The Joy of PTSD

In speaking with a new therapist this week, (Remember? I’m too fucked up for short term therapy and had to switch to a new therp for the long haul.) I realized that being a military wife aided the violence. Due to our frequent PCSs, we constantly moved; changed cities, changed states, changed countries...8 moves in 16 years of marriage. I checked because I didn’t think that was possible but yes! 8 moves in 16 years. Sometimes we moved because the Beast had so worn out his welcome with his unit, he had to seek an assignment elsewhere. He wasn’t just an ass to me; his assholiness knew no boundaries. Moving so frequently meant we couldn’t establish close friendships. There was no one to bear witness to the culture of our household or to do anything about it. Rarely did we live near family. We didn’t associate with anyone other than church members who thoughtfully looked the other way and his co-workers. As is the case, when I was allowed to work or go to school outside the home, I was not allowed friends. They would distract from the very important business of taking care of Beast, the children, and the home. Our gypsy life maintained our abusive relationship.

The abuse went unchecked for over a decade. In that time of broken bones and torn flesh, I was more concerned with a broken soul. Thanks to the Joy of PTSD, there were many times when I couldn’t feel, literally couldn’t feel any emotions at all. Without that escape, Beast would have broken me. Apathy and humour; never underestimate the power of laughter. One ghastly time, I can’t remember if I’ve written about it here, but who cares? I’ll lay it bare again, open to the daylight. One time, Beast was sitting on me, straddling my abdomen and chest making breathing labored. I was panicking at the thought of losing consciousness, not so much from fear of the lack of oxygen as fear of the sexual assault that would follow should I be rendered helpless. Anyway, picture it:  Beast, full weight pinning me to the Pergo floor below, me, gasping for breath.  Beast then lifted my head with a thick hand on each side and began to systematically bang it onto the floor. I gave over then. Always at a point in his assaults,  my physical body couldn’t take anymore. I liken it to assault victims that say they feel themselves floating away, watching the event from up high. I let myself forget the difficulty breathing and fell into the blinding pain and rhythmic thumping of the back of my head on the floorboards. Not aware, I began counting. Seeing my lips moving, Beast leaned in closer because the sound of my voice begging was an aphrodisiac to him. Instead what Beast heard was, “One potato, two potato, three potato, four....” over and over in time to the head bashing.  I laughed at the absurdity of the scenario, a grown man sitting on top of his wife banging her head into the floor.  Where my tears had fueled his fire, my laughter doused it completely. That day I learned the antidote to his abuse.  I remembered that lesson and returned to it again and again until the day I was strong enough to leave for good.



Happy SAD!

Happy Single Awareness Day!

This morning, I'm thinking of all my beautiful, strong girlfriends!  Today is a GREAT day to remember all of the people who truly love you - your mom & dad, sisters, girlfriends....  We are strong, independent women!  Today, we love ourselves.

PTSD is My Bitch

PTSD is growing increasingly common in our society. That one statement speaks loudly enough about the true state of our Union. The National Institute of Mental Health estimates that approximately 7.7 million American adults age 18 and older have PTSD.  A study conducted in the early '90s, The National Comorbidity Survey estimated the lifetime prevalence of PTSD in adults to be 7.8%. When the figures were broken down along the sexes, the average for females was 10.4% twice that of the male rate of 5%. Those surveyed reported experiencing four or more traumatic events in their lifetimes. The most frequently reported traumatic events included witnessing the death or injury of another person, involvement in a natural disaster, personal involvement in a life-threatening accident, and military combat. Other traumatic events reported included rape, childhood neglect and physical abuse, sexual molestation, and assault.

In the first list, the events were traumatic, life altering, one-time occurrences. Hurricane Katrina. The Battle of Fallujah. A violent rape. The Mayo Clinic defines PTSD as “a type of anxiety disorder triggered by a traumatic event….when you experience or witness an event that causes intense fear, helplessness or horror.” http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/post-traumatic-stress-disorder/DS00246

And this is why I love Wiki…..
Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD) is a psychological injury that results from protracted social and/or interpersonal trauma with lack or loss of control, disempowerment, and in the context of either captivity or entrapment, i.e. the lack of a viable escape route for the victim. C-PTSD is distinct from, but similar to, PTSD. The category is not formally recognized in diagnostic systems such as DSM or ICD. Forms of trauma include sexual abuse (especially child sexual abuse, physical abuse, emotional abuse, domestic violence and/or torture. (I added the “and/or” because I’ve found in DV, those options weren’t an “or” thing. They all went hand-in-hand. The only difference was who was partnering up on which day.) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Complex_post-traumatic_stress_disorder

PTSD is "a normal reaction to abnormal events." The nightmares, cold sweats, flashbacks – those are all the reactions of a normal person to abnormal circumstances. Remember, NO reaction is a little bit questionable. Think I’m wrong? Imagine a spy movie where the captured agent does not respond to water boarding. Now that’s abnormal. Some therapists have described PTSD as being difficult to diagnose. There are new ‘brain signal tests’ among other differential testing options that I won’t bore you with here. Quite simply, if it quacks like a duck, it’s probably a duck. I remember how viciously I fought this diagnosis. Some people believe PTSD is an excuse for the weak and the simple minded. “If only you would just put it out of your mind….Why can’t you stop thinking about it?....When are you going to forget about it?” I have neither the time nor energy to discuss those people and suggest if you encounter them, wish them a very warm, "Go Fuck Yourself" and move on.

There was a Zen moment in finally giving in to the diagnosis and letting go. Like living with PTSD, accepting the diagnosis is a submersion, a baptism into the cult of the walking wounded. Submersion is a good word for it. Remember the black, alien goo from Spiderman? Okay, yes, I’ll admit it; its name is Venom, okay? He’s like the Bizarro Spiderman. I’m an unapologetic comic book geek. Moving on….If any of you are geeks too, you’ll remember the insidious, slow seepage over everything it touches.

Thesaurus.com yielded a treasure of synonyms for drowning: asphyxiate, deluge, douse, drench, engulf, flood, immerse, inundate, obliterate, overcome, overpower, overwhelm, prostrate, sink, stifle, suffocate, swamp, whelm, wipe out, and my personal favorite – to submerge and die. No sugarcoating! Drown is a verb, an action, and so is PTSD. At first, the startle reflexes at the sound of car doors are slight. Then they join with other ambient sounds to create a heart thumping cacophony in your veins that threatens to drag you down. Eventually, there has to be a joining with the creature or you will surely drown and die. Acceptance of your “new normal” slowly illuminates the cracks in the Venom and allows light to shine in. Or maybe it allows some of your light to finally trickle out once again.

Name the alien and own it. Remaining fearful and in the shadows allows it to engulf you.

Little Miss Freakin' Sunshine!

Hey!  Here's a novel thought.  Let's not focus on damaged, bruised souls today.  I had a completely awesome, fantastic Tuesday.  Tuesdays are inherently evil as they are His dinner dates with the kids.  Rush from work, take specific kid to therapy, rush to police station, and exchange children for dinner visit.  Waste time for two hours, back to police station, collect kids, rush home, homework, late bedtime for kids, complete exhaustion for mom.  I know!  Sounds fun, right?  The Custody Hustle.  But yesterday, I was in my groove the entire day, all through the evening.  Shout out to Panera's Bread for the *FREE* Valentine's sugar cookie.  Eatin' it for breakfast, Y'all Rock!  So to honor my inner Leslie Knope (God, I love her.  She's who I used to be in my naive, pre-abuse, pre-all that other horrid shit state) we're going to keep on the theme of totally good Karma and channel the greatest girlfriend of all time. 

I very proudly share with you America's BFF, Vicki Iovine.  She's completely awesome and light years ahead in the relationship/mommy curve.  She forged the way for me, and countless, clueless others, through pregnancy and stretch marks, breastfeeding, the terrible twos, potty training, puberty, and beyond!  Lately, she has navigated the murky road to recovery from divorce and leaving a long-term partner. Thankfully, her ex was not the violent ass most of us here had the pleasure of leaving, but we can still benefit from her wit and wisdom and unabashed ability to share fully of herself.  After all, at it's core, divorce is a loss and universal regardless of circumstance. 

From Vicki's Girlfriend's Guide:  The Ten Biggest Misconceptions About Divorce

http://www.girlfriendsguide.com/site/?p=300#more-300

(P.S.  #10 is the reason why she is my "Girlfriend" and I love her!)

Beautifully Broken

She's so beautifully broken

Shaped by the wind

Dangerously twisted

Here I go again

Lyrics courtesy of Gov't Mule

Taking a cue from the Brit Brits and Xtinas, even an Ashlee was in on the act, "I'm beautifully broken and I don't mind if you know it.  I'm beautifully broken and I don't care if I show it," those of us so "beautifully broken" use the phrase to describe the horror we have seen and have survived.  Google the term and 735,000 results appear, but Google the definition and you'll find only 58,000 results.  Know why?  The term is simply a euphamism for a hideously mangled, emotionally disfigured, tortured soul.  Beautifully broken?  Fuck no!  What you are is quite simply - Fucked Up.  FUBAR, my dear, in the truest, purest sense. 

As with all things, there is a time and a place for it.  In the beginning, you may need to consider yourself beautifully broken, a fragile spirit, an angel with clipped wings.  Do it.  Love yourself.  Protect yourself.  But at some point, the victim needs to shed her broken, old self and rebuild.  Maybe he did break you.  But never, ever forget you are still alive and where there is life there is hope.  Shed the damaged, broken image.  Replace it with a tangible one.  Think of your grandmother's china, mine had that ruby red, Depression Era glass she would use to serve the grandkids Jell-O.  Find a tangible, breakable image of an item of worth to you and consider all you would do to repair it if it were broken.  Then find your emotional Super Glue.  If Grandma's china or Depression Era glass is worth gluing back together then isn't Grandma's granddaughter worthy of the same treatment?  Sure, there will be visible cracks and maybe even a few pieces missing, but how precious is that china after being lovingly restored? 

You OWE it to yourself to stop the "beautifully broken" thinking today (if you're ready, Ladies) and replace it with your own personal vision of a strong self.  If you cannot envision yourself stronger, borrow the image.  I'll share mine, but of course, those of you who know me, already know my strong, powerful mentor is the awesome Ms. WW, Princess Diana, the Amazing Wonder Woman herself.  Hell, pick Margaret Thatcher if that does it for you or even Michelle Obama, but I'd lean more towards Hilary even though her name is kinda weak.  She does exude awesomeness and does have a shitty husband, all the more for us to relate.  Pick your persona and imitate, imitate, imitate until it becomes innate for you. 

Here's a poem to get you started taken from The Experience Project:

I Am a Strong Woman and I Will Not Apologize For It

A truly strong woman is a force that is so very dynamic.

A woman whose strength comes natural and is somewhat majestic.

It is an innate inclination, impulse and drive.

She loves and accepts herself completely, knows shes not perfect,yet and still she strives,

Strong women need strong men, strong men feel strong women is what they're made for.

It seems fitting to see word of mouth reveal that muscle in true form weighs so much more.

Some men need a woman weaker than they.

So they can partake in a staged 'save the day'

There is no courage no strength and no valor in that.

If you ask me, I say that ***** pretty wack.

A real woman needs a real man to stand up and say

"I'm attracted to your strength, it's a challenge to me

A chance for me to show you and I both how strong I can be."

A man's strength is not defined by his ability to control.

Nor his ability to dictate, write, or moderate a show.

If youre looking for the definition of a strong man go back a few lines.

An individual's strength is defined the same way across gender lines.

For one to be strong enough to hold another.

Support must be given, much more than a lover.

Its constant giving of your self but by giving, receiving

And the security from knowledge that neither is leaving

Because both forces are required for each individuals breathing

Therefore neither would cause the other's heart grieving.

I am a strong woman and I will not apologize for it.

Some men gain superficial strength and revel in a womans pain

Like a childhood bully playing elementary school games.

He gains false esteem from a woman who is stregnthless

As if her inability to move were an indication of his greatness.

I am a strong woman and I will not apologize for it.

I know admission to my heart and emotions is a prize.

A man must treasure it while he has it because he'll lose it with lies.

A strong woman can bear all the strife in the world,

But will only choose to do so for a man who'd never imply she could would or should.

I am a strong woman and I will not apologize for it.

A strong woman is no more in control of how she feels than anyone else;

She's merely choosy, for she knows completely the full value of her self.

She is not foolish, nor unintelligent, unreasonable, short-sighted or vain.

She recognizes clear fault lines, indicating inability to bear substantial strain.

If giving of herself, her emotions and heart proves to be painful more often than not

And all that she is, is more than he can hold compounded with lack of appreciation for the all that he's got

Then here lies the choice to cross a line that divides many women

You see, some women would simply stay and keep right on giving.

Some might even confuse their choice to endure sustained pain

With strength, courage or love, but that's really a shame.

Because its the woman who has love of self paired with strength and courage deep in her being

That is able to stand and walk away so securely, its almost as if Gods given her a higher level of seeing.

She is able to see for her self, that she must pull it all right back in;

Her heart, love, emotions, yes all that she has given.

I am a strong woman and I will not apologize for it.

The strong woman is not bitter, not angry or scorned.

She mearly yields to her wisdom as if shes been warned.

She does not blame anyone and is grateful for the love that she shared.

She is comfortable on her own, she need not be paired.

She knows that what she wants, needs, desires and deserves

Exists somewhere, and until it finds her she'll take what life serves.

I am a strong woman and I will not apologize for it.

This poem is found here:
http://www.experienceproject.com/stories/Wrote-A-Poem/463277

The Codependency Tango

Usually when I leave my therapist's office, I feel lighter and brighter and definitely more hopeful.  This week, I learned I'm more damaged than I had originally believed.  My life is a veritable smorgasbord of psychotherapy from which to pick and chose.  I'm certain a good social worker or psychotherapist will want to select one diagnosis or painful experience and start with that.  That's fine for organized therapy, but for me, I'd like to work on the problems as they pop up and affect my life.  For example, right now, I'm starving and my choices are left over Swedish Christmas cookies or chili lime almonds.  NOT a happy camper! 

In my head, I picture my issues as one of my kids' long ago, infant, pop-up toys, bump a button and a random toy pops up.  So it is with my problems, a random mental jostling, a scent, a sound, and my issues burst forth unbidden.  Lately my pop-ups have been, in no particular order:  PTSD, co-dependence, and lack of self esteem.  As my PTSD is remaining mostly in check:  nightmares and startle reflexes few, I've been researching co-dependency (still pisses me off!) and self esteem.  There are a lot of theorists who link low self esteem to issues that occurred in childhood.  Let me share the following quote so you can see where I am going with this.

"This dance of Codependence is a dance of dysfunctional relationships - of relationships that do not work to meet our needs.  That does not mean just romantic relationships, or family relationships, or even human relationships in general.  The fact that dysfunction exists in our romantic, family, and human relationships is a symptom of the dysfunction that exists in our relationship with life - with being human.  It is a symptom of the dysfunction which exists in our relationships with ourselves as human beings." - Codependence: The Dance of Wounded Souls by Robert Burney

It would seem that Burney is saying codependencey begins with our dysfunctional relationships with ourselves, in other words, seeing ourselves poorly or low self esteem.  Feeling that we are unlovable in our primary relationships and more importantly, unlovable to our very selves sets the stage for codependency in our relationships with all others.  Burney's theory for treating codependency is largely one of healing your inner child.  Now don't shake your head just yet.  I was right there with you doing the  Daily Affirmation With Stuart Smalley, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggonit, people like me!" (Don't forget the lisp; it's just not the same without it!)  The more I read, the more I'm coming to believe there may be something to this "inner child" bullshit.

"In order to start being in the moment in a healthy, age-appropriate way it is necessary to heal our "inner child." The inner child we need to heal is actually our "inner children" who have been running our lives because we have been unconsciously reacting to life out of the emotional wounds and attitudes, the old tapes, of our childhoods." Robert Burney

I'm certainly not advocating one particular method of therapy and I am definitely NOT taking a one-size-fits-all view of treatment for abuse victims.  We all need to come to our own healing in our own time.  We may find that healing in a textbook or by talking to a friend.  Whatever form it takes, it is innately personal and individualized.  My goal is to share what works for me and to allow you to share my journey.  In this way, I am not alone.  And neither are you. 

We'll chat more about the ridiculous but strangely therapeutic loving your inner little girl tomorrow.  Till then, if you need me, leave a comment.

The Best Advice I Didn't Take

*Update*  Fuck the co-dependant shit.  He was a diagnosed psychopath and narcissistic personality disordered monster.  I wasn't co-dependent; I was a hostage.

I research a thing to death.  If I can define it, I can control it or so I like to believe.  For many years, I wouldn't give a name to the events occurring within my marriage.  I would not call it "abuse" or "domestic violence" or "assault".  To do so would open up the possibility that I was a victim in the situation, a condition I could not bear to acknowledge.  Being afraid to give a name to what was happening prevented me from finding my voice and finding a "cure".  Even worse, failing to acknowledge the hideous damage done to me prevented me from seeing that the friend I leaned on for comfort and support would eventually reveal himself to be more of the same.  How does the children's song go, "Second verse, same as the first, a little bit louder and a little bit worse"? 

I allowed my issues, the co-dependency and the absolutely crippling lack of self-esteem blind me into believing I could not leave my dangerous marriage by myself, could not take care of myself.  Raised in an extremely patriarchal culture, I believed if I was simply a good enough wife and good enough mother, I was good enough and my husband would take care of me.  Well, if by take care of you mean rape and batter, then I was definitely well taken care of. 

I've attached a link, an eHow guide to rebuilding your life after domestic violence.  The instructions seem deceptively simple.  Do not disregard.  They are true and work if followed.  Today, I will reapply the instructions and get back on the path to recovery.  http://www.ehow.com/how_2310911_build-life-after-experiencing-domestic.html

Today, I will tell myself:

• I am proud of all I have accomplished.
• I am my own best friend.
• I love and forgive myself for all past mistakes.
• I recognize my many strengths and acknowledge the existence of ones I've yet to discover.

Today, you will, too. 

"I am so buying this mug."  --Betty aka Wonder Woman