Foundations

Tags

Balakrama, Balance, bone graft, Chakri, Chankri, Faith, feet, Great Barrier Reef, light bulb moment, non-existent limitations, Plant your awareness in your feet, Shadow Yoga, Travel, Trust, Vahni, Yoga

I’ve large feet, but apparently not as large as they should be (anatomically speaking) for my height of 179cm (or 5’ 10.5”). They are an Australian size 9½ which is a 41 (European) and 8½ (US).

They are my father’s feet: weird squiggly toes and plenty of calluses that I get smoothed down whenever I have a pedicure.

They’ve carried me to many places around the world: Egypt, Chile, England, Wales, Orkney Islands, New Zealand, America, Bali and Thailand. They’ve trekked through dessert sands, snorkelled on the Great Barrier Reef, climbed dormant volcanoes, skied many an alp, belly-danced all over Sydney, walked dogs, taken part in the Sydney City to Surf, swum thousands of kilometres… they’ve done a lot for me, these feet.

And yet, it seems I do not trust them as I should.

Have I taken them for granted? Have I assumed limitations for them that do not exist? Am I wary of what they can and can’t do, and am I afraid to find out?

It’s true; they’ve let me down in the past. Or perhaps it was me that did the letting down? There’s been two broken toes in their history (both on the left foot – little toe, then the one next to the big toe), one bone graft (see photo), and several sprained ankles. They’ve suffered abuse as all dancer’s feet do. They’ve coped as well as they could given my high instep.

And actually, they still make awesome ballet pointed feet, even today. Which was always a bonus as a synchronised swimmer, back in the day…

But now I understand that I don’t have complete faith in my feet. Which, when you think about it, means I don’t have complete faith in myself. But of course!

Last Sunday in Shadow Yoga we began to learn another part of the Balakrama form. You can see a little bit of the series in the video of Emma Balnaves, below…

Unfortunately it cuts off just before you get to see Chakri. Which is performed with the legs in horse stance, and requires you to rotate your upper body in a revolving circle. Dipping the upper body forward and down, between the legs and back up again. All the while, keeping the legs in horse stance.

In case you’re wondering, it’s not easy to get it right. But it is far easier than I thought it was. At first, I relied very much on my upper body and core strength to complete the circle. I don’t think I was the only one.

Our instructor corrected the class with words we hear often in Shadow Yoga: Plant your awareness in your feet.

Then perform Chakri! And oh, the lightness in the body! The smoothness of my circles compared with how they had been!

All I had to do was allow my body to rest in my feet completely. Doh!

More evidence is to be found in my attempts to perfect Vahni, which is in the opening sequence of the video clip. Here’s a screen grab so you can get a better look…

In Vahni, you are sitting on your back heel. This is what anchors the pose. Thus far, it’s the hardest part of my Shadow Yoga practice (of course, what we each find challenging varies with our different bodies, strengths and flexibility).

Sometimes I can do it and others I find I’m still holding onto a block either side of my body as I struggle to find my balance.

But I learned something last weekend: I don’t have a balance problem at all, if I allow the weight of my body to sit more fully on my back heel.

Right now when I do that, it feels almost like I’m going to fall over. But then I don’t fall; instead I’m sitting on my heel. And Vahni (the flame), is steady.

While it feels as though I’m leaning back, really, I’m just becoming more upright. My weight shifts onto my heel and I am vertical.

But a lifetime of leaning forward has pushed my sense of vertical off-center. I’m perfectly fine with standing, of course. But balance poses (as I’ve mentioned before) have always been a bit vexatious for me.

It’s been both a physical and emotional leaning forward. Physically, because I was always head and shoulders above my friends from age twelve. And because I got very busty, very quickly: something that’s caused many back problems over the years. Emotionally, because the first instinct for someone in pain is to curl up in a ball. Our shoulders hunch forward and we seek comfort by making ourselves small and round.

Shadow Yoga is fascinating because it seems like the “under the hood” version of yoga. Like how a boy with his new bike will take it apart so he can see how to put it back together. This is my experience of Shadow Yoga thus far, in all its primal and intense expressions.

Its true, my balance has improved this year, and really, really improved in the last couple of months… since I started Shadow Yoga.

Still, in Vahni and Chakri I have troubles. Because they are looking through the magnifying glass at tiny details, and absolutely it breaking down. So I can see.

And what I see is that my balance issues are directly proportional to the faith I place in my feet and myself. Do I trust myself not to fall? Do I believe in the strength of my body and mind?

These kinds of realisations are one of the many miracles of yoga. And its amazing how such a light bulb moment can change your entire practice instantaneously. And then, how your practice then extends out into your life!

As has been said many times, yoga was never meant to be solely an ‘on the mat’ practice…

~Svasti

P.S. Pun fully intended. 😀

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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

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

Response to BlissChick – part 1

Tags

Abuse, Anger, Anxiety, Assault, Confusion, Depression, Family, Fear, Rant, Relationships, Surrender, Trust

In case you missed it, my world was well and truly rocked by BlissChick’s incredible post on depression, and some of her subsequent posts…

So here’s sort of an abridged version of her post (in italics), and my replies…

…People on anti-depressants are, from my own experience of them, still sad. Why? …Because they are putting a band aid on a broken limb…

I’ve never considered medication seriously, and the question has only been put to me once.

I understand there may be short term relief, but like you, I think it’s not something that ever fixes anything. So, I’m not interested in that path. Sure, it means things might be a little rougher for me, but I’m willing to tough it out.

…our souls are made of stories… They must be integrated into your essence or they will always be there. No amount of positive thinking will get rid of them. No amount of medication, eating “right,” supplements, herbals, or exercise… you will react because of them; you will be their slave…

I can see the truth this statement. Oh yes.

When I started writing my blog, I thought I was just writing about being assaulted. But what I learned along the way is, I’m actually writing about everything in my life that led up to that one fateful night.

Fateful, because it was a turning point, even if I didn’t start doing anything about it for almost three years.

…( (Honesty + Witness) + (Compassion + Patience) ) x Commitment

The hardest part of this formula is the first variable: Honesty about our stories.

We do everything we can to avoid this. We try to gloss over our stories… The first question to ask yourself is this: Who are you trying to protect by not being honest and why are you going to such lengths to protect them?

I was protecting both my parents, trying so hard to be who they needed me to be …a parent or both parents are exactly who most people are trying to protect…

I’ve really, really shied away from looking at my parents as neglectful. The physical abuse came from my brother, but it was ignored. And my parents were, and remain busy with their own emotional issues. It’s been that way for pretty much my whole life.

I haven’t wanted to admit these things so openly. I’ve wanted to accept them as they are and do what I can to compensate, because it’s cleaner, simpler. Because I know they won’t change. And because there’s nothing to be gained from blaming them for how they are.

…Regardless of someone else’s past, they were cruel to you. YOU were the child. YOU had the right to be the child. Your parents were not and are not your responsibility…

The crucial part, the part I’ve protected the most, has been to avoid admitting my parents were kind of shitty at their parenting job. I still have trouble with that.

I feel like, as a grown up, I should just take responsibility for myself and be done with it.

But perhaps that’s the point – how can the adult truly take responsibility when their inner child is having trouble being heard?

…Trying to understand your abuser is a classic psychological survival method… Your mind has to try to understand why this person is treating you this way, so you start to feel badly for them…

I recognise this. I do. My brother. My mother. My father. I never understood. I still don’t. And I feel bad I can’t be part of the “let’s all be close and loving” fantasy family relationship. I can’t be the “friend” my mother wants, either, especially considering she’s still self-centred and not interested in whatever I might be going through…

Every time my dad loudly has a conversation in front of me with my brother-in-law, about the importance of family (the same one on repeat), I want to be sick. Because he says those things and I KNOW he’s really chastising me indirectly for not being in touch a lot.

But heck, here I am on the brink of bankruptcy and where are they? NOWHERE.

When I was assaulted and hurting and hiding for years… THEY DID NOTHING.

What did they do when I complained again and again and again about my brother hitting me? MADE HIM APOLOGISE EACH TIME BUT NEVER STOPPED IT.

There’s more, much more. YES, they were neglectful and unsupportive parents. YES THEY WERE!!

And YES! I DO feel badly for them. I know they both had unhappy childhoods. I know my mother’s father was an alcoholic and her mother was controlling and manipulative. And that my father’s mother was the most self-centred person I’ve ever met. And my father’s father was adopted and emotionally vacant.

I expect less from them as a result. And yet, if ever I am blessed with children, I know I’d do whatever I can to make sure they feel loved and adored.

…You must be heard and seen… As an adult going through your stories and trying to order them and integrate them, a witness is the person who will give you that “real” feeling…

My witness, of course, has been Marcy. But I have also been graced with others…

Unfortunately I don’t have a ‘Marcy’ in my life. Instead, I write. And write, and write, so I can breathe.

But, those stories are slowly coming out on my blog. Which makes my blog readers my witnesses, I guess (hope you folks don’t mind!).

So witness this: I feel crappy about writing this stuff, like I’m betraying my family. Making a mountain out of a mole hill. It feels wrong and childish to sit here and write about things that have hurt my feelings over so many years and that, truth be told, still hurts my feelings.

And I’m not even half-way done yet! Not even close… however, I don’t know if it’s all for public consumption. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps…

Read part 2…

~Svasti

Panic at the food hall

Tags

Broken engagement, Ex-fiancé, Heartbreak, Living alone, Lonliness, Love, Relationships, Supermarkets, The Corso, Trust

I’ll never forget that trip to the supermarket when for the first time in years, I was no longer shopping for two.

I’d just moved in to a unit on the other side of town, a short stroll from the beautiful tourist beaches of Manly. And I was shopping for food and supplies.

Little did I know, aged twenty-seven, this was the first solo shop in a long line of more of the same.

Felt like I’d almost forgotten what I wanted. Cringing as I looked at those things we’d buy together – stuff my ex-fiancé liked/needed.

Suddenly, I was free of planning meals that were always a compromise. He, a meat eater who wasn’t big on vegetables, and I, a strict vegetarian at the time.

I didn’t want to plan meals any more, so I just bought whatever! Such sorrowful freedom, I made a point of each difference as I noticed.

Most stuff I’d left behind – spices, sauces, soap, toilet paper. All of that had to be purchased again.

Really, it felt so weird. Shopping alone, no one to argue with about the home brand and if it was really worth the extra ten cents to buy something else.

Nothing says you’re alone quite like the contents of your shopping trolley.

In that brightly light Safeway (or Woolworths?) on the Corso, it felt like I was rolling my trolley on broken eggshells, crushed rocks and seashells.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

No, wait. That was my heart crumbling.

Okay, I left him. Well, that’s how it looked from one point of view. But emotionally, things had been putrefying for a while. Felt very much like he’d left me six months earlier. Did I even have a choice, in the end?

The night before my move, boxes were all packed, removal truck was booked… and he breaks down and says Don’t go. Don’t go, I’ll change. We’ll make it work. Sleep in our bed tonight and not the front room.

Is that just the pain of separation talking? Not wanting to lose something that’s already almost slipped away? Sentimentality? Fear of change? Or did he really mean it?

Look, I said, I’m tired. I’ve tried for so long to make this work with us. And you kept saying things would get better, but that never happened. So I have to go right now. But if you want to try, then here’s the deal. I’m still moving out. But we’ll try to get things back on track. We’ll date. I’m afraid if I stay here right now, things won’t change. They haven’t before. Why should this time be any different?

He didn’t like that, not at all.

No, if you move out then it’s over!

His way or the highway. The story of my life – men wanting me to bend this way or that. Do things like this and it’ll be great, they’d say or imply, or both.

So, my choices were – stay in what had become a loveless and passionless engagement, with no concrete plans to actually get married any more. Or leave.

Stay, where I’d repeatedly tried to discuss and work out our issues. Or leave, and see what happens.

Stay, and watch him constantly say I understand, only to never work with me to resolve problems. Or leave, and create real change.

He hadn’t given me much to hope for.

Saying I love you in those circumstances is a hollow phrase. A threat, an attempt to justify or manipulate. It’s not really saying I love you. Its saying – how can you leave me?

Well, I did. Had to, for my own peace of mind and mental health.

Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like hell. Or that I wasn’t supremely lonely in that supermarket.

~Svasti

So… I said it…

Tags

Andre, Anxiety, Avoidance, Denial, EMDR, Grief, His name, House of cards, Loss, Therapy, Trauma, Trust

I need to come clean about something.

Actually, I don’t. I could ‘not’ write this, and not publish it either.

There’s a lot of ways I could keep this to myself.

But it would be against the spirit of my blog, in which I’ve truthfully (and often painfully) divulged much of my inner world goop. Always, always with the intent of de-clogging myself, and seeing more clearly what’s going on.

And so, I feel if I don’t get this out there, I’m lying. Mostly to myself, but sorta to those who bother to come here regularly, too. ‘Cept, if I didn’t, you’d never know. But I’d know that you don’t know. And that sucks.

So, yeah. I said it.

It wasn’t easy.

Going back a few weeks, this is my second last session in recent times. AN (my therapist) didn’t even know it was gonna be that sort of session.

Til I start talking…

You know, the reason I ended up coming to see you for EMDR therapy, was when H (my other therapist) uncovered my secret. That I never speak his name to anyone. H said she wasn’t sure how important it was for me to actually ever do it, and neither do I…

So what’s his name? AN butts in briskly.

…

[Radio silence]

And tears.

Could a red flag be waved more obviously?

AN says Okay. It’s time.

Nooooooooooooooooooo… I don’t think I can…

We start another EMDR pen-waving session. Me, stubbornly incapable of turning air into sound and forming that word. His name.

His fucking name. That stupid, meaningless word I’d allowed to assume such power. To mean other things. Become a symbol of terror.

Not saying his name it seems, became equivalent to wearing garlic, hopelessly attempting to ward off those vampirical horrors and fears, preying on my heart and mind.

Here on this blog, I’ve labelled him Andre. Where most other people I talk about have been given an initial only. Why? Well, he’s the main character of my story, right?

Right. Or is that denial? Avoidance? Being exceptionally cagey? Lying to myself?

It’s become so impossible to enunciate that I have violent psycho-somatic reactions. Coughing. Choking. Feeling like I’m about to die. An incredible sense of doom.

All of that, rather than speak that word.

Just a house of cards trying to cover for myself, willing to appear helpless rather than face it all squarely.

He was my friend.

He didn’t just take my safety. He took away my friend and replaced him with a monster. One of the few people I’d met down here that I could resonate with on some level. He was my friend, and he screwed it all up!!

I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!!

Swift-moving bile erupts from my mouth and body, scaldingly hot.

Can’t get that word out, not with all the grief and pain there. Sitting on the trigger like a trap.

AN asks me again, as we work through various emotions.

…

Still, nothing.

Mentally, I say it. Urge myself onwards. But no… nothing, again.

It’s dangerous. It’s scary. It means something… it means he wins. If I say it, I’m somehow bringing him to life again. And I’ve tried so hard to bury him, bury that night.

I’m powerless to command myself. Powerless. But it’s just a stupid name. Two syllables. Three letters. For fuck’s sake!

I can talk about anything else. Everything else. Just not this. Not this. Not…

Quiet now. I’ve sobbed til my heart is empty of tears. Raw raw, and fragile, and yet… false starts. Many of them.

His name is…

It’s…

I can mouth the letters silently. Only.

AN asks Does it start with a B?

No, it starts with an A.

That’s one letter. Only two to go.

But no. Locked into my seat in a small room with a kind but firm therapist, trying to shake me from my precarious perch. Gently, ever so gently.

My world right then, small and sharp. Pointed and painful. Dangerous, dark and terrifying.

It was coming. I wanted it to, but oh my god… the heartache, painfully beating like a foot trying to stamp its way out of my chest.

Like I’m talking to a child I say, It’s okay. Okay…

It’s okay… it’s only letters… its okay…

Why don’t I believe myself?

Just sitting and breathing now. And I can see, it’s just about courage now. That’s all that’s left. Finding a way to be unafraid long enough to squeeze it out. A little breath. A little sound.

His name. Its… its… okay, its… FUCK! Its… (wish my heart would stop aching), damn it, its….

And now it’s dead quiet in our room.

Its Apu.

AN repeats it a few times, loudly, so I can hear it, while I cry like a child. A child in shock, crying because the expression is entirely appropriate. Suitable to work through the pain. It’s shocking to say it. And hear someone say it. But somehow, its better. Already.

We finished things up, AN making sure I’m okay. And I left and went to a movie.

Then later, I wrote this…

And now you know. And I know you know. And again. It feels a little less covert. More real.

Still tender though, weeks later. Still hard to admit I’m okay with it. Even though its out there. And I’ve said it more than once now.

But guess what? I no longer choke (literally) when faced with those three letters. Not any more.

~Svasti

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!

In transit

Tags

Anger, Anxiety, Assault, EMDR, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Therapy, Trauma, Trust

What’s that place called? That in-between world? Not quite home yet, but somewhere along the way?

Feels strangely familiar, though I’ve never been here before. Has a lot in common with bus stops and airport lounges and waiting for a cab home late at night from places I’ve been all around the world.

But that’s not where I am right now, not at all.

Hardly any thinking occurs here. It’s kinda blank. Yeah, blank. And I feel so tired. There’s no reason to hold it in now, y’see… no need to pretend, keep up pretences.

And it feels like I’m not anywhere in particular, almost like it doesn’t have a latitude and longitude. But that can’t be true, right?

So how did I get here? Bought a ticket, that’s how!

I knew it’d be a trip, but apparently it’s hard to take good pictures along the way.

This place, it’s a sensate chasm.

Wringing out my nervous system, skin tingling pain – the kind that tells me good things are happening… despite the anguish.

But it’s all under the hood, so to speak, non-verbal, the re-structuring of my emotional landscape.

Sure, there’s stuff we talked about along the route. Looking at this scene, then that one.

Drawing up tears, emotions, pain, questions and haunting memories, imprinted there, since the night he…

So much, so fast, it’s hard to catch my breath. Can’t remember everything we said.

Not that it matters right now. Sleep is what I needed, sleep. A slumber to soothe rough edges, turn the soil and plant new saplings of hope.

To fill the vacuum, where once certain dreams held court, terrorising the breadth and depth of the kingdom. Happily, their landhold is now reduced. Weakened. Perhaps… not gone, not just yet.

But those eyes? The eyes of the predator that for years haunted me every day, without fail? The ones I could see without trying, eyes wide open? The photo-negative image containing so much rage and terror, like a brand, a tattoo, always there?

Must’ve left ’em behind on my trip. In that other place.

Sometimes, it’s good to lose possessions you wish you’d never had.

~Svasti

Rising from the ashes

Tags

Auroch, Dross, Fears, Fylgia, Moving house, Norse mythology, Odin, Ragnarok, Refinement, Rune poems, Runes, Trust, Ur, Vidar

Dross comes from bad iron;
The reindeer often races over the frozen snow.
~ Rune poem from the Younger Futhark.

This above poem belongs to the rune Ur, which is associated with the god Vidar – son of Odin – and supposedly the only survivor of Ragnarok (end of the world) in Norse mythology.

Vidar is one of the strongest warriors in the Norse pantheon.

His fylgia/totem animal is the auroch, an extremely large type of cattle. They roamed the plains of Europe before they were hunted to extinction in the 1600’s.

This is one of many versions of such poems, and they’re something I’ve studied for many years now.

So I’ll lend you my interpretation: Dross comes from bad iron – refers to sword making, and how, in the process of refining and strengthening the sword, the metal is purified and what remains must be cast off in order to forge the strongest of weapons. And: The reindeer often races over the frozen snow – travelling over snow is easier once it’s hardened. You can move faster, more efficiently.

Ah… enough with the metaphors!

Things have turned another corner again, and I’m feeling goood!!

The great news is – I’ve finally found a new home for  myself. I move this coming weekend from my temporary digs in deepest darkest Suburbia-Urbia, to a central, close-to-work-suits-my-needs-flat. I’ll be a 35 minute walk from work, or a much shorter push-bike, bus or tram ride. I’ll be living close to the city and my Melbourne friends again too.

I’m gonna retrieve my worldly possessions from storage, and start the process of setting up what will be (I think) my nineteenth place of residence. Let’s  hope I get to live in this one for a while, although with my track record I won’t hold my breath…

This marks a turning of the wheel for me. When I packed up my life back in June, I was also closing the door on the last few years. Symbolically and literally. But it hasn’t been easy. And sure, I know its not the end of the road just yet. But it is the beginning of the end of the reign of terror that Andre brought into my life, which I allowed to remain and flourish.

My new home is, interestingly enough, in the same neighbourhood I lived in when I was assaulted. Just a few blocks away. And I’m okay with that. Really.

My story however, is far from over.

I’m still not done posting about earlier parts of this story, and I haven’t quite gotten around to talking about my experiences on retreat in Thailand that allowed me to release so much of the pain I’d been holding onto. But without a doubt, I will…

My fears and issues still exist – especially around letting anyone get close to me – I’m working on ’em! There’s still alot to do, and many things that need changing.

I’m reconstructing my life again, but not necessarily in its former shape. And I have all the tools I need, for now anyway. I have an income, I will soon have a new home. I have some great friends in Melbourne, Sydney and around the globe. And even some I’ve come to know and begin trust via my blog – you folks know who you are. Muchas gracias!

Something important I’ll be doing in the short term is taking on a flatmate. I’m renting a two bedroom place just big enough to share. I could afford to live there by myself, but the extra cash will pay off some of my debts faster. However this is more crucial for another reason.

Whilst in Thailand, I spent some time getting to know one of my yogi brothers better and we talked a great deal about community and the social benefits of having a flatmate. Which got me thinking. Its very easy for me to live as a hermit. I kinda enjoy my time alone just a bit too much.

But I don’t think that’s helped my healing process at all. When you live alone and choose who you let in the door, its very easy to keep everyone out.

In doing just that, I’ve built up walls of concrete, marble and steel around my heart. I needed protection at the time, but now no one can get in. Even today, its not easy. I simply don’t trust most people. Sure, I look and act friendly enough, but just try scratching the surface a little…

Regardless, I need to try because I no longer want that experience. So I need to break down my current patterns. Starting with learning to share a home.

For I don’t just want to break down those protective layers, I want to open my heart wider than it ever was. To grow beyond anything I ever thought possible.

So this is not back to the status quo. Its the beginning of a new direction.

~Svasti

Love – the joy and loathing

Tags

Loathing, Love, Relationships, Trust, Truth

~ Written September 2004

I’m still not sure why it is that access to blindingly obvious realisations arrive from some unnoticed corner of the mind? It’s possible to instantly be transported from confusion to clarity on a point that one previously had no perspective on. How fast do thoughts travel anyway?

So one anonymous morning, such a moment spontaneously arose as I travelled to work.

This particular thought was like realising I was at the apex of a mountain without having done the work required to get there – it was a big one. Suddenly I had an overview of the terrain that makes up my emotional life, a vantage point I’d never seen before. Or perhaps I had simply ignored it until now?

So…. to the thought itself. The topic is that of love. My relationship to love, the stories I have told myself, the way in which I have used it to protect myself from further pain instead of revelling in its joy.

Even though my basic nature tends to self-reflection, it still remains very simple to deceive myself on points of weakness. I guess it really is the truth as far I know at the time. Until ofcourse, I know differently! But I am hungry to know the truth of my nature/human nature in all its glory and terribleness.

That morning, cursing other bad drivers whilst driving too fast myself, a trickle found its way to the surface. And it began to flow freely as I parked my car and waited for the bus.

It started with my observation that love is a very scary thing to me. A terrible and powerful thing. Wow. That’s a weird thing to think!

Yet, as wonderful as love is, it can cause so much pain. It seems my relationship to love tells me I should keep it at bay, to a degree. OMFG!!

An earlier revelation of mine pointed me to the beginnings of this idea, as far as I know anyway. I think this started for me as a small child under the age of 10. My father loved all three of us kids dearly, and would tell us so very often.

But he also had this little game he’d play frequently where he’d have me stand in front of him and ask – “How much do you love your Dad?” Such a harmless way of talking to a child, is it not? Unless ofcourse, that child is super-sensitive as I was.

For some reason I found this experience incredibly overwhelming and embarrassing. Like I had been put on the spot and asked to articulate something I didn’t understand. Does any child truly know what love is in a way they can articulate? Put a quantity value on? Perhaps, but I did not. And because I didn’t know, I never felt like I gave a good answer. And because I didn’t have a good answer, I really wished he’d stop asking me. I’d say whatever I thought he wanted to hear so the game would be over.

So my inner ‘story’ about love became something like – I need to keep some distance to feel safe. To make sure I’m not uncomfortable. Or perhaps – if you let love too close, it hurts. Even when you don’t, it still hurts.

So as much as I desire the closeness of sharing with another person, it also terrifies me. Because that closeness grants both people a certain power over each other.

And how on earth can I ever expect to have a no-holds-barred, passionate and loving relationship with this idea circulating in my mind??

Then I took a look at what I was thinking from another perspective. That perhaps I don’t really know what love is at all. Perhaps none of us do. Not in the pure sense, without attaching our own interpretations – which otherwise shape our lives and which we assume to be true, simply because these interpretations have been with us longer than we can remember. Love should never be perceived of as a threat or something that terrifies.

Love in and of itself is not pain. It is not wrathful. If anything, it’s the birthright of all beings. But it’s the meaning we give it that creates repercussions, both positive and negative. Not love itself.

Nothing is permanent, not unless you want it to be. But I don’t think that my fear of love is resolved simply because I can now see it for what it is. I don’t even think that I can see everything about it just yet.

Not too many people outside of my yoga school have seen ‘the real me’. Most people just don’t ‘get’ me. They are content with the smoke screens, the pretty words and the laughing, the outgoing nature I present. That presentation is meant to entertain and deflect attention, so it’s possible for me to function in a world where I nearly always feel as though I don’t belong.

And here it is – part of the real me that I’m revealing so I can be truthful with myself. I think that if other people were also truthful, they might find they have their own strange ideas around how they relate to love. The joy of it, the loathing. The way they relate to loving and being loved.

All – just stories we tell ourselves. Fancies, ideas, that disintegrate under examination in the light of day.

~ Svasti