Preparing for Battle - A PTSD Plan

A little personal journaling as I process through my current PTSD episode --

The world is at war.  Every day is a battle.  You can choose to meet that with peace, but it will take work.  You must strengthen yourself every day.

Daily (preferably morning) -
  *  half hour meditation
  *  one General Conference talk
  *  one verse of scripture

Practice these for one week.  Assess daily.

See how you feel after a week.  Do you feel stronger and better able to live in peace amidst the war?

Right now I don't feel strong.  I don't want to be on the defensive all the time, just waiting for the attack, so that I'll be ready.  But I've worried that if I weren't on the defensive, the attack would come anyway and blindside me, as has happened so often in the past.  I would be knocked down hard.  Painful and bloody.  In the past, I've always thought that to protect myself I had to be hard.  Being hard is being strong.

But I know that's the emotionally immature form of strength.  True strength is soft.  Gentle.  Kind.  It comes from sure footing in oneself that grounds you in who you are.  You can stand immovable without being a brick wall.

What's Got Me Scared

I hate to use the word scared.  I hate admitting something frightens me.  It means a level of vulnerability that I try to deny I have.  I can admit when things make me nervous.  I can admit when I'm anxious.  But scared.  Scared is bigger.  Scared makes me feel like a little girl again.  A little girl in a big, mean world.

But I am scared.  I'm going to tell you why and it probably won't make sense to most of you.  But there will be a few who will totally get it.

I'm having intense pelvic pain again.  Last time it lasted almost two months.  So far this time, it's been a couple of weeks.  And it's been off and on in between those two major episodes.

Here's what I'm not afraid of.  I'm not afraid it's cancer.  It could be, but for some reason that's not really a fear I have.  I'm not afraid I'm going to die or anything.

I went to my doctor with this problem in October.  That's when I'd already been hurting for a month.  He did an exam, a pap smear, and ordered an ultrasound.  When nothing showed he suggested that I see a gynecologist.

I know it's possible that it's something non-female-problem related.  It could be intestinal.  Let me tell you why I don't think it is.  It feels like I have a rock in place of my uterus.

As a woman, I went years and years without being aware of my uterus or being able to feel it inside me unless I was cramping during my period.  I mean, how often are you aware of your pancreas or your liver?  Can you feel them?  Would you know if they hurt?  So I understand when my husband says, "How do you know it's your uterus?"  And, seriously, sometimes intestinal cramping and uterine cramping feel a lot alike.

But after going through labor, my awareness of my uterus increased quite a bit.  I remember when it tightened and felt like a boulder inside me.  And this feels kind of like that.  On a much smaller scale, of course.

And then there are the twinges in my ovaries.  Again, how can I know that's what's twinging?  Well, let me tell you.  If you've ever been to the doctor and said you think your ovaries are hurting this is what he/she will do.  He (because my doctor is a he) will have you lie down and will palpate (which means push around on) your abdomen.  And when he pushes in a certain spot and you practically jump off the table and he says, "Yep.  It's your ovary." then you remember that.  From then on, when it hurts, you know what's hurting.

And, yes, at my exam he palpated my abdomen and confirmed that it was my uterus and ovaries that were hurting.  (And let me just tell you, they hurt a lot worse for a while after someone pushes on them repeatedly.)

So I'm not completely ruling out something else, but I'm pretty sure it's my internal girl parts that are causing me so much pain.

My primary care physician thinks it's probably endometriosis.

Well, you know what happens when a doctor tells you they think you have such and such.  You start researching such and such until you see the specialist.

Endometriosis isn't something incredibly dangerous.  It won't kill me.  The worst side effects are pain and infertility.  And since I'm done using my fertility I don't mind if that goes away.  And I already have the pain.

So why am I scared?

I am scared because I read up on how they treat and diagnose it.  Often they use hormones to reduce the symptoms.  Well, I am incredibly sensitive to hormonal changes of any kind.  I've had PMS since my first menstrual cycle at fourteen.  I've been on birth control pills a few times in my life and had horrible results.  They either make me homicidal or suicidal or a bit of both.  Having just come through a nasty mental prison, I'm not anxious to go back there.  One of the treatments if they do find endometriosis and it's severe is a complete hysterectomy. 

Again, I'm done with those parts so I wouldn't mind giving them up.  Except for the whole hormone thing.  It's called surgical menopause because the surgery instantly does what is supposed to take a woman's body years to complete.  If small hormonal changes like my natural cycle and birth control pills can send me out of whack, just think about what surgical menopause could do.  And it's not like we can change our minds afterward and say, "This isn't working.  Let's put it all back."

So there are those issues.  But still those aren't my biggest fears.

My biggest fears are these:  sedation and no answers. 

The only way to confirm endometriosis is through surgery.  Laparoscopic these days, but still full sedation.  The surgery doesn't scare me.  Being put under terrifies me.  Not for the typical, "What if I don't wake up?" reason.  Sedation terrifies me because I will have no control over what is done to my body.  I have a history of sexual assault.  Things were done to my body without my permission.  At least once it happened when I was asleep.  This is when I became a light sleeper.  Being aware of and in control of what happens to my body is very important to me.  It's not that I don't trust the medical personnel.  They have no reason to hurt me.  But giving up that control just doesn't feel safe to me at all.  It terrifies me.

And I fear that after all of the tests and possible surgery, they won't find evidence of anything wrong with me.  It will be another time that we've spent lots of money and caused lots of worry for nothing.  Another time that the people around me wonder if I'm faking it.  If I'm just a big baby.  Another time when I doubt myself and wonder if everything really is all in my head.  Another time I hurt so badly but can't say why.  Another time of feeling embarrassed because I'm such an idiot who can't handle a few of the twinges that are normal in life.

But I can't just not get it checked.  Because it could be something else.  It could be something serious.  I can't take that chance.

I see the gynecologist on Monday.  Your prayers and happy thoughts are welcome.  Again.

Going to War

There is a memory.  A memory that holds more power over me than anything else ever has.  A memory that has been there for as long as I can remember.  And beyond.  A memory that taunts me.  A memory that hides.  A memory that I sense but don't see.

It is strong.  It is elusive.  It is haunting.

And I am going to battle against it.

Most of the time, it lies hidden.  Tightly protected in its cage.  Just out of my reach.

But right now it is exposed.  And right now I am strong.  And right now I have an army behind me.

I am frightened.  But I am going to war.

An Interesting Blessing

I have been fiercely independent for as long as I can remember.  To the point of shunning chivalry and sometimes hurting myself because I was too stubborn to let anyone lighten my load, figuratively or literally.

Over the years I've learned to accept help a little more and even sometimes request it.  I've learned that I'm not enough to take on the world all by myself.  This used to scare me.  Now that I've grown a bit and found some people I can trust, it is a bit of a relief.  Because now I understand that I'm not meant to take the world on alone.

But one area I didn't seem to learn this was in my marriage.  Oh, I did become interdependent with my husband.  Especially financially when my health no longer allowed me to work outside the home.  But there was still this I-could-get-by-without-you-I-don't-really-need-you thing left over from all those years of my independence and our struggles.

For so many years I have been his strength, his buffer.  We both knew that if our marriage ended, as it looked like it would more than once, I would struggle financially but be okay otherwise; he would be a basket case and be lost without me.

But recently that's changed.  We tend to pull together in crisis (thank heavens).  So his job loss, while incredibly stressful in other ways, has been good for our relationship.  We've become closer.

That's not the part that surprised me.  The thing that surprised me is what happened during my last PTSD episode (which still isn't completely over, by the way, but is improving).

This last PTSD episode has included so much fear (it always does).  It's tough for me to leave the house.  It's hard to be around people.  I'm claustrophobic.  I don't want anyone to touch me or talk to me too much.  I try not to visibly cringe when others come near me, but I definitely cringe inside.  The nerves in my skin feel like they are all hyper-stimulated at once.  My skin hurts.  And the thought of someone touching me scares me like when someone comes up to slap your back when you have a bad sunburn.

None of that is new.  I get that way every time my PTSD is triggered.

The interesting part is this.  My husband has become my buffer.  He gets between me and what scares me.  Quite often.  He'll take the conversation for me.  He'll sit between me and others.  He'll field phone calls and visits at the door when I just can't face them.  I feel safer when he's with me.  He's become my protector in a very real way.

For many of you, this may sound like a condition you've always had with your spouse.  Why am I making a big deal of it?  Because it's not something I've ever had with my husband.  It's not something I've ever allowed.  It's not something he's ever seen me need.  Being protective isn't his natural response when I'm in trouble.  He's seen me fight my own demons too many times to think I need him.

But this time I've needed him.  And he's come through for me.  As horrible as this episode has been, and continues to be, it's been worth it.  Because it's allowed a new type of intimacy between me and my husband.  I am so grateful for that.

A Little Lighter

My world is a little lighter today.

I finally got to a place that I was able to practice some self-care.  It was like trying to walk while dragging heavy weights with each leg, but I did it.  And I feel a little better.

I scheduled some appointments with my therapist.  I spoke with him on the phone.  We are okay.  The relief I felt after scheduling and speaking with him for just a couple of minutes was amazing.  It matters that I have him in my corner.

I've been able to avoid most of my unhealthy coping mechanisms throughout the PTSD event and the depression.  I'm proud of myself for that.

I'm finding peace within myself.  A little at a time.

The storm isn't over, but the winds have died down for now.  I'll take it.

Still Not Good, But a Different Kind of Bad

Funny thing about PTSD.  It tends to make everything else in my life seem unimportant.  That's a good thing when the problems I was having with my therapist no longer matter and I'm ready to get back to work.  It's not such a good thing when I forget about the house payment.

The PTSD is not quite as bad.  I am still cramping a lot.  I am still touch-averse.  The nerves in my system are still on hyper-alert.  But I am able to think a little more clearly.  And, as of now, it doesn't look like he will become a bigger part of my life after all.  There is less fear.

But when the PTSD lets up, all those other things start to be problems again.

The depression is still in full force.  I'm having to force myself to eat and sleep.  It takes a monumental effort to leave the house.  But I was able to perform a couple acts of service this last week.  I've been able to play my flute a bit.  And I even went to book club.  Small victories.

My body seems to be in rebellion as well.  Whatever virus it is that causes my fatigue has flared.  I could easily sleep twenty hours a day (it's a different tired than the depression tired).  Accomplishing any one thing, even just writing a blog post, saps me of all energy and sends me back to bed.  I do a load of dishes; I have to lie down.  I straighten the living room; I have to lie down.  I practice my flute; I have to lie down.  Not being able to do anything doesn't particularly help with the depression.

My headache has been awful, too.  Severe pain.  Blurry vision.  Dizziness.  Nausea.  And an inability to process thoughts or find the words (simple words) to communicate.

I haven't gone back to therapy yet.  I'm still figuring out our insurance options.  But I will soon.

I'm worried about everything:  money, each individual aspect of each of my children's futures, all the ways I've failed to prepare them, everything that needs to be done today, everything that needs to be done tomorrow, everything that should have been done yesterday, everything that should have been done last week, everything that should have been done years ago, my daughter's health, my husband's health, my health, the safety of each family member every second that they aren't with me, my friends' difficulties, my parents' difficulties, all the ways I'm failing my parents, all the ways I'm failing my friends, what I should be doing right now, how much to stay on top of my kids' school work and how much to let life teach them, and any other little thing that crosses my path.

I'm still avoiding people.  I don't want to do anything.  It's even tough for me to make myself go to my son's football games (which are my favorite things in the whole world).  Octoboween doesn't even have the same appeal as usual.

I'm trying to do things anyway.  I do enjoy the football games once I get there.  I am doing an Octoboween count down on facebook to try to psych myself up for it because I believe it can bring me joy -- eventually.  I'm trying to fake it 'til I make it.  I'm trying to convince my body and mind to get back to work.

But I just want to crawl into bed and cry and let the world go on without me.  Is that really too much to ask?

Trying to Find the Words

** If you are an abuse survivor, this post could contain possible triggers.  Please make sure you are safe before reading it.  Also, this is a very heavy and adult post.  Listen to your heart and do not continue if you know this won't be okay for you. **


Words are important to me.  I sometimes take a little longer to speak because I am trying to find just the right word.  Not one that's close, but one that conveys a multitude of meanings all at once, one that conveys truth and feeling and exactitude.  Just the right word.

But sometimes I don't have the word.  If I could communicate telepathically, I could make you understand.  But there just isn't a word for it and nothing else really does the job.

This is what happened when I tried to explain to someone what triggered a PTSD event for me this week.  I didn't have the words.

A little history, somewhat vague, to help set the stage.

There are dark things in my past.  There was abuse and assault.  Over many years I was hunted.  And too often I was caught.  I wasn't killed physically, but pieces of me were destroyed.  I was changed.

I was changed in a way I believe many others who were abused are also changed.  But I can't speak for them.  I speak only for what is true in my life.

I was prey.  In many situations.  And, yes, there were times I feared for my life.  Other times I just feared for the inner me, the part that was being attacked.  What happened to my body didn't matter.  What happened to my core did.

Because I was prey, I was on constant alert (an alert that is never silent, even now).  I learned to read the emotions of everyone in the room.  To sense even the tiniest shift if something changed.  Long before anyone else knew.  Because I had to in order to protect myself.  It was necessary to stay alive.

But it goes beyond just reading emotions.  And this is where I lose words.

Some people have a . . . something to them.  A color/flavor/spirit.  Each of those is somewhat close, but none of them are accurate.  I would say aura, but it isn't visible.  A presence?  A feeling?  An emotional radiation?  None of these are right either.

As a child I often swam in a lake.  I would be swimming along, in the warmth, and hit a cold spot.  Out of the blue all the warmth was gone.  It's kind of like that.

And this last week a person crossed my path whose . . . whatever it is . . . triggered my PTSD.  This person's color/flavor/whatever is darkness.  This person carries evil with him.  Willingly.  The cold spot that he wears is that of a predator.  Even with all the abusive situations I've been in over the years and all the people I've known and all the horror I've experienced and witnessed, I've never felt like I was in the presence of evil.  Until him.  And he knows it and uses it to control.

He is not a close part of my life, but there is potential that our paths will continue to cross.  I am trying to strengthen myself and gather support so he can't wound me again.

I hate that it only took the mention of him to make me feel weak and powerless.  And scared.

He triggered one of my most difficult memories.  One that I haven't fully processed and healed in therapy.  One of a very early sexual assault.  One that causes me severe physical symptoms.  So since he crossed my path, I have been having very painful uterine cramps.  Nonstop.  Whether I am thinking about it or not.  Sometimes so bad that I have trouble standing up.  My anxiety is high.  I am snapping more at my family.  My nerves feel like they are on fire and I cringe if anyone tries to touch me.  Even when I am completely safe, there is fear.  Like the rabbit whose ears prick up when he senses danger.  I will not relax until the danger is gone.

I was not ready to go back to therapy.  My therapist and I have some things to work out.  I wanted to do more processing on my own on that stuff before I went back.  But I may have to put all that aside and go back to therapy anyway.  I may not have a choice.  I'm having trouble functioning.  I'm having trouble getting every day things done.  I need help.

Triggered

All it takes is a PTSD trigger to make everything else in life that was bugging me seem like nothing.

Rally the support troops.  Deep breaths.  You can do this.

Standing in Holy Places in Difficult Times

This will be a long post.  Please feel free to skip it without fear of offending me.  Also, it's a religious post.  It's taken from a talk I gave in church a couple of weeks ago.  It contains scriptures from The Book of Mormon in addition to scriptures from The Holy Bible.  It's based on a scripture from The Doctrine and Covenants (another book of scripture in the Mormon church):  D&C 87:8 "Stand ye in holy places, and be not moved."

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As we’ve discussed standing in holy places this year, we’ve talked about many important places.  We’ve discussed the temple and church.  We’ve talked about dedicated sites and memorials.  We’ve also talked about how we can make any place a holy place if we are striving to keep ourselves holy. 

I’d like to expand on that a little bit.  Sometimes a holy place is an actual place.  Sometimes it’s a state of mind.  And sometimes it’s a lot of work to find a holy place within myself during a difficult time.

To me, a holy place is anywhere I am physically or emotionally that allows me to connect with God.  A place that I can understand His will and strive to do it.

2 Nephi 2:25 says, “Adam fell that men might be; and men are, that they might have joy.”

This life, this experience, is supposed to bring us joy.  God’s will is that we have joy.

Many people read this and see it as an excuse to play more.  Others read this and see it as a reason to not worry so much.  Still others read it and want to get into the ever-ongoing debate between happiness and joy to prove that “wickedness never was happiness.”

Sometimes when I read it, I take it as an assignment.  One that I have a tough time with.

I struggle with clinical depression and PTSD.  I have for most of my life.  And sometimes when I read that scripture – “men are that they might have joy” – I feel like a failure.

I believe this is because I’ve bought into four powerful lies Satan uses:

1.      It’s my fault.
2.      It’s beyond my control.
3.      I have to do it alone.
4.      I should be happy all the time.

The first one, it’s my fault.  I spent many years thinking I wasn’t trying hard enough.  If I were more righteous I would be happier.  I should be able to choose happiness (because everyone says happiness is a choice).  If I were only stronger or more positive, I could force myself to choose happiness.  I could have peace in my heart all the time.  I would no longer find myself trapped in the darkness.  I believed it was my fault when I went into a depression because I wasn’t a better, stronger person.

Please let me say, I do believe happiness is a choice.  Most of the time.  But I also know that our bodies are complicated things.  Chemistry is powerful.  And genetics matter.  Clinical depression and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder aren’t my fault any more than multiple sclerosis is someone’s fault.  It’s not a sign that I’m not righteous enough.  It’s not because I’m a bad person.  It’s not because I don’t have enough willpower to snap out of it.  Those are thoughts and beliefs from fifty years ago that just aren’t true.  It’s biochemical.  It’s physical.  It’s environmental.  Much of it is beyond my control.

But not all of it.  And that brings me to the second lie, it’s beyond my control.

I often don’t see it coming.  I am good one day and the next I am so completely not.  My heart is overtaken by a darkness so deep it seems to swallow me whole.  Or I am fine one minute and the next I am filled with fear and have no idea why.  I want to hide, even from the people I love.  Even from the people in my life I know are safe.   It is so intense, so powerful when it overcomes me.  No matter what I’ve tried, it keeps happening.  I believed the only choice I had was to surrender and wait for it to pass.  I spent years thinking it was beyond my control because I didn’t know how to stop it.

But the fact that I didn’t have any answers didn’t mean there were no answers to be had.  I still can’t stop it entirely, but sometimes I can make it less powerful.  I can do things to protect myself.  Let me tell you what I’ve learned.

·       The most important thing I need to do is plan.  I need to write out a plan when I am well.  Because when I am not, it’s too late.  I can’t think clearly enough in those moments to choose well.  But if I have a written plan of healthy coping strategies, I have something to direct me, to help me make better choices.  Choices that will help me heal, not make me feel better for a moment but ultimately drive me deeper within the darkness.

·       I also need to take care of my soul.  D&C 88:15 says, “And the spirit and the body are the soul of man.”  I need to take care of my body.  I need to eat healthy foods.  I need to get enough sleep – for real.  I need to stay hydrated.  And I need to exercise.  It’s easy to think that these things are less important than working on what’s in my mind, but depression and PTSD affect the whole soul.  I can’t neglect half of it and expect to be well.  I also need to take care of my spirit.  This means reading scriptures, praying, attending church, fulfilling my calling.  The basics.  It’s easy to think that working on therapeutic things are all I need to do to feel better.  But my spirit is part of my soul.  If I am not taking proper care of it, I will not be strong enough to continue the fight.  And I will not be close enough to my Heavenly Father to receive the help I need.

And that leads me to the third lie I bought into, I have to do it alone.

We live in a society that glorifies independence.  And I’m not just talking about the world.  We in the church sometimes get this wrong.  We teach self-reliance and think that means we shouldn’t have to ask for help.  If we’re doing everything right, we shouldn’t ever have to ask for help.  We help others.  We give.  We serve.  But so often we are ashamed if we ever have to receive.

We are meant to be with others.  We need each other.  We are supposed to.  How selfish it is to only serve and give but to never open our hearts and lives to others and let them serve us.  How prideful to only show the wonderful things in our lives to the world and to never let on that we have weaknesses, too.  What a loving thing it is to occasionally show the dysfunction in our lives so others know they are not alone.

Thinking we have to do it alone is one of the most dangerous lies we can believe.  It is a lie Satan uses to keep us from leaning on our Savior and partaking of the atonement.  John 14:6 reads, “Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.”

Without the atonement we are lost.  We would all remain in a fallen state.  Always separated from our Heavenly Father.  Satan pushes the idea of independence on us so that we will not turn to God or to one another.  How dangerous it is to think we can do it alone.  How grateful I am for the struggles that have shown me this is a lie.

We are not meant to be independent.  We are meant to be interdependent.  To do all we can for ourselves and then turn to God and to each other.  We are told to "gather together oft" (Alma 6:6).  We are constantly asked to strengthen each other, to lift each other up. 

·       Mosiah 2:18 “Behold, ye have called me your king; and if I, whom ye call your king, do labor to serve you, then ought not ye to labor to serve one another?”

·       D&C 88:118 “And as all have not faith, seek ye diligently and teach one another”

Would we be told to serve and lift each other if God wanted everyone to “pull themselves up by their own boot straps?”

We are frequently prompted to turn to God, to ask for help.

·       Proverbs 3:5 “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.”

·       JST, Matthew 7:12 “Ask of God; ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.”

Would God tell us these things if He wanted us to become fully independent of Him?

We are meant to turn to each other and to God.  In my case, turning to God brought me further wisdom and more resources.  I was directed to therapy.  And to my bishop.  And to trusted friends.  Sometimes we don’t know the answer, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one.  Asking God doesn’t always mean He will give us the answer.  Sometimes He will direct us to the person who knows the answer.

And sometimes, even after all of this, I am still not happy.  Sometimes all of this still isn’t enough to fend off the darkness.

That brings me to lie number four, I should be happy all the time.

This is a world of sorrow.  Sad things happen.  Grief is important.  And sometimes biochemistry takes over.  Being sad in a moment, or for a few days, doesn’t mean I am doing something wrong.  It doesn’t mean I’m choosing poorly.  It might just mean this is my time to be sad.

The beautiful chapter of Ecclesiastes 3 (vs. 1) says there is a “time to every purpose under the heaven.”  Even, “A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”  There are times to be sad.

And sadness has led me to some of the most holy times of my life.  Sadness drew me to my Heavenly Father when my heart was breaking and I didn’t know how to go on.  Sadness drew me to the Savior and to partake of the Atonement as I learned to forgive others and myself.  And those times when I am able to visit with someone whose heart is breaking, who thinks their life is over, who sees no light through their dark world – those are some of the most holy times of all.  Sitting with a friend on my healing porch as her soul aches is a very sad time.  But it is also a very holy time.

Because sometimes it’s time to be sad.

I am not trying to discourage anyone from seeking happiness.  I am encouraging you to forgive yourself for being sad sometimes.

This is a tough world.  But it is also a holy place.  This world has a divine purpose and we have a divine purpose in it.

I am a happy person.  I have a wonderful life.  And even in those moments of darkness, there is peace because I know God is there.  I know He has a plan for me.  I know He loves me.  I know He knows me well enough to send exactly the right trials to strengthen me, to make me who I am meant to be.  I am grateful for depression and PTSD in my life.  They have taught me important lessons I wouldn’t have learned otherwise.  They have kept me connected to God.  And that is a holy place.

Your trials might not be the same as mine.  But you will have trials.  And I hope that no matter what they are, you will find a holy place within yourself to help you through them.  I hope they will bring you to God.  I hope you will allow them to change you and strengthen you.

And please remember verse five of the thirteenth psalm, “Joy cometh in the morning.”  The joy will come.

Letting People See My Scars

*** Warning: This post contains possible triggers for self-injurious behavior.  Do not read this if you are not safe. ***

I have a history of self-injurious behavior.  Self-injurious behavior is addictive.  If you don't/haven't self injured, it won't make sense to you.  It doesn't make sense in the logical part of my brain.  But my body remembers how good it made me feel and when I read or write about it my body begins to crave it.  Those who self injure understand.  That's why the warning is there.

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This post wasn't meant to be about self-injurious behavior (SI), but I guess it is.  I've written about hurting myself on my other blog (here, here, here, and here).  Read those if you want to understand it better.  What I haven't written is the post that really explains why I do it.  How it feels.  The high I get.  Why it's so compelling.  I'll write that some day, but not today.

This post is about revealing it.  Especially to my children.

Self-injurious behavior most often starts in the teen years.  Looking back, I definitely had some self-injurious behavior as a teen.  But nothing like what hit in my mid-thirties.

December 14, 2006.  I was thirty-six years old.  I was sitting in our white van outside my kids' elementary school.  I'd been on my way home from errands and decided just to park and wait there even though it was about an hour before school would be out.  And I was having a meltdown.  Everything was hitting at once.

I'd been in therapy for almost a year, so I was facing some pretty ugly and dark stuff for the first time.  I was five years into my struggle with chronic fatigue and a year into my struggle with my chronic headache -- both with lots of doctors, tests, and medication trials but no answers or improvement.  My husband and I were not good; we were discussing separation or divorce.  He'd recently chosen to have his name removed from the records of the church.  We were having financial problems and Christmas was right around the corner.  I'd had a difficult and confrontational conversation with my dad a few days before.  And I was on an anti-depressant that was making my depression so much worse.

I was losing it.  I saw the broken plastic spoon.  And I scratched.

This was the beginning of a long road of self-injurious behavior for me.  My arms are covered with scars, mostly very faded.  This was also the beginning of long sleeves.  In all sorts of weather, even coaching softball in the heat of the summer, I wore long sleeves.

Why?  At first it was because I was afraid of the reactions of others.  And because I didn't have the answers to the questions I knew would follow.  Later it was because I worried what it would do to my children.  How would I explain it to them?  I didn't want it to rob them of their childhoods because they were constantly worried about me hurting myself.  Or worse, killing myself.  (It's a common misconception that self-injurious behavior is a precursor to suicide.  That's rarely the case.  In my case, self-injurious behavior kept me from killing myself.)

But the time came when I was ready to tell them.  I was sick of living in long sleeves.  I was sick of hiding.  I was sick of feeling like I was lying to my kids.

I discussed it with my therapist and my ecclesiastical leader and my husband.  I told them I was ready.  We discussed possible fallout.  But I knew the time had come.

It was spring, 2009.  My oldest daughter was graduating high school.  We had a week-long graduation trip to California planned.  I would do it then.  That way they would have time to adjust before having to answer questions of friends who might see my arms.  And I could wear short sleeves on our trip.

My kids were 18, 16, 14, 12, and 10.  It was the right time.  The reveal went okay.  I answered questions.  I'd chosen to blame it mostly on the medication I was taking (which I think was what pushed me over the edge) and leave out so much of the ugly.  They didn't need to know all that.  I also told them I was done with it.  It had been a long time since I'd hurt myself.  I hoped that part was true more than I believed it was true.

Sometimes it comes up in our conversation.  I know they've struggled with it at times and had conversations about it I wasn't privy to.  I also know it's been used as a cool thing.  "Yeah, my mom was a cutter."  But it's mostly just part of who I am now.

And that was the end of constant long sleeves.  People don't really ask about my scars very often.  Medical personnel ask when I'm being seen for something.  Children sometimes ask (I usually just tell them my scars are from scratches).  Others either don't notice or are too polite or scared to ask.

I've relapsed a few times since then.  Each time, I've gone back to the long sleeves.  At least while the marks were fresh.  Mostly, so my kids don't start worrying again.

But since it's an addiction, it would be wrong to say I used to be a cutter.  I am a cutter.  I think it will always be a part of me.  An itch that occasionally hits me.  I work hard to stay in a healthy place so it doesn't happen again.  I wish I could say it never will.  But I can't.

These scars are me.  They are my triumph over something so dark and ugly that most people never experience and will never understand.  They saved my life.  And, honestly, I like them.

A Dark and Difficult Place

It can be tough to admit when I am not okay.  Right now I am not okay.  I am in a dark and difficult place and have been for quite some time.

So I am asking this from my heart.  If you read this and are a religious person, would you please offer a prayer in my behalf?  If you're not religious, maybe send some happy thoughts my way.  It would mean a lot to me.

PTSD and Me

I have a guest post up over at Real Intent about what my life is like with PTSD.  Please pop over and read it.  It's important.

When Your Heart Hurts

It's Valentine's Day, so I guess it's the right time to talk about my recent heart scare.  More frustrating than scary, but there's always an element of fear when you know you need to go to the emergency room.

It's safe to say that I've been in a period of high stress these last too weeks, primarily driven by a PTSD episode triggered by a book club discussion I shouldn't have attended.  Two weeks of fear, sobbing, pain, a desire to hide, a desire to hurt myself, an inability to care about or even notice obligations and people around me.  Walking through life like an automaton.  Going through the motions but often not being fully present.  Desperately waiting for my appointment with my therapist.

About a week into this, my chest started hurting.  Not terribly.  Not sharply.  But it hurt.  Being the pain foolish person I can sometimes be, I ignored it as best I could.  It didn't seem bad.  I didn't have time for this.  I was sure it was nothing.  But it was kind of always there.  Sometimes worse, sometimes better.

Until last Saturday.  The day started out well.  No big plans.  It was a relaxing day and my stress levels were pretty good.  I knew I would be seeing my therapist Monday; that was a relief.  My annual physical was also scheduled for Monday so I'd talk to the doctor about the chest pains then.

But no.  My body decided otherwise.  By the afternoon my chest was hurting so badly I could hardly do anything.  My hands were shaking so badly I couldn't write.  I looked up the symptoms of a heart attack and found several that kind of fit.  Plus, there's that whole scare factor of knowing my cousin had a major heart attack a couple years ago at age 55.  I'm 43 and not in the best of health.

So after getting several things prepped for my kids for the next few days in case I was in the hospital, I went to my husband and told him I needed to go to the ER.  I didn't think it was anything serious, but felt like it needed to be checked out.  He blinked a couple times, he'd been napping, and tried to process what I was telling him.  A few minutes later we headed out, telling the kids (ages 14-22) that we were running errands (yeah, we got in trouble with them for that later).

The ER was slow that day so I felt a bit too well attended.  (One of the reasons I didn't want to go to the ER is because I hate being the center of attention.)  As they questioned me and took my vitals, my husband checked me in.  My heart rate was 115 (usually in the 70s) and my blood pressure was 158/80 (usually about 110/60).  The blood pressure number scared me.  It's never even been close to that.

They get me back to a room.  Lots of people in and out asking questions.  Me feeling stupid, knowing it's going to turn out to be nothing.

They draw blood and start an IV (in my hand because they couldn't get the vein in my arm).  They put on a blood pressure cuff that runs automatically every so often.  They do an EKG.  They take a chest x-ray.  They think it's an anxiety attack (especially after noticing that I'm on anti-anxiety meds and seeing the scars on my arms).  They ask if I've been diagnosed with anxiety.  I haven't, but I have been diagnosed with PTSD, which I tell them.

But just in case, they give me four baby aspirin to chew and some nitroglycerin under my tongue.  Shortly thereafter I feel like my head is going to explode (a side effect of the nitro) and I'm going to throw up (possibly also a side effect of the nitro).  They give me something in my IV for the nausea.  By this point my heart rate had calmed down to a nice 76ish range and my blood pressure was back down to the 110/60 range.  The labs and x-ray are back and they look good.  They are getting ready to send me home.

And then I get cold and start shaking.  Bad.  One blanket.  Then my coat over me.  Then another blanket.  Then my husband's coat.  I'm still shaking uncontrollably.  Soon I'm roasting but still shaking.  We start peeling the coats and blankets off.  The shaking won't stop.  The nurse checks in.  My husband points out that I'm shaking.  I tell the nurse I'm not cold but can't stop shaking.  My heart rate has gone back up to the 112 range and my blood pressure is back up.  He says, "Hm" and goes to talk to the doctor.  I've now been shaking uncontrollably for about twenty minutes for no discernible reason (my muscles are hurting from all the shaking).  The nurse comes in and gives me a shot of Ativan through my IV (it's like Valium).  He waits a minute.  Still shaking.  He gives me another.  Still shaking.  He goes to talk to the doctor again.  About ten minutes later they come back, find me still shaking, and give me two more shots of Ativan (4 mgs. total now).  Boy, am I getting sleepy at this point.  Finally the shaking stops. 

All the test results are good. My heart rate and blood pressure are back down.  So it's time to send me home (although it's tough to walk now after all that Ativan).  The doctor still thinks it's anxiety.  Just in case, he sends me home with a prescription for Prilosec (in case it's acid reflux), an order for a stress test, and instructions to take an aspirin every day.

The PTSD got better after my extra-long therapy session.  Everything went well at my physical.  I did the stress test yesterday (the EKG looked good, but a cardiologist has to look at it and the images they took of the blood flow in my heart before we really know anything).

And my chest still hurts.  I should be relieved that they didn't find anything wrong with my heart.  I guess I am a bit.  But mostly I am frustrated and depressed.  I see all these expensive tests and still no answers or relief.  One more thing that hurts with no explanation.  Like I needed another one of those.

Just kind of BLAH

I'd love to write something deep today.  Something that will be life altering for you or for me.  But it's not going to happen.

I've got lots of incredibly wise topics to discuss.  I'm sure I'd have brilliant insights too.  But not now.

Today is BLAH.  Just there.  Today is.

My head hurts.  I've got blurry vision.  I'm dizzy.  I'm cranky.  And I'm still dealing with a rather severe PTSD episode.  Next time I'll listen when I'm told not to attend something I know could be dangerous for me.  At least I hope I will.

But for now I'll get out of bed.  Maybe even get dressed.  Try to find something I can stomach to eat.  Referee my teenagers who really need to get out and do something instead of sitting next to each other on the couch and arguing about who took who's spot and whose turn it is on the wii and why they don't have to share a pizza.

And then kick them all off and watch Groundhog Day.  Maybe twice.  Because it's Groundhog Day.

Seeing in the Dark

A couple of weeks ago my PTSD was triggered.  Enough that it was making my life difficult.  I was putting on a good front, but inside I was in turmoil.  There was intense fear, uncertainty, lack of direction, inability to communicate, and an overwhelming desire to hide.  My mind was obsessed with thoughts of an experience from my past.  It was trying to process things that still aren't clear.  And I was in a state of panic that I couldn't get out of.

I spent a couple of days in this state.  I tried to relax my mind and focus on other things.  I tried to distract myself out of it.  I tried various calming techniques, including meds.  But it wouldn't go away.

And in the back of my mind I kept thinking, "Maybe you should try to see this."

My word for the year is see.  While I did my best to define it in that post, there is more to it than I was able to say.  There is an element that can't be explained but is understood in my heart.

Finally, on the third day out, I decided I was ready to try.  But I didn't really know how.  When I'm trying to see a positive moment I try to be more present.  More in the moment so I can see and feel the things I was missing that I want to experience.

But the memory that triggered me was something I didn't want to be more present in.  It was something I didn't want to experience more.  How could I see it?

When I know I'm headed in the right direction but am not sure how to proceed, I pray.  I ask Him to help me see the next step.  Then, whether I understand or not, I take that next step.  It's worked beautifully for me many times throughout my life.  But I only ask if I am really willing to take the next step no matter what it is.  That's why it took me three days.  I wasn't ready until then.

This is a deep and powerful experience for me.  I will try to share it in a way that is honest but also respects the sanctity I feel about it.

I knelt in prayer and conversed with God.  I told Him I was afraid but was willing to see and know what I needed to in order to heal.  I opened my heart in willingness to learn more and take whatever step was directed.  I expressed my fear.  He expressed His love.

And I saw that past experience with new eyes.  With new understanding.  It only took a few moments with God to find the peace I'd longed for. 

It doesn't always work this way.  Often my prayers are one-way communication, usually due to my rushing and being disconnected.  Sometimes prayer after prayer seems to go unanswered.  Or I don't see the answer.  But other times I open my heart enough that we are truly together in conversation.  I pour out my heart and then He fills it.  This was one of those moments.

I was filled with calm.  I knew I was on the right path.  And he told me something I needed to hear, "Your role is so important."

I think that will get me through just about anything.

My Own Misbehavior

I wish I could say my husband was the only one who was abusive in our relationship.  With all my heart I wish I could say that.  But it's just not true.

Growing up I never fought back.  My abusers were always bigger and stronger and more powerful than me.  I didn't think there was anyone who could protect me.  I learned not to cry because it only angered my abusers more.  My best weapons of survival were to hide or acquiesce.  I did my best to stay out of sight.  When I couldn't do that I just tried to be quiet and do what they wanted me to do.  I became excellent at reading the emotions in the room so I could sometimes head off an attack by changing my behavior or leaving.

I promised myself I would never stay with a man who was abusive.  If he hit me, I was gone.  Physical abuse is easy to recognize and prove.  When I was pregnant with our first child my husband and I got into a heated argument.  I stepped in front of him to keep him from storming away.  He shoved me out of the way hard enough that I fell to the ground.  I let him go.  When things cooled off I told him if he ever did anything like that again I would leave.  He never did.

Physical abuse is a quick blow (or several).  Emotional abuse is slow torture.  It isn't usually evident to others.  But it eats your soul.

I had been unhappy with the way my husband treated me and the kids for a long time, but I didn't call it abuse.  I didn't recognize it for what it was.  Mostly because it was so familiar.  It was how I'd grown up.  I remember the moment I knew.  It was when I heard myself telling the children, "Please be as good as you can so daddy won't get mad."

What a horrific moment.  What an awful responsibility to dump on a child.  A responsibility that was in no way theirs.  That's when I started to search for a better way. 

Instead of trying to placate him I began standing up to him.  In the only way I knew how.  I yelled.  I demanded.  I criticized and name called.  I threatened.  I demeaned and mocked and shamed.  I'd only seen my mom stand up to my dad a few times and this was how she did it.  It was what my emotions were shouting at me to do.  My heart said protect the children, so I stood between them and the raging lion.  With a whip and a chair.

It would be years before I knew a better way.  And after he started to change it was a long time before I saw how awful I had been to him.  In defense or not, my actions had been emotionally abusive as well.  Neither of us knew how to deal with these things in an emotionally healthy way.

One or both of us has been in therapy now off and on for about six years.  We have generations of unhealthy behavior to unlearn.  We both have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder which means sometimes we are triggered and find ourselves back in those moments when we were powerless and terrified.  We are still working to get healthy and strong.  We still mess up.  We are still sometimes unkind to each other.  We still often see the other as an enemy and forget we're on the same team.

But we are so much better than we used to be.  I am proud of us for all the hard work and progress.  There are so many horrible things we experienced as children that we were able to protect our own kids from.  So many emotional battles we've fought so they won't have to.

We're cleaning up the line as best we can.  Breaking the chains that bound us.

Avoiding the News

Today is one of those days.  It's one of those days when I just can't watch or listen to or read the news.  I'll need to go without news for a day or two.

I've spent the morning listening to news of the shooting in Aurora, Colorado.  It's gut wrenching.  Heart breaking.  Horrific.  It's making me sick.  So I have to stop for a bit.

As a general rule I watch the national news every night.  I download it and watch it on my computer.  I usually play solitaire or something while I half watch it.  The reason I do it this way is because too often there are things shown on the news that I just can't stomach.  When I can tell a story like that is coming, like Syria, I maximize the game window.  I still get informed, but those images aren't burned into my brain.

Some days that's enough.  Listening but not watching.  Getting the info but not the images.

But not on days like today.

I've been kind of a news junkie since high school.  I remember spending hours watching news stories unfold as more information came in.  All day long checking in, waiting to get the whole story.  Sometimes it took many days.

I just can't do that anymore.  It's not that I don't have the time or the access.  I don't have the stomach.  I just can't take it.

Today I am heart-sick thinking of the families involved, those still struggling for their lives in hospitals, those who were in the theater who will deal with post-traumatic stress for years, and all of the people trying to make sense of it.  Which is impossible.  It was senseless.

My heart and prayers are with anyone touched by this event.  May they find strength, peace, and comfort.  I pray that the goodness of people will shine through rather than the ugly.  I pray that it will unite rather than divide.  I pray that we will all heal.  And I know it will take time.

Post-it Note Therapy

I almost cancelled.  I wanted desperately to cancel.  How could I go to therapy if I couldn't speak?

It's not that I had laryngitis or bronchitis or any kind of injury or illness that affected my voice.  I just couldn't make myself open my mouth and say the things that were in my heart.

But I didn't cancel.  I went.  I trust my therapist.  And I knew that isolating myself and shutting down wasn't the healthy answer.  Even though it was a tactic I'd used many times in the past, I knew I had to push through.

I cried off and on all morning before I went.  I was able to pull myself together enough to seem okay with my kids.  I even did okay signing in at the therapist's office.

The secretary handled the money, scheduled a new appointment, and handed me the questionnaire.  That wonderful, glorious, dreaded, silly series of questions that is somehow supposed to tell my therapist how I'm doing and if I'm making progress.  I looked at it and laughed inside, knowing I could make it say whatever I wanted.  Knowing I could present a happy, healthy front and fake my way through the session.  And knowing that I just couldn't play the game that day.

My therapist came to the waiting room and greeted me.  As we walked back to his office, he reached for my paper.  I handed it to him.  He looked at it and said, "It's blank."  And I answered, "I just couldn't do it."

He said, "Okay," and we continued to his office.  He said he was going to get a drink of water and offered me one (no, thank you).  He also asked if I'd like to fill out the questionnaire now.  I said, "No," in no uncertain terms.  He said, "Okay.  I get no," and left to get his water.

He returned to find me sitting on the floor, with my knees pulled up to my chest.  He closed the door and commented on the fact that I was sitting on the floor.  I said that sometimes I just need to sit on the floor.

He said that was fine and commented that I seemed upset.  I didn't respond.  He asked what I'd like to work on today.  I started crying.

I cried and cried.  I held my face in my hands and cried.  I wanted to speak.  I tried to speak.  But I couldn't.

He waited.

After about five minutes of me just crying and not being able to say anything he said that it was okay to just sit and cry.  That was valuable therapy time, too.  That I didn't have to talk in order to heal.

I continued to cry and be silent.  Inside, I was screaming.  I had so many things I wanted to talk about, why couldn't I open my mouth and speak?

He asked if it would be okay to ask some questions.  I said it would.  He asked why I was sitting on the floor.  I thought for a minute.  All I could come up with was, "It's less effort" and "It's safer."  He asked if I felt unsafe.  I said I didn't know, it's just what came to mind.

More long minutes of silence, except for my crying.

Eventually I was able to ask for a post-it note.  I took out my pen and wrote:
"I'm just so sad and I don't understand why."

Through great effort, I gave him the note.  He read it.  And he said, "Sometimes it's good to be sad with someone else, to not be sad alone."  And I cried more.  So much of my sadness is experienced alone.  Seldom does someone offer to be with me while I am sad.  Especially without trying to make me not be sad.

He asked if times like this, when I am so sad, are when I want to hurt myself.  I acknowledged that I had thought about it, but I hadn't done so.  Except that I had stopped eating.  He reminded me that not eating is a form of self-injury.  And he praised me for not cutting (or scratching, in my case).

Over the course of the hour I was able to give him three more post-it notes:

  *  "There are a thousand things running around in my brain.  I don't understand why I can't say any of them." -- He said that when the time is right, if they need to be said, they will come out.

  *  "No matter how hard I work or how much progress I make, I feel like there will always be this underlying sadness and loneliness." -- He said it wouldn't be like this forever.  We could take it from a 9 to a 3 or from a 7 to a 1.  But he also said that he hoped I wouldn't ever lose it completely or I would lose my ability to empathize with others; I wouldn't be able to help others through my blog like I can now.

  *  "I am fighting a battle on so many fronts in my life so much of the time.  I am just so tired of fighting; sometimes I just want to quit." -- He said it's okay to take a break.  I need to allow myself to take time off.  I need to give myself permission for self-care.  This is just a break.

"It's okay to take a break; it's not okay to hurt yourself."  As he said this, I felt strengthened.

In the hour I spent with him, there may have been five minutes of talking.  I probably spoke under a minute.  And I cried the whole time.

But I'm glad I went.  It was valuable therapy.  It was nice to have someone really see my pain and validate it.  It was nice to have someone sit with me as I cried.

As I prepared to leave he asked what the goal was (meaning what I would work on until I saw him again).  I said, "Don't hurt myself."  And he agreed.

I am somewhat better now, although the sadness and loneliness is just under the surface.  I still cry quite easily.  But since then I've been able to communicate a little with a couple of people and I've gotten back on my regimen.

And I haven't hurt myself.

Smartly Essay -- Adrenaline

I have a new essay up over at Smartly today.  It's an attempt to describe a panic attack, what it feels like when adrenaline takes hostages.

An Update

Thank you for all the kind expressions of concern and support.  It was very sweet and touched my heart.

I got triggered over the holiday.  Multiple times.  By different people.

I have kind of lost my sense of self recently, my self-definition.  I regressed to letting others define me.  To feeling like I am worth less because others didn't approve.  Because I didn't measure up.

It was a gradual thing, so I didn't really notice it until it had gotten pretty bad.  I was isolating myself.  I was unable to write.  I was no longer talking to people in any meaningful way.  I was not leaving my house unless absolutely required.  For over a month.

I felt like I was disappearing. 

And then the holidays hit.  There were some really good things which I'd hoped to write about.  But then there were a couple of situations that sent me back in time.  I was not self-assured.  I had no power.  My boundaries were difficult to maintain.  I didn't feel like a whole person.  And my anxiety began to climb.

I didn't understand what was happening.  I couldn't pin it down to just one incident.  Or even to just one person.

But I was suddenly full of fear.  Paralyzed with fear.  Always on the verge of tears.  Several sobbing fits with so much emotional pain.  And I didn't understand where it was coming from.  For a couple of weeks.

On the bright side, I made it through the worst of it without injuring myself.  That's progress.  And I found a way to stand up for myself once I figured out one of the problems.

It's not gone.  I'm not through it.  Sudden waves of fear and/or anxiety still happen.  But I am making progress.  Understanding that it is PTSD because I was triggered helps.  Even though I don't know the specific cause, I do have coping strategies -- healthy ones -- to deal with it.

So right now I am trying to pull it together.  To figure it out.  But at least I am finally able to write.  That alone makes me feel like I might be real.