Proverbs, Yoga & Stretching

Tags

Asana, chattaranga, Clues, Proverbs, Stretching, Untold stories, Vulnerable, Yoga

All too often, we humans keep ourselves moving in the same patterns. We have what we perceive of as our boundaries and rarely do we stray from them.

It’s not often that people question or challenge how we move through this life… unless we do.

This week, I’ve been having some rather interesting conversations with a friend. Which in itself is not unusual.

Some of the topics we discussed however have tied neatly in together in the mind of this crazy yogini.

First up – a discussion about yoga practice – and how the so-called limitations of the body are in fact only limitations of the mind.

Flexibility of the body, we agreed, isn’t ‘fixed’. Under anaesthetic, human beings enjoy a full range of motion (well we might enjoy it if we weren’t knocked out cold). Yet when we’re ‘awake’, many people can’t so much as touch their toes.

And we talked about how surprising it can be sometimes when ‘suddenly’ you find it possible to do certain yoga poses (asana) when previously you couldn’t. But, actually, it’s possible you’ve been building up your capacity for some time and it’s just that you still thought you couldn’t (my detested chattaranga is improving all the time!).

Then today – nattering over IM as usual, we started approaching darker topics for both of us… although at first very light-heartedly… then I suddenly found myself on somewhat shaky ground. A question came up, one I couldn’t answer directly.

But – I felt brave enough to try to provide the answer, if somewhat cryptically. The only way I could get it out was to provide clues pointing the way.

Even that much though, was really, really hard. It was enough to bring pain to my throat and tears to my eyes. But I wanted to try, anyway. It felt like a moment of possibility, one I could choose to ignore, or go for it and see what happened.

Jay thought it was a little odd I didn’t seem to mind telling him the things I did (even if he did have to guess through my clues) – it’s just that for me, getting the information out… well, it’s the thing that hurts so very, very much.

Yet despite a little anxiety this evening, I’m doing okay. Much better than I thought I’d be.

And it’s a step in the right direction.

Because really, unless I try… then how will I ever find my way out of this darkness?

Sure, during that conversation I felt incredibly vulnerable. But sometimes that’s the point when I feel the most open to attempt something new. As scary as it might feel, it’s even scarier to think my only option is retreating away each and every time.

And just like taking another crack at an asana you’ve always found difficult… if you don’t try you’ll never know. Your attempt requires you to stretch both your body and mind just a little more than before. Until finally, you find you’re already there.

There’s still a lot of information I’m not okay with voicing. And I know why, I think.

Something my therapist said is that perhaps this assault was the proverbial straw so to speak… the final extra load I couldn’t carry.

There’s more, you see.

Much more – some of which I’ve shared here a little, but there’s much that I haven’t.

I think it’s true, that there’s been some kind of slow toxic build up. So my terror, the suffering – all of it – isn’t really just about Andre and that one night.

And I’m hoping as I get braver, that digging deeper into the mire is something I can do.

Part of the problem though, is that while being assaulted was something I couldn’t control… possibly there are things in my past that I did have control over.

Things I feel shame and guilt about. And I certainly wonder what anyone reading here might think if I were to write about them. I wonder if they’d judge me, form different ideas in their minds about who I am?

I don’t know really. But I’m willing to try.

~Svasti

Defenceless

Tags

Defenceless, Fear, Happiness, House of mirrors, Post-traumatic stress, PTSD, Pustule, Strong, Vulnerable

It’s time for the invasion.

Though… seems it’s me, willingly opening the gates.

One by one barriers and boundaries have dropped away. The deeper I dig, the less I have by way of protection.

That’s a good thing, I say, to no one but me.

Dangerous… fighting for my sanity half-naked. Perhaps…

Yet, how else to reclaim what’s mine? How else to eject a festering seeping pustule?

I see now how you’ve held me. With your naturally repugnant scent inducing fear at twenty paces. Hackle-raising, gut wrenching, agonising.

But it’s a trap.

A scary house of mirrors playing mind games so real… so real I can’t remember what it’s like ‘outside’.

Wisdom arrives and says: The constructs that protect me also keep me within the grasp of those I’m defending against.

One begets another, each making the other more real, more concrete, self-perpetuating…

And then I know the only answer there is: There’s no going back to how things were…

If it’s my happiness I want, the way isn’t back to a place where that pain never was.

That place, it doesn’t exist any more. If it ever did… there is only now.

And neither is it the way, just sitting where I am. Waiting. Hoping. Ignoring won’t work any longer. Can’t truly forget… and distractions never last.

I must walk through the center. Spot-lit and unlovely, not even ready for a fight. No defences.

Here I am, so I say. Come on, then…

I’m learning your ways. Just a spectre here, not real. Your entry is via my waking nightmares… where you live again. Solidifying in my projections, gaining strength.

I’ve just remembered something though, standing here bereft of armour.

A lesson learned once, and now returned.

You can hurt me all you like but I won’t be giving in. There’s a point (perhaps I’m not there quite yet) at which vengeance loses impact.

So while I may look weaker, I’m prepared.

And I grow tired of this game…

~Svasti

Stereotypes & strategies

Tags

Coping, Domestic violence, Stereotypes, Violence against women, Vulnerable

One of the reasons its taken me so long to confront what happened to me is because I was very busy telling myself that it wasn’t so bad… compared to what others have gone through.

There’s a part of me that still feels this is quite a rational point of view. After all, its backed up by some well publicised facts about violence against women.

The stats below are a direct quote from a 2005 ABS survey:

• 363 000 women (4.7 per cent of all women) experienced physical violence
• 2.56 million (33 per cent of all women) have experienced physical violence since the age of 15
• 1.47 million (19 per cent) have experienced sexual violence since the age of 15
• 78 per cent of female victims of sexual assault knew the offender

These stats tell us that violence is prevalent in Australia. But they don’t paint a picture of the demographics, of the lives of the women who’ve been affected. They don’t tell the stories of what happened, to whom and why – which must be as unique as the individuals in question.

Before I was assaulted, its fair to say I thought I would never be ‘one of those women’. If pressed for more details, I’d probably say that ‘those women’ were most likely lower income people, weak and dependent people. I had some idea in my head that most women who experienced assault were in violent relationships. That they were most likely putting up with it, staying on with their guy for some misguided reason. I felt great sympathy for them, and I could see they were emotionally reliant on the men that hurt them – that was my very limited view.

When I was 20, and just before I left for Sydney, my flatmate Colleen, had a violent boyfriend. He was younger than her, possibly a little crazy and he would hit her. They were on/off and Colleen’s friends were doing their best to help her see the light and dump him. But I’ll never forget my surprise and horror when she came home late one night and told me they were getting married. The first thing out of my mouth was not ‘congratulations’. Instead, I asked her about the violence… and she spouted words that could’ve been lifted directly from some cop drama. “He told me he loves me. He said it will be different this time and that he won’t hit me any more”. Riiight.

Luckily the relationship self-destructed before they even got close to getting a marriage licence! But most unfairly, my opinion of Colleen changed from that time on. I began to think of her as a little pathetic. I lost respect for my friend – just a smidgen.

And I truly never imagined that it would happen to me. I never saw it coming, never expected it, not even in the seconds before his fist first connected with my face.

Of course, I wasn’t in a relationship with this man – let’s call him Andre – he was someone that I had been seeing for a few months but I’d called it off. I’d already realised it wasn’t what I wanted, but I was still happy to be friends. Before that one twisted night, there wasn’t the slightest hint of the crazed, angry, aggressive and frightening person he revealed himself to be. Before he actually hit me, when he was just yelling and being abusive, even then I wouldn’t have picked what was to come.

And then it happened. Since that time, I’ve been in denial about joining the ranks of women who have had violence done unto them. Here are some of the little stories (and the sub-text) I’ve been telling myself and my friends:

“It was just one night, after all” – (of course! No big deal really)

“There’s no chance in hell I’d be one of those women who’d stay in a violent relationship” – (so that makes me different, a bit better, not as pathetic, right?)

“Some women are injured very badly, and ongoing – but I was lucky” – (yeah I just got away with a black eye, a possibly fractured cheek bone and some broken glass)

“I don’t have that much to complain about really” – (of course not, post traumatic stress is a breeze!)

“I feel a bit embarrassed talking to a counsellor, because what I went through was pretty mild” – (Surely I’ll be okay in a few months)

Nice stories huh? They are all great strategies for compartmentalising the raging grief and pain I was going through. Mostly because they are partially true and logical, and it was easy to get agreement from other people when I said these things. Even if they didn’t pick up on my sub-text, in my mind they’d agreed to that as well.

Clearly, I’d already drawn a line in the sand between me and the ‘other women’ who go through assault. I was still trying desperately not to see myself as one of them, those people I thought of as weak. Obviously all those years ago, I bought into the stereotypes and because I’d always seen myself as strong and independant, I couldn’t let myself identify with my fellow “assaultees”.

Like my other little strategies, it’s true, there is always someone with a worse story – but that can’t detract or minimise your own experience. It doesn’t help. It doesn’t change or fix anything.

Thinking about my old flatmate from all of those years back, I can say this much – assault as viewed from the outside tells you nothing. Ofcourse, you might be upset for a friend who’s gone through this kind of experience. You might even think the way I did, and see your friend as weak. Please try not to though!

Here’s what you need to know: This sort of violence is penetrative. It is soul rape. It has the potential to rearrange your inner world, to tear it apart, turn it upside down. I say ‘potential’, because not everyone reacts to assault in the same way, ofcourse. But its a very strong person indeed, who walks away from being assaulted with few ill effects.

At present, I’m in a really vulnerable state, because I’m in the process of deconstructing these strategies, clearing away the lines in the sand and acknowledging to myself for the first time how very damaged I am as a result of being assaulted, even if it was only just one night. Even if other people have had much worse experiences.

This is a good thing. It doesn’t make me weak. Allowing myself to be vulnerable, to face the devestation is incredibly difficult. And actually, its this act of taking care of myself that makes me strong.

I’m throwing away the props and distractions.

I’m blowing down the house of cards I’ve been sheltering in.

~Svasti

Next: Depression triggers – part 1