healing my shoulder has led me to an acupuncturist who works with energy as much as he works with needles. It’s a good match for me, and things seem to be kicking along.

Letting go of expectation and having a plan – oh yes. It was a BIG idea and a fabulous one, to start questioning why the heck I thought I wanted what everyone else seems to want. Simply because it’s what we do?? So now I have a plan, and that plan puts a sparkle in my eyes and grin on my face.

Patience – I can’t begin to explain the importance of learning patience in my healing processes. All of them. Healing is generally not instantaneous. Even those moments that feel super-quick and as though you’ve been hit by a lightning rod are always preceded by much hard work.

Patience, and not expecting change overnight or despairing when it doesn’t happen the way you want it to – these things are so very important to staying on the path. Keeping that healing momentum moving. Then one unspecified day in the future, you’ll be surprised to wake up and find that you’re feeling… not as bad.

And it gets better than that, too. It really does.

~Svasti

Involuntary actions – part 2

Tags

abortion, Adoption, defunct pregnancy, exotic dancing, guilty, hiccup in time, partial surrender, pool room, pregnancy, Repression, Stripper, Stripping, teenage stripper, Torana Sunbird

[Read part 1 first]

Looking in the mirror I rolled my eyes. I’d no need for bigger boobs – they were already huge before raging pregnancy hormones had kicked in. They were a little tender, too. It was the one visible sign of my now defunct pregnancy and I fervently hoped they’d shrink again, eventually.

But otherwise I was fine, and with a few days rest I was back to ‘normal’. Only, no one knew I’d been pregnant except for my best friends. And we didn’t speak of it ever again.

It’d been all too easy. Thanks to my rather lucrative-if-seedy line of work, paying for the procedure wasn’t a problem and I could easily afford the time off.

But all the literature and movie portrayals of women having abortions had sucked me in. I believed the hype and found myself feeling guilty for not feeling guilty about what I’d done, as opposed to feeling guilty or remorseful at all. There were no tears for my lost child. No sadness at its ending. I never imagined how old it would be over the years, what it might have looked like or any of those things. From a very deep place within, I’d known all along it was the right decision for me…

And so I went on with my life as though it had never been, except of course for feeling bad about not feeling bad. Was I normal? Was I totally cold hearted? I couldn’t be sure. Of course, it never occurred to me that no one has the same reactions as another person, and that feeling bad about not feeling bad meant I couldn’t possibly be cold hearted. I just thought there was something wrong with me. But then, when did I ever think there wasn’t?

I was still working as a stripper although the fiery anger with which I’d danced had gone – a side effect of one too many stereotyped oafish men paraded in front of me as I (another stereotype myself), removed my lacy lingerie and pretended to be interested in the bug eyed men from all walks of life ogling my flesh mindlessly. Football clubs. Private events held by rich men for their friends’ amusement. Working class pubs all over town. Huge money-making events in Melbourne or interstate where strippers were just a side dish to the more extreme sex shows on offer. Married men at bucks parties. Ermm, yeah…

And then the 21st party I was booked for. Must’ve been someone’s idea of a bad joke because it wasn’t just a bunch of randy post-teen boys, but mums and dads too. Everyone was gathered in the pool room – literally a room with a pool in it. Completely. Unsexy. And just kinda naff.

I can’t recall the exact trigger that made me go back to my parent’s house or when. But it wasn’t the abortion. And I still hadn’t quit the “exotic dancing” industry. My sister was in the last year or two of high school, the same one I’d gone to and I know she was copping flack from the rumours that flew around the school.

Possibly it had something to do with wanting access to the car my parents had bought for my sister and I – my great aunt and uncle’s old Torana Sunbird. Maybe there was another reason, but to be honest I can’t remember.

However before I could move back into my parents’ place there was a Conversation To Be Had. Or maybe it happened the night I returned: Lots of Hard Questions and Answers, and plenty of Berating of My Actions.

Your boobs will sag down to your knees, I recall my mother saying… You dropped out of high school and you’re stripping? You never finish anything you start… think they both chipped in on that one…

Oh really? Are you sure about that? I challenged, I had an abortion, you know.

Silence.

Probably wasn’t as long as it felt. I could almost hear them regain their composure… Well yes, I guess you could say that’s something you finished… What? When? How?

More silence after brief answers designed to give away as little as possible.

Of course, I didn’t think about it but my mother’s emotions right then must’ve been intense. She’d been only a year younger than me when she nearly died giving birth to her first child and was then forced to give him up for adoption.

Two more people who knew about my abortion, and I’ve never talked about it with them since then either.

That was that, so I thought. A hiccup in time that didn’t mean anything to anyone. Not even me. Except for the guilt about not being guilty, of course.

And so we tentatively negotiated the terms of my partial surrender return to the family home, none of us sure what would happen next. No trust in any corner. No Conversations That Matter. I wasn’t giving up stripping, not yet, although my parents were opposed. Oddly though, I was asked to pay rent and I agreed.

Yeah, take the money I made by selling the right to look at my naked body and be damned…

[Read part 3]

~Svasti

Response to BlissChick – part 2

Tags

abuse-o-meter, Anger, Anxiety, Assault, Depression, Family, Fear, in-utero, Internalising pain, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Recovery, Relationships, Repression, sex trade, Trust, Truth, Violence

After my rather long comment on BlissChick’s post, I wrote up part 1’s post (which was kinda hard to write)… but she also emailed me some other (rather confronting) questions:

In psychological circles it is said that abusers are not born but MADE. So I wonder (not knowing anything about your home life as a child) what kind of environment your parents created in order to turn your brother into an abuser?

I don’t remember much of my early years, just tiny splotches. But I do remember my brother never liking me. It seemed to start when we were fairly young (he’s only two years older than me).

Perhaps this will sound new age-y, but I have this theory:

My brother was the next little being to inhabit my mother’s womb after the grief, illness, anger, sadness, stress and loss she experienced in giving up her first son. Never having had permission to deal with it openly, I believe much of her pain was simply absorbed.

I’ve had my own experiences with the body internalising pain… I know this is what happens.

So, in-utero my brother imbibed suffering as he grew. Marinated in it, really.

And what must it have been like, for my mother? Being pregnant again after that first time? She once said when we were little, she was always afraid someone would come and take us away… this fear must have affected each of the three kids that followed, right?

Also, my brother was part of a soccer club from a very young age, and in the 70’s/early 80’s, Australian soccer clubs were dominated by masochistic men and boys. He grew up as part of that culture, every weekend for years.

My parents I believe were just… too involved in their own lives and pain. They didn’t see what was happening in front of them. They weren’t equipped to handle it. They’d never been given the appropriate tools themselves.

Do you have to experience such things for yourself in order to recognise what’s going on?

I don’t know if something else happened to my brother or not. If it did, I don’t believe it happened in my parents’ home.

I also wonder why they enabled his abuse of you? That is what they did — they enabled.

These two sentences were very difficult for me to read. I truly believe they were unaware.

When I’d go to my parents and say ‘my brother hit me’, how could they work out how bad it was? That it wasn’t the usual sibling rough-housing (it never happened with them in sight)?

How could I understand what to tell them? What could I measure it against to give them some context?

People will claim they had no idea what was going on under their own roofs, but 99% of the time, they are lying (perhaps not even consciously so). The other 1% you have to ask HOW and WHY they did not know? WHY were they so utterly self-involved that they did not see your pain?

Because it was their job to love and protect you.

A little voice I don’t want to know about whispers in my ear… it was ongoing, though. It wasn’t infrequent. So why didn’t they stop him?

My dad was the youngest child with two older sisters and I don’t believe he’s ever hit a woman. My mum has a younger brother and I don’t believe he hit her either. Why then, was my brother allowed to continue to target and bully me?

I don’t know! It’s a question that pains my heart, and I have no answers. It makes a part of me feel raw and hungry and empty… it makes my lips purse up and I want to just stop thinking for a while.

How could they put up with my complaints of constantly being used as a pummelling bag? Then, it’s not just that he was physically abusive. But verbally too, and viciously cruel at every opportunity.

But, I was off with the pixies a lot. Did I just withdraw? Did I make it harder for them to know the truth? Should they have known anyway?

Thinking about this stuff, it makes me squirm. Does it matter if I ever know, or not? I kinda think right now it doesn’t matter any more… as long as I’m not pretending, and as long as I’m admitting to myself, that it wasn’t okay.

Whenever I see or hear about a woman who has chosen a partner who is or becomes abusive of her, I know (know know deep in my heart) that she came out of her childhood deeply wounded. Women who are raised in healthy households with healthy self esteem do not pick bad partners. They have an innate radar and can sense abusiveness in even the most charming people.

Today I read a post by a blogger I don’t know, via one of my blogger friends. And it really made me think. How do children get to the point where they taunt another person so mercilessly? She makes a good point – it’s because nobody stops them. They get away with it because they can.

And yes, I know my self-esteem was in tatters by the time I left home, aged nineteen. Through my own actions as well as those of others. But I think you’re right – had I been given a stronger sense of self-worth and self-love, I don’t think I would have let my first boyfriend treat me as he did. Nor do I think I would have ended up working in the sex trade.

Or, allowing myself, as you say, to pick bad partners. One after the other. To this day, I still can’t sense abusiveness in others. But those who are weird and wounded like me, sure, I can pick them a mile off…

Then again, my sister didn’t go through any of this. What was it in me that meant this was my path? My sister saw how our brother treated me and although he was mean to her, he never hit her. Just teased her all the time about her weight, resulting in a wounded self-esteem. But then, that’s bad enough, isn’t it?

Eventually wounded women who struggle and fight and put themselves back together again have even better radar. So do not fear. The work you do now most assuredly will lead you to a loving relationship some day.

I really, truly hope you’re right. I do. I get it when you say this is going to take a while. So far, it’s taken all of my life. If ever I can repair that abuse-o-meter radar, I know it’ll be good!

Of course, until then I know I need to keep moving. Like my therapist said, I can’t let the habits of my PTSD and depression, continue to lead the way.

So I have to try and reach out, to trust. And accept I guess, I might still get it wrong for some time to come.

~Svasti

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

Thumpity thump

Tags

Anxiety, Birthday, Christmas, December, Depression, Increased heart rate, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Repression, Trauma

PTSD research

Another post inspired by Tackaberry Chronicles – this time, about how increased heart rate and respiration are predictors for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

As I read Michelle’s post, I realised my heart rate hasn’t been normal all day, actually.

An insidious aspect of PTSD… is the anxiety caused by the increased heart rate, or is the increased heart rate caused by the anxiety?

How is it, when there’s nothing in particular that I’m stressed about right now that my heart labours at an increased rate?

You know, as I wrote that, I just realised this isn’t a very good time of year for me. I probably shouldn’t spend so much time alone…

December 2005

From the time I was assaulted to that first Christmas after the fact… was just under two months.

I think I survived that time by just diving right back into work and suppressing the terror. I wanted it all to just go away, but as I’ve found out in incredibly brilliant fluorescent detail, trauma doesn’t actually fade away without help.

Trauma won’t leave you alone. You can ignore it for a while, but eventually you have to face it. If you want your life back.

I remember I bought a new outfit to wear on Christmas day. A brown knee-length cotton skirt and a reddish-brown sleeveless top. I remember my dad telling me how pretty I looked. I remember… no one mentioning anything at all about what had happened. I remember feeling dead inside.

Hello? Can anybody see me??

Maybe this is why I haven’t really enjoyed birthdays or Christmas’ since then… I don’t even remember what happened for my birthday that year. Possibly just the obligatory birthday dinner with the family…

It’s a struggle to remember the holiday periods at all since that time. Actually, I’ve had to check my email records to bring any of it into focus.

For December 2005, there aren’t any emails.

Then, in the days after Christmas… like right now… alone. I shut the door. No one was expecting me. I hadn’t made any plans.

And I fell to pieces.

It was around then I was in touch with G. I’d told him what was happening and he was very understanding. But I edited things down – about how bad it all was. Of course.

I saw no one. For New Year’s, I told my friends I was doing a mini yoga retreat – which I was – and wouldn’t be answering the phone or checking emails. But I was also dealing with insomnia, enormous amounts of anger, sadness, crying, bad dreams and so on…

December 2006

I’d spent most of the year waiting for things to get better. I really thought it was just gonna be a matter of time. I didn’t realise how much I really needed help. All year I felt very alone, and I was missing my Sydney friends terribly. It was the year of my bone graft surgery.

That year would bring my 35th birthday. So I decided to change the date, sort of. I took a solo road trip to Sydney in late November and organised birthday lunch with my friends, by the water in Pyrmont.

For my actual birthday back in Melbourne, I managed to get together a motley assortment of ‘friends’. K, the woman came to my rescue that night. And a few others. I basically got trashed. Thank you, Long Island Iced Tea. Many of them. Generally I don’t drink a lot or at all (I can go months without drinking anything) but for this milestone birthday, one I’d previously had such different plans for… I couldn’t let it pass without notice, but at the same time I couldn’t cope with it sober, either.

I don’t remember Christmas that year very much, except my sister was pregnant with my niece. There was a lot of focus on her, which suited me just fine, I guess.

December 2007

Oh. The most recent, yet possibly the worst, and the best. I’m kind of not ready to talk about the events of November/December last year. I’m embarrassed by my actions, my naiveté.

I thought I’d met someone I could trust, but I was very, very wrong.

For now, I’ll just say that those events brought on new lows of my depression. Which eventually resulted in the amazing conversation I had with my chiropractor. Which led me to H, my therapist (thank goodness).

That birthday was spent in tears. I did go out with a couple of friends, trying to enjoy myself but it didn’t go very well. Christmas Eve, I had a conversation that helped a lot. But the whole end of last year really sucked, actually.

This year

It seems for this birthday, the universe conspired to bring joy into my life despite my attempts to keep it on the down low. A lot of love from all over the world, in fact. Despite myself. In my workplace, my inbox, on my blog, Facebook, my phone and more. And I am very grateful, even though I may not have acted that way.

Christmas day was… well, I was sick. A throat infection/flu. So I was merry for a bit, did the present opening thing, ate some food and then pretty much passed out.

This whole thing has nothing to do with getting older… I don’t mind that in the least.

But I hadn’t realised til right about now, the impact of the past few years of Decembers – birthday and Christmas alike.

I should say… I used to love celebrating birthdays. Mine or anyone else’s. I’d run ‘festivale de birthday‘ – trying to stretch out celebrations for as long as possible.

For my mid-thirties, I’d had such different ideas on how my life would be. What I wanted for myself. Instead, I’ve let the darkness and the sadness overwhelm me, take over, and steal happiness and love from my days.

Sure, I’m stronger now. I know a lot more. And perhaps, it’s this level of understanding that I need in order to be ready for my future life – as someone providing service to others.

Perhaps.

It’ll be nice though, and a sign of great progress, when I can enjoy December once more.

~Svasti

Child-like wisdom – part 2

Tags

Child, Energy, Healing, Inner child, Love, Photo shoot, Raunchy, Repression, Scotch, Sushumna, Wisdom

Read part 1 first

~~~~~~~~~
Who was this girl, I wondered? I simply didn’t recognise myself. It wasn’t the costumes. This girl seemed confident, relaxed. She looked good. No, she looked great. Sexy.

She doesn’t look how I feel about myself. Who is this person? Did taking off most of my clothes liberate something? So carefree, so in love.

I could see… invisible layers of protection that I usually wore, were missing. Why?

Suddenly wracked with pain, sobs bubbled up from the depths. It was very confusing, I had no idea what was going on.

And then came the voice. Calming and knowing. As though someone was in the room speaking to me.

Go and lie down on your bed said the voice. Do it now. Get comfortable. Its time to look within. That girl in the pictures is you but to be her, you must let go. You must wake up.

Who was I to argue at this point in time?

I surrounded myself with cushions and pillows, like an island.

Here’s what you’re going to do. Close your eyes. Turn them inwards, down. Take them from your head and send them down inside your body. Find the pain. Once you’re there, you need to look at your life from your body’s perspective.

That might sound completely nuts to anyone reading this, but it made some kind of sense to me at the time. So I did just that.

I visualised my eyes coming loose from their sockets and travelling down my spine. Unsurprisingly, they settled in my belly region. Ah, so this is where repressed emotions live (kinda knew that)!

Perhaps I was in some kind of trance by this stage, but I “met”, well… a five year old version of myself! Or something like that.

We held hands, and we replayed the events of my life to date. Not the pleasant things ofcourse. We were here to look at the pain. The things that made me feel small, less than.

They flashed up one after the other. But this time I felt it deeply within my body. No suppression, no isolation. Fear and pain unplugged.

And the five year old me howled. The way a child cries when they think they’re truly alone and abandoned. She was scared and sad and no one heard her cries. Not ever.

I knew it was my job to help her. To make her feel better. To look at each event and say sorry for not noticing before. But I see it now, and let’s get through it together.

Every new scene brought hysteria closer to the fore. There weren’t too many, but enough: heartache, betrayal of trust, fear and disappointment. From each episode, an unresolved piece of the hurt had lodged itself deep within my body. I might not have been aware of it, but five year old me was. Until now, it had been her burden to carry in silence.

Hours went by, but eventually the pain subsided. From the top of my skull to the base of my spine, I distinctly felt like a wind tunnel had been erected. Sushumna. A sense of spaciousness pervaded.

But more than that, I now knew that deep within resided my child-like self, perpetually young and trusting. Wanting to be known, to be heard and loved.

Awe and wonder filled my waking moments, aware I’d experienced some kind of spontaneous energetic healing.

By the way, those photos were a hit! Originally I was going to post them to my love, but soon afterwards I was given instructions to go and pick up a plane ticket and get my ass over to the UK! To deliver them in person and share the last few weeks of his trip whilst his mate did other things.

Interestingly, this experience had a much further reaching impact. A little shy, the first night after arriving, I handed over my pack of photos and an accompanying letter and went to have a shower.

No surprises there – he loved them! But on a deeper level he got it – he could see the transformation I’d told him about.

For as I cast off the buried pain through that night, it seems my heart also grew lighter. More free.

With fewer layers of protection, it was easier to connect to the man I loved. Whilst, erm, sex had always been a good thing, I now seemed to have a whole new level of sensitivity and feeling. He noticed the difference too.

Poetically, I guess you could say my inner castle walls came tumbling down…

I’ve since come to believe that we all have this “inner child”. They represent who we are at a very basic level. They are our innocence, our trust, our belief in good things.

When our inner child constantly deals with repressed pain and suffering we start to close down and feel the need to protect ourselves. In doing so, we cut ourselves off from the world and even those we love. A vicious circle, but one we have the power to do something about.

Ofcourse, after I was assaulted, I had to go through a similar journey. Well, perhaps somewhat different. But nonetheless, I’ve had to shed the accumulation of emotional and physical pain stored in my body. To free my inner five year old once more.

~Svasti

Keeping it in the family

Tags

Depression, Expression, Family, Father, Feelings, Lies, Mother, PTSD, Repression, Secrets

• Being assaulted was not my first episode of depression, although it was the first time I’ve dealt with PTSD.
• Previously I’d thought that most of the rage and repression within my blood and my genes came from my mother’s side of the family, but its really both sides.
• I grew up with a mother who suffers from depression and possibly even PTSD.
• I grew up with a mother who isn’t comfortable in her own skin, who has always been afraid of herself and others.
• I grew up with a mother who doesn’t want to let go of the trauma she went through, not ever, and we’ve had to live with the result of that.
• I grew up with an emotionally distant father who is himself, a towering inferno of repression. Possibly much moreso than my mother.
• I grew up in a family where secrets and lies were considered to be better than the truth, easier to deal with.
• I grew up in a family where both parents had issues with their own parents.
• I grew up in a family that wasn’t very social. My parents have never had alot of friends and neither have my sister or myself.
• I am not the person my parents expect, even when they think they have a hold on who I am. This upsets them no doubt.

I was always told as a young child that I was over-sensitive, over-emotional, that I lived in a fantasy land. I know now that wasn’t true. I am just a sensitive, emotional person in touch with the bigger picture of this world, beyond what we perceive with our eyes.

We don’t have to be a product of our past, although that’s what we have to work with. Its the materials we’re given. People forget to tell us we can swap materials out along the way, but we can.

The main reason for the tension between myself and my parents? I want to talk about things that make them shiver and shake. They wish to talk about the garden, the grandchildren, what to buy next. Or in extremes, gloss over the surface of the scary issues and consider the topic covered.

They find me intense, morose. They wish to have the younger version of me back, the one who was always acting and performing. Being a large personality, sparkling and shining. But things are now stripped back, simplified and I don’t have a desire to put on that costume any longer.

I want to work and work, and dive into the depths, unlocking all the doors, liberating myself from my perceived constraints.

In a household of “sweep it under the carpet” people, I am the anomaly. I am shouting it from the rooftops, even if no one is listening. I am expressing every last inch of what I feel, because I know no other way.

~Svasti

In the Chinese garden…

Tags

Bendigo, Healing, Kinesiology, Repression, Yin Yuan Chinese Gardens

The story so far (in chronological order):

• Once upon a time
• Ground zero
• Those eyes – or – don’t step in the glass
• A day and a week later
• Light on the train

*******************
Flipping the kitchen calendar over with surprise, I discovered it was December. Still on automatic pilot, I was trying desperately to keep my public self from falling apart. Hopefully no one knew unless I wanted them to.

That was my goal. I mean – its just not socially acceptable conversation, is it? Hi, how are you? Me? Well, not so great, I was assaulted a couple of months ago and I’m still a fucking mess actually!

Yeah… that was just never gonna happen.

And as I mentioned, there’s a good dose of repression in my DNA. So all up, it just seemed like a better idea to keep a lid on it.

I was going to work, but other than that I spent most of my time holed up in my flat. As far away from other people as I could, because I never knew when I was going to lose it and just start bawling. Or suffer a panic attack. Or freak out and behave really weirdly.

Early December, I had a visit from N & B – close friends of mine visiting from ‘the country’. They live on a beautiful virgin bush property on a hill outside a tiny town on the border of New South Wales and Victoria. They’re a little older than I am by a decade and a half. I love spending time with them.

They were among the few friends I’d turned to for support and they were great. In fact, I had to be very restrained and not give Andre’s address to N who wanted to go and visit him with a very large weapon! B is a healer by trade – she works with color therapy and is highly intuitive. They are both deeply spiritual and salt of the earth people.

They came to stay for a couple of days as they had some business in town and also wanted to check how I was doing. N & B were the first people I told the whole story to, end to end. Tears rolling down my face, voice as soft as the colored silk B draped around my shoulders. I got it all out, and we three tried to make some sense of it all. They gave me some much needed affection and literal shoulders to cry on.

The next day, N starts talking about a friend of their friend LS, who he’d been chatting to recently. LS was saying her friend G – who my friend N had met a couple of times – was sick of being single and wanted to meet women with a spiritual bent.

I can’t explain why N thought it would be a good idea to suggest that G and I meet. I wasn’t exactly at my best; I wasn’t even interested in meeting men. Call it fate or whatever you like – but somehow I agreed that N could give G my contact details.

G lives a couple of hours drive from Melbourne, so it wasn’t like we could meet up straight away. But we swapped emails and pictures, talked on the phone and sorted out a time to meet up – just before New Year’s Eve.

This is when G suggested we should perhaps meet at William Rickett’s Sanctuary (where I recently visited three years later!).

Ofcourse, I hadn’t told G about my recent history. I was trying my best to sheild that part of my life. So when talking about how to get there, G mentioned perhaps we should just take one car there… I freaked.

There was just no way could I share a car ride with someone I hadn’t met, and to a relatively out of the way place. I needed an easy exit route “just in case”.

Although we’d been talking on the phone, I sent G an email as I simply couldn’t verbalise what I needed to say. After a little back and forth, I finally came out and told him what had happened and where my head was at.

It’s actually to do with personal safety and a sense of I don’t know… the ability to escape. You could just say I’ve got a few trust issues, based on needing to be sure of the people I’m around.

The funny thing was I didn’t even realise I felt that way until after you suggested traveling in the same car.

A little thing like that made me feel entirely claustrophobic and panicky with no logical reason. Except of course, I’ve had someone in my house that was seemingly one person and then showed me another very scary side to themself. I logically know that that situation was an aberration, not the ‘norm’ and I don’t imagine every guy is going to have that sort of hidden nature. But there’s a part of me that still doesn’t feel safe. And yet normally, I’m one of the most fearless people you would probably ever meet in your life…

G was really, really, really great about it. We put off meeting up. But he also suggested I go and see a kinesiologist to help shift the trauma I was still clearly going through. Which was an awesome wake up call, because I already knew how great kinesiology is but it was filed away at the back of my mind somewhere.

Through G, I got some referrals, and it’s because of that suggestion and the help I got from a fantastic kinesiologist friend of his that I was able to start leaving the house again. Start to breathe again. Start to feel like I was going to get to the other side. I’m endlessly grateful for the turn of events that led to G coming into my life!

Anyhow… now all my cards were on the table and I hadn’t scared G away with my horrid story, we were still trying to work out a time and place to meet.

The next proposed meeting place was sort of halfway between Melbourne and where G lived. A couple of locations were suggested before we agreed on Bendigo – a country town a couple of hours drive outside of the city.

Bendigo used to be an important town during the gold rush era in Australia, which attracted people from all over the world trying their luck, but especially from China. As a result, Bendigo has a large Chinese population, a very impressive Chinese Museum and the Yin Yuan Chinese Gardens (where the imagery for this site comes from).

So G and I met in Bendigo. I must have looked like a frightened rabbit, ready to bolt. The expression on his face when we met was so gentle and kind. I think he was probably trying to do whatever he could not to spook me given how very spook-able I was.

You might be asking yourself why I went to a strange town to meet a strange man? The answer is because fate had handed me a gift via my friends N & B. And G had given me a key to move forward a few more steps, so I was no longer entirely crippled by what had been. And most of all because I was furious that I was still so affected. I’m not used to being so scared, and I very much wanted not to be. G had also earned some degree of my trust, which was saying a lot.

In that delicate state of being, G and I enjoyed what was a supremely stinking hot day. To quote myself: “This day was really hot. Severely hot in the shade kind of hot. The sort of hot where your bare feet could easily burn on the concrete.”

First up, we visited the Sun Loong Gallery museum which was as brilliant for its fine air-conditioning as much as the rare artifacts and antiquities. Apparently Bendigo is the home to the longest Chinese Dragon in Australia.

Then we braved the heat to visit the Chinese Gardens which seem somewhat out of place in Bendigo. Whilst inside the garden walls, you’re transported to somewhere in Asia but if you peep over the fences, you’re surrounded by concrete and bitumen.

For everything that G was attempting to do to make me feel comfortable, the gardens were the answer. Incredibly detailed paintings and tile work, gardens with feng shui up the yin yang, ponds with fish, sculptures, bamboo and pagodas. All designed so you could enjoy a walking meditation through the meandering pathways.

It was a wonderful day. I enjoyed G’s company and we stayed in touch, but the spark of “something more” wasn’t there. Ofcourse. How could it be given where I was at?

But then, as I’ve pondered since, how would I even know the difference? Am I not interested because that’s how things would have been anyway, or is it the shadow of what has been that sways me? We stayed in touch, and even caught up a few more times. But ultimately, I don’t think our friendship was fated for more. G lives far away, and we are relatively different people. We’re now in touch by email only, every now and then.

Where G and I are not different is where an interest in spirituality and the upliftment of humanity. Oh, and a love of nature and animals, especially cats.

However, to be blatantly honest, I think there’s only been a couple of times in my life where another person has seen me so vulnerable and weak. Each time that’s happened, I tend to recoil just a little bit. As though, its somehow shameful for someone to see me in that condition. And I pull away. Not because I want to, but because I need to. It has nothing to do with the other person really…

So G, I thank you once again for coming into my life at such a crucial time. And for making a difference when I really needed it.

Hari Om!
~Svasti

Next: Stereotypes & strategies