7-1-3; it’s me

It’ll only hurt for a minute, they said. Only a minute and then you’ll be used to it.

It’s been ten years, and I’m still not used to how it feels. I’ve been numb for so long, letting my mind leave my body every time I started to

F e e l anything

My mind’s way of protecting itself from the pain

D I S T A N C I N G itself from the broken/ness.

In order to work through the trauma, you’ll have to feel it. Feel it all. Let it be.

Exist in the moment

(But first I have to survive the moment)

Ice cube

Distracting

Go for a run

How do you deal with the feelings you’ve spent years running from?

You can’t do this alone.

I know I’m opening a door but here’s my number

Text when the feelings drown out hope

Text when the voices in your head cause you to forget all you’ve learned

Text when you forget how to breathe. How to survive

Internal debate: a noun where you decide if you’re worth the text. Bother him at home?

Maybe his job;

Is his job.

Got a phone call at midnight on July 3rd. 4th of July party at church. A young woman on the brink. Talked her off the ledge.

Sometimes that’s me

Walking the ledge

Teetering the line

Dealing with pain myself

Fighting the lion smelling like antelope.

You have to feel to deal to heal.

You deserve to be here, and I’m not gonna let you tread water by yourself. I’ll be your life preserver.

Ice cube

Distract yourself

Opposite action.

For every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction.

For every emotion, there’s an equal and opposite emotion.

Death. Life.

Sorrow. Joy.

Panic. Peace.

I’m leaving these skill cards here because this is my safe place in this building.

Safe place

Safety

Working through tough things- t r a u m a t i c things hea/rt/break/ing things means safety net

Emotionally

Skillfully

I need to feel things in order to move past this. In order to put my past in my rearview mirror.

Sadness. Anger. Depression. Panic. Suicidal. Joy.

On a scale from 0-5, how high is the panic, the emptiness, the loneliness?

5

5 means suicidal

5 means crisis

5 means alone in a room full of people.

I have to remove the skill cards because you don’t want them there.

They look nice on my books.

If this place stops feeling like a safe place, we’ll start banging heads together.

Together.family.strength.healing.

Feelings intensely pounding like waves.

Waves

Come; g o

E b b; flow

Life. Composed of moments.

Learning to survive each one.

It’ll only hurt for a minute, they said.

A minute. A moment. It eventually passes.

I believe them now.

It’ll only hurt for a moment.

It only hurts for a moment.

Cutting yourself open when you want to be dead but will settle for feeling instead

hurts for only a moment.

Letting the feelings in when you’re trading your ghostly figure for a skeleton?

Hurts for a moment. Kills for a moment.

But in the moment between life and death,

Reach for the phone.

7-1-3, it’s me.

I know you’re shocked. I am too. But you see

Here I am

And I’m ready

Ready to take the plunge

D

I

V

E

In and feel

To heal

Remember the ice cube.

They look nice on his books.

One mindfully be present

I’m glad you reached out.

Inhale. Exhale.

I am too

Advertisements

The Trauma Tree

I thought being baptized would solve the problem. I thought that if I publicly declared that I was “giving it all over to God,” I’d stop wanting to drive into trees.

But the thing about trauma that makes it dangerous, that makes it so hard to work through, is that sometimes the only way to get past it all is to let it destroy you.

Trauma is pervasive and a darn good liar. It gets into your head, rolls around a little, and then sets up roots in the center of the belief that you don’t deserve to be alive, you deserved everything that happened, you’ll never be more than what was done to you.

Here’s the thing I’ve learned over the last 7 months as I’ve aggressively worked through everything: in order to get past the past, in order to start living in the present for the future, you have to actively work through the trauma, digging down deep to pull the trauma tree up from the core of your identity by its roots. And I’ve found that the deeper I dig, the deeper the roots extend–the more damage they’ve done. It’s not just a single event that happened ten years ago; it’s a lifetime worth of things I’ve pushed aside, little things I’ve ignored, big things I’ve blocked.

And each time a new root is discovered, each time a core “belief” I’ve thought about myself is challenged, the more my foundation is shaken. Trauma takes away a person’s identity. We start to define ourselves by the trauma. And as we work through it all, we become more lost, more confused.

At least I have.

At the moment, I have no idea who I am.

And that’s ok. That’s ok because there’s one thing I’m sure of: I am a Child if God.

As I work through dismantling the foundation on which I built my life–the bricks that told me the world would be better off without me, that I wasn’t important, the from the age of 4 told me how I felt would never be important–as I work through all of that, I’m learning how to validate the 4-year-old girl who wanted to shrink herself into oblivion, how to validate the 13-year-old who wanted to be anywhere else but that bathroom. I’m learning how to validate the parts of myself that I’ve invalidated for so long.

Trauma has taught me how to live in a world of disconnect; I can separate my feelings from my existence and live in numbness. Until I can’t, until the weight of all the emotions I haven’t felt come crashing down around me, and I want to drive into trees for no other reason than my head telling me “you need to,” and the deepest hurt telling you that “that’s the only way to make this heaviness disappear.”

I feel alone in groups of people because I don’t feel real, like I’m watching my life play out before me, like I exist slightly to the left. I can’t connect my emotions to my trauma. I know what happened to me, logically. But there’s this disjoint: my emotional connection to what happened is misplaced. I can talk about being raped without getting emotional, but then the smallest thing happens–a guy makes a creepy comment, I do something embarrassing, some one criticizes me a little bit–and I become suicidal: displaced emotions, delayed response, a rush of feelings amidst the numbness of existence.

It’s this emotional disconnect, this traumatic disjointness that has my therapist most worried; that has him scheduling 2 or 3 appointments at a time, not just one. If I can make it this long…

It’s the suicidal ideation that’s always been present. But it’s hard to talk about because “what 4-year-old wants to die?”

It’s a chemical imbalance exacerbated by trauma. A trauma that has defined so much of my life.

And I’m working on it. Because I don’t want it to define my life. I don’t want to be sitting at my desk and all of a sudden think “I should drive into a tree” because even if I’m not thinking about my trauma consciously, I’m thinking about it emotionally.

My emotions are playing catch-up. Because for years I lived in numbness. Not allowing myself to feel was the only way to deal.

But now, I have to feel in order to heal.

And I’m feeling it all: pain, shame, hurt, sadness, anger, humiliation. And it’s making me panic–making me operate at a constant level of anxiety that I didn’t know was possible.

There’s a tension in my head, and it’s all valid.

I’m valid.

And this wasn’t the post I wanted to write. I had another one planned. But I started typing, and these are the words that came out.

Trauma and humor go hand in hand. I use humor to relieve tension (real or made up). And there’s this tension inside me all the time: the battle between the traumatized “you’re worth nothing side,” and the rational “you have value side. And it’s this battle, this constant never ending war that makes the healing difficult. The more I uncover, the stronger the traumatized side gets, and the more energy I have to put into the rational side of me.

Because the fact is: I do have value. I deserve to be here. And one day, I’ll discover my purpose for existing.

I have to reconcile the two parts of myself: the traumatized part and the part that wants to move forward. Because right now, my brain is still protecting me from the past even though the past is not currently happening.

I’m learning how to exist in a world where my past doesn’t define me, learning to live in the overlap of pain and hope.

I don’t just want to exist. I want to thrive.

This tree is heavy and digging it up is painful and dirty and it’s leaving me open and vulnerable.

But sometimes the only way to move forward is by clawing your way out, fighting tooth and nail to ignore the voices in your head, yelling at them: “you may be loud, but I am stronger.”

Because sometimes, the quietness of hope is the loudest thing of all.

And sometimes you find out the tree that was protecting you from pain was actually blocking you from growing.

I am More than You Bargained For

Sitting in his office with tears streaming down my face, he sat there patiently waiting for an answer to the question he asked five minutes before: What’s your reason for being alive?

The heavy silence, filled with the weight of all the pain I’ve been carrying for years, was only broken by three small words, uttered—not strongly, not confidently—but brokenly and weakly: I don’t know.
 
Because the truth is that I don’t know. I don’t know. 
And the next words out of my mouth, buried so deep I had long since repressed, shocked even me: I’ve wanted to die since I was five.
 
The problem is, he said. The problem is that deep down in your core you don’t believe that you are even worthy of existing. The problem is that there are two parts of you. One part 100% believes that you don’t deserve to exist. And the other part knows that’s not true. And until we destroy that part that lies to you, the part that you’ve built your whole existence around, you’re gonna continue to want to drive into trees.
 
It shook me to the core, but deep down, I knew he was right. He’s always right. I’ve known him for six months, and I’m pretty sure he knows more about me than I know about myself.
And I know this post is supposed to be positive, Chris. (Yes, I called you out in a blog post. Deal with it.) I’m working on it. But in order to get to the positive I have to work through the negative, the nitty gritty, the messiness.
And right now, I’m a mess. I’m hurting and broken and I’m trying my best to work through all of this. But I’m so afraid that the more I share, the more people are going to want to up and leave.
And maybe they should.
But, also they shouldn’t. 
 
But.
 
What if. 
 
I’m sorry. 
(These are words I say to lessen the blow, to invalidate my own existence—maybe if I say them, it won’t hurt as much when I’m gone—games I play in my own head to convince myself that maybe I’m not worth all the time and effort people are putting in. I’m not worth the late-night texts or the mid-panic attack “I’m trying to stay grounded” freak outs or the “these are my safe people that I can tell things to” burden or even the “I’m pulling out the big bro card” moments.)
But the truth is.
The truth is.
I am.
Brandon had me make a list of things that I am. Positive words that describe my good points. And I could think of none.
None. 5 minutes of silence and the only word that kept popping into my head was: unworthy. 
 
Then he said, Let me rephrase it this way. If I asked so-and-so to describe you, what would they say you are?
 
I assume you mean besides annoying? I asked. They’d say ‘smart and funny and curious and caring and loving and strong.’
 
There you go, he replied. That’s a start. Your homework is to go and make a list of things that you are. 
And I thought and I thought, and the more I thought, the more I wanted to drive into a tree. It’s not like I don’t want to be here because I do. I have a job I love, a job I’m good at, in a place that I love, with people that I love, with family and friends who love and support me through it all.
But..
But..
But sometimes it doesn’t matter and all that’s keeping me here is my faith that there’s something bigger out there—a God who made me for a purpose (even though sometimes I feel like he made a mistake when he made me)—all that’s keeping me is my faith and my sheer stubbornness to prove the voices from my past wrong: I’m strong enough to fight this.
And here’s where the positive stuff comes in, the positive words that I’m still trying so hard to believe myself. The words that come into my head for a moment, and I try to hold onto them for as long as I can, but they’re tricky and quick and sometimes they get away.
But.
But.
I’m trying my best to make my hands quicker, make my brain listen, and as the words pour from people’s mouths, as they come through over texts and emails and social media comments, I’m trying so hard to remember them. To hold them tight, to put them in my pocket and save them for a rainy day.
I’ve wanted to die since I was five. But I’m strong. I’m resilient.
I was raped at 13. But that does not define me. I’m more than what was done to me by people who don’t even matter. I’m stronger than they bargained on, braver than they thought, more loved than they wanted to admit.
I had a miscarriage. But I’m so many people’s second mother.
I had an eating disorder. But I am beautiful, I was beautiful. I am beautiful.
I have panic attacks for seemingly no reason at all. But I laugh and make jokes and have one of the sharpest wits.
I am broken and hurting. But that’s allowed me to see the ironic side of life, to find the humor and joy in the little things.
I feel unworthy and dirty. But I am loved. I am a Child of the King. I’ve been baptized and have been washed clean.
I am loved. And that. That is enough.
No ifs, ands, or buts.