Thursday, July 21, 2016

poverty mind...again

Ever have one of those days when you feel like everything you touch turns to sh*t? I certainly had a mega-sh*t day. I "know" it wasn't a total disaster, but it feels like it...the feeling is stronger than the knowledge. I "know" this was fired up by my Poverty Mind...today I had to make a payment for braces...f'ing braces at 45. Throw a flat tire on top of that to start the day, and I emotionally couldn't adult today.

I grew up hearing "we can't afford that." That was my mother's answer to everything. 
Can I have a toothbrush?
Can I go to a concert?
Can I go to the dentist (BEFORE I have an abscessed tooth)?
I think I broke my ankle, can I go to the Dr?
Can we get some bananas?

Nope. But mom can have her cigarettes, and dad can have his booze. 

Message: You aren't worth anything...in fact you are a burden.

And that's where my head is today. I know better...dang it, I know better. 

Maybe tomorrow I will know better, and feel better. 


Tuesday, July 19, 2016

Fight, Flight, or Fight

Fight, flight, or freeze.

I like to think of myself as a bad-ass. I have a black belt, I've been in many fights (with men bigger than me), I ride a motorcycle, and hey; I throw cabers. I should respond to perceived danger with a Fight response, right??? I can't tell you how many times I've told myself this, because the number is really impossible to judge...thousands, hundreds of thousands...millions... The truth is, I "know" better than to berate myself, but I do it anyway. My higher brain knows better, but part of me that was traumatized, and that was told in so many ways by so many people that it was always her fault, that she was the "wrong" one...she can't listen to logic...she can't believe logic.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

I had my black belt in Tae Kwon Do. I was strong as hell. I was an adult, and I was never going to let anyone violate me again.  I looked him in the eye and told him "no." But then he was on top of me and I froze. i couldn't breath. i couldn't speak. i couldn't move. It was my fault, I should have fought...

Fight, flight, or freeze.

These are the ways our nervous system responds to danger. We don't get to choose. To a small degree our predisposition determines how we will respond, and to a greater degree our early experiences of sense of safety, trauma, and support (or lacks there of) determine which mode we will default to. We can predict who will develop PTSD, and who won't based on a person's perception (and actual) current internal and external resources, as well as that's person's belief that they can utilize and rely on those resources...which has a ton to do with the previously mentioned factors. As a trauma therapist I know this. And yet, I don't always feel it, I don't always own it, I don't always KNOW it... I have gotten better over the years...therapy, lots of therapy. Being in positive relationships (not just romantic). Learning to trust myself in small ways, that don't seem to have anything to do with all of this stuff. Loving myself and others. Finding and recognizing my strengths.

Fight, flight, or freeze.

Over the years I've had therapists try to tell me that if I'd fought back, he probably would have killed me. They were attempting to help me not be so hard on myself. But he wasn't that kind of guy, and their attempts were more annoying than helpful. I wasn't protecting myself from a horrendous beating, or murder when I froze that morning. I was doing what my nervous system had been programmed to do years before when I was (like a fawn) truly helpless: I froze. The nervous system is an amazing thing. It keeps us breathing without thinking about it, it can block out the billions of bits of information that our sensory system is taking in so we can focus in on what is "important", it develops automatic responses to various stimuli, including danger so that we can deal with it without thinking about it.

I have been working on re-writing my programming for a loooong time. Sometimes I think I have the cracked the code, sometimes I think it's hopeless. It's been a long spell of being in the Hopeless mode, but this whole finding my voice thing seems to be shaking things up. I can't always speak up for myself, but I can speak up for others. I can't always act in the moment, but I can muster up the courage to deal with some things later.

I'm starting to thaw. I'm starting to fight. Or maybe I have been fighting, I just didn't KNOW it until now.

(There are many cultures that believe that there is power in knowing/saying someone's name. I can speak now. I speak your name, Jeff H. I reclaim my power from you.)

Saturday, July 16, 2016

To live fiercely

Today would have been my father's 81st birthday. This is the 24th birthday that has passed since his death, and perhaps the first that I wasn't punched in the gut with sadness. That's not to say that I don't miss my dad...maybe it's just taken me this long to get used to the fact that he is gone.

Which brings me to the subject of WHY he is gone. My dad died from cirrhosis of the liver. A fate that I consider myself lucky to have not shared...although I'm pretty sure I would have committed suicide LONG before I got that chance to develop cirrhosis had I not stopped drinking.

I've written about mine and my father's alcoholism over the years, but I don't think I've written about our shared social dysphoria. My dad really didn't talk much about his younger years, but one of the stories that he did share was of how he was  incredibly shy and self conscious about his appearance, but when he drank that melted away a bit and he could be one of the guys. Like my father, I was shy...I can remember being 4 years old and being so anxious around people outside of the family it was practically physically painful. I can't say that alcohol made me feel like everyone else, but it did make me feel Powerful. I still felt vulnerable, shy, but at least I FELT like I had some armor...like maybe I could survive this weird thing called life, especially early on...I remember being 7, searching for my dad's stash...knowing that if I could just have a drink it would quiet the horrors of life...

But as time went on, sometimes that incredible Anger-Armor was equaled in intensity by Hopelessness. I am convinced that only divine intervention saved me from suicide...a few times. Alcohol was a fickle friend...I never knew which direction it would take me...and my dad's death wasn't enough to convince me to quit drinking; I had to find sobriety through my face-plants along the road.

I wonder what my life would have been like had my father found recovery...had he found another way to deal with his own insecurities...had he been able to conquer the physical addiction. Would I be better or worse off? Would I have left ND? Would I have found my own path to recovery? How much longer would I have had him in my life? Honestly, I don't spend a lot of time thinking about these things, but his birth and death anniversaries are always a reminder of these things.

I have made peace with his death. And more importantly, I've made peace with his life choices. I miss my father, and over the years the good memories have become stronger than the not-so-good. I regret that we didn't have time to make more good memories, that I wasn't able to learn more from my dad, but I cherish what I do have. Today is also a reminder to cherish my own life...my own recovery. I chose a different path...sometimes rough, sometimes smooth. Sometimes ugly, sometimes breath-taking.

Maybe this year I can celebrate my father's birthday by living my life fiercely...for me, for him...for everyone who cares about me. A fierce life, where I don't let fear and insecurity rule my thoughts, decisions, and actions. Yeah, I dig it.

Endings and Beginnings

Yesterday I finished up the last ever labs for the schooling I'm in. I still have a written final coming up in a few days to finish up the semester, but I'm done. Emotionally, mentally, I'm just done. I still have a semester's worth of internships to complete, followed by a licensing exam...and then I start the next chapter of my life. A new career at 45...yet ANOTHER career in a long line of careers...and I'm a little afraid...

Fear number 1: Will I hate this? I haven't had a good track record with "job satisfaction" in a long time. Granted I've had some very stressful work situations, usually due to mentally unstable co-workers...still it's been a long time since I can say I loved a job. I really want to love this new career...and I'm really tired of being told in so many words what a loser I am because I can't seem to hold a single job for more than 2 years. I've done my damnedest to tolerate bad jobs/situation, but I don't have the...emotional fortitude to hang when things get hellish. I can only tolerate so much stress and anxiety.

Fear number 2: Will I physically be able to do this? Granted my recent internship was probably a bit atypical, but a few weeks later my hands are still in horrible shape...my fingers hurt all the time. Will I be able to handle whatever a "typical" setting will be? And will the autoimmune crap allow me to put in 40 hours a week...will I be able to function outside of work, or will I fall ill for a couple weeks every couple of months?

Fear number 3: Will I emotionally be able to do this...will just the general anxieties about failure sabotage me? Will being back in a service role drain me to my core, again? Will my PTSD continue to keep me so overwhelmed that I can't function in a full time job, where I have to be "on" at all times? Hell, I can't handle being at the farmer's market if there are too many people without losing my shit...will I be able to handle being at a busy clinic all day?

Fortunately, my next 2 internships will give me different experience so that I can answer these questions a little better. Seven weeks each...I just have to survive 7 weeks each. I've been in a fairly busy clinic where I saw a LOT of patients...had I not had to deal with open discussions of religious and political natures it would have been a much more tolerable site. More will be revealed...

In the mean time I need to focus on what my strengths are, what it is I will be bringing...or want to bring to the table. I have to think about the boundaries I need to set and the self care I need to do. Oh that self care...that is a tough one. One big thing I need to stop doing is isolating...over the winter I became acutely aware of how much worse I felt mentally and emotionally when I isolated...so it will be imperative to find the balance of introvert-alone-time, and social outlets. I also need to get out and "do" more things...and less staring at the computer or hiding in a book. And, to continue the theme of the summer, I need to continue to find/use my voice. I've got some pretty awesome people in my life right now and it's imperative that I show them the respect of engaging with them...I often wonder how many awesome friendships I've missed out on because I hid behind my silence and secrecy. Enough of that crap...they're all going to hear my silly stories, bad jokes, fears, embarrassing moments, and obsessions with Kinseo Tape.

Sunday, July 10, 2016

Turning the Tides

I've gone through a number of writing-spurts on this blog, with an equal number of purposes. These days it's about tbi therapy, sharing my crazy stories, and trying to make this a better/safer world through understanding/love/strength/encouragement...by finding my own voice and encouraging others who recognize that silence is...killing us to find their voices as well. It was Br*ck Turner's "victim's" letter** that really sent me over the edge of rage that got me to start this crazy journey...I used "" because she is so much more than a victim...I don't really know what to call her...except My Hero. As painful as it was to read her letter, her courage in facing him, and letting her own words be heard shock this country to it's core. It pissed us off, it made is cry, it triggered us, it opened our eyes, it enraged us enough for her that we became enraged enough for ourselves and every other victim out there to stop letting those people who hurt us (not only "perps" but all the well-meaning, and not so well meaning people who have silenced/shamed us) continue to silence us. I hope she knows that she HAS started a revolution, a revolution I hope to continue in some small way with my little blog.

Tonight, my heart is heavy for the men and women of color in this nation who know that they are not safe...not safe from crazy white folks, and not safe from the police. My heart is heavily most recently for the 2 black men who were murdered by the police, and for all of the many people of color, and their loved ones who know that because of the color of their skin, that they are walking targets. It breaks my heart to know that my non-white friends can't drive down the street, or walk into a store without being treated like a criminal. I keep trying to figure out how I can make this better, but I haven't come up with any solutions other than to continue to express my disgust and intolerance of racism.

My heart is also heavy for the police officers who were gunned down just a few nights ago. What is this nightmare our country is having that we can't seem to wake up from? How do we wake up from it? How do we change our course? How do we conquer hate with love...can we conquer hate with love? During a meditation last week I had what felt like a revelation that there is no way to "kill" negativity/evil, but that instead it would be transformed by encouraged the health (love) of the rest of humanity. In this moment, that revelation feels like a pipe dream, but I will hold out a little hope that if I keep doing my best to "lead with Love", that maybe that Love can grow enough to turn the tides...

Maybe a few more voices will speak up to shame and silence those who encourage hate...now wouldn't that be a tide turner?

**In case you haven't read the letter, or need a refresher: https://www.buzzfeed.com/katiejmbaker/heres-the-powerful-letter-the-stanford-victim-read-to-her-ra?utm_term=.fiY1yOoGj#.vn2GRQ5py

Tuesday, July 5, 2016

Illusions

I want to talk to you about illusions today. The first illusion, is the illusion of the "wholesome community." I hear that term less, and less, so perhaps the illusion isn't as strong as it used to be, or maybe it's just in NM people know better. I used to hear people refer to my home state of ND as "wholesome" and as "safe" (the latter being my second discussion of illusions). If you've read back, you might have a clue or two as to why I think it laughable that people on the outside would think such things about ND. 

In college I remember seeing a statistic that basically said that in urban areas the rate of violent, stranger crime is much higher; but on the other side domestic crimes tended to be higher in rural areas. I have no idea if that stat is still legit, so who knows... What I do know is that there was nothing "wholesome" about my little world I grew up in. What I grew up around was a community full of rampant alcoholism, domestic violence, and sexual abuse...and the community dealt with it by, surprise-surprise, denial and/or blaming the victims. 

By 14, all the girls knew that if an older (you know, 40s, 50s) guy asked you to take a walk that a) it was rude to say "no", b) it was your job to make sure that you fought him off (nicely), otherwise, whatever happened was your fault and you had not excuse to complain. And, if you are sexually abused as a child (you know, pre-puberty, cuz after puberty, you should know better), don't worry...the entire town will know about it, because that's the great thing about small communities; everyone knows whats going on and is there to support you, and bring you hot-dish...they'll take care of you...by talking about how you instigated it because you wanted it. 

One evening as a senior in high school, I drove the 5 miles (did I mention "rural"?) to my neighbors house because her dad was beating her and threatening to kill her. Why did she call me, instead of the police? Because the sheriff's deputy lived about 20 miles away, AND had been arrested for a rape 2 or 3 times by then, so if he actually came...who knows how much help he would be. So I grabbed my .357 and drove there as fast as I could not knowing what the hell I was going to walk into...would my friend be beaten to death, would her father be cooled down and flare up when I came in, would I have to "defend" her or myself? ***

These are just a few stories of "wholesome", "safe" rural America...a wonderful place to bring up your children. I've thought over the years a lot about writing an autobiography so I can dis-spell this myth, maybe I'll get to it someday...maybe people have already figured it out for themselves. 

Which brings us to "safety."What does it mean to be safe? If we don't think to hard about it, we might say we are safe because of our city, our neighborhood, the locks on our doors, the gun in our bed stand...but do any of these things mean we are "safe"? And what do these things, and rituals protect us from? Will the gun keep us from getting cancer? Will the "wholesome" community keep my children safe? Will my nice neighborhood keep me from tripping over the dog and breaking me neck? Of course not. The truth is, there is no such thing as pure, capital "S" Safety. It's an illusion we create for ourselves with trinkets, and rituals.

You may be thinking "well, that's a bit bleak." Oh, but wait, here's the (good) loop hole! We can reduce our risks, That really is the name of the game. And how do we reduce risk? first we figure out what our risks are, and we address them specifically, and realistically. Realistically meaning we don't assume our risks are the same as those of our hero in our favorite action movie, nor will we address things the same way as our action hero...believe it or not, even the elitely trained don't stand much of a chance against a room full of machine gun toting bad guys...but the good news; your chance encountering these bad guys is  less than getting struck by lightening...while winning the lottery. I see avoiding conscious risk reduction as that whole "if you don't make a decision, you have made a decision." We can blindly pretend we are dealing with the real risks in our lives, or we can distract ourselves with the illusions we create for ourselves, or are given us by society, parents, peers, etc. 

So, are you at risk to be attacked my a trans-woman in the toilet at Target? Yeah, about as much as the lightening/lottery thing. Ninjas? Mmmm, I think you know the answer to this one. Will we die if we speak our truth? Depending of the circumstance, of course; probably not. It did not feel "safe" to start posting this blog, but I did some risk reduction first; and I thought about the potential risks: would I be shamed by "friends" for speaking my truth, would it change my relationships, would I feel this that or the other based on how people reacted? There are risks, non-fatal risks, and risks I'm sometimes willing to take, and my risks aren't the same as another person's may be. When I'm in a good place, I stand by what I said in a previous post: We have to raise our voices up over those of the people who would shame us, and blame us while exonerating the "bad guys." I will speak for the younger version of me who had no voice and no advocate, and I will speak for all those who have no voice. And I will hope that as a country, and as a human race we open our eyes to the illusions around us, and that we help others to do the same that we may live, speak, see, and act in a way that brings peace, hope, and healing to us all.

 (Disclaimer: As a Motorcycle Safety Rider Coach we would start classes by a discussion of safety and risk reduction, so I can't take credit for all of this as original thoughts.)

***Papa asshat screamed and raged about how he didn't do anything, officer rapey came (but didn't rape anyone), and no further violence was had that night.

Friday, July 1, 2016

Missteps in finding my voice

This morning I saw that I had gotten a notification from a company I had written a not-so-glowing review on. It was an honest review, and honestly, I wasn't as harsh as I could have been, but seeing that I had a notification from them sent me into an absolute terror. I couldn't even read it I was so overwhelmed with fear, racing thoughts, pounding heart, and shaking hands. Now granted, I've been away from home, routine, and family/friends/pups for 4 weeks, and I'd been in a car for the last 2 days so I wasn't at my best physically or emotionally, but still...my emotional, knee jerk reaction knocked me off balance. Not because this is an abnormal reaction to presumed or real confrontation for me, but because I had decided that I was recently cured of being afraid of speaking my truth. And I realize that it's not that simple, this business of reclaiming your voice...or maybe finding a voice you've never had...but I was enjoying the fantasy...

Several hours later, heavily snuggled by puppies, and even medicated I'm feeling like I'm back on solid ground. I was able to actually open the notification and read it, as opposed to think about all the horrible things it might say, even though I know logically they would not for business sake do something as stupid as send me a nasty message * . But this old wound trumps (we need a new word) logic, and it certainly trumps a couple weeks of "speaking my mind" on my blog. And it's a tricky wound because it is a complex, and systemic wound. It is a shot gun blast of growing up with a checked-out alcoholic father, mentally ill and sometimes homicidal sister, a slew of perverts, and a mentally ill mother who couldn't give me comfort let alone a sense of safety I so desperately needed. 

I've already chatted about self-doubt, shame, and loss of voice that comes from being assaulted. What I haven't talked about, lately anyway is the direct messages I got from my mother countless times. Her favorite; "Don't tell anyone (fill in the blank) or the social workers will take you away." The blank could be about my father's drinking, or the bottle full of pills she had taken...just don't talk about anything, and you will be safe. What a grand lie...fantasy...cover up: Keep your mouth shut, and you will be okay. The real truth: Keep your mouth shut, and the person being a douche can pretend they have done nothing wrong, and won't have to take accountability for their actions. 

There have been times when the message has been more subtle...like one of my earliest memories from about 3 when my mother was telling a neighbor what a good girl I was because "she's so quiet, she never bothers me." Or how everyday when I got home from school she would stop what she was doing to tell me about her awful stressful day but woe to me if I tried to talk to her (it only took one time to learn that was a big no-no). There were also the times I would tell the grade school teacher that the older boys were picking on me...her response "they only pick on you because you react! Just ignore them"...just swallow your voice and everything will be okay. But, it was not okay.

I've started off on a Hobbit adventure of finding my voice. It will be a long treacherous journey, but there is no turning back...and I know there will be secondsies at the end of the road.

*(They apologized for my experience, and hoped that I would give them the opportunity to make it right)