[Issue #14] Week 3: Breaths to Breathe

A brief article on my last week of on-location intensive PTSD therapy

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“There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.”

-Laurell K. Hamilton, Mistral's Kiss

Inhale.

I am a beautiful, loving, kind person.

Exhale.

I am not the lies, the stories, the terrible things I’ve done.

Inhale.

I am capable and courageous.

Exhale.

I am not a piecemeal patchwork.

Inhale.

I am filled with light and hope.

Exhale.

I am not the sum of what I have, or will, accomplish.

Inhale…

Three weeks away from the comforts of my avoidance, inner self-critic, tedious boredom and family. Three weeks away from my vices, my maladaptive coping skills, my pets. Three weeks away from my home and a past which only the walls hold clearly. Three weeks away from the soothing sound of silence. Three weeks.

There are days when I question the reality of my past. It’s hard for me to believe, sometimes, that I went to war. That person is still here. I’m still here.

There are days when the caskets unloading, the American Flag draped over like a warm blanket, stop me in my tracks.

There are days when I see his face.

There are nights I am haunted.

Three weeks of intense post traumatic stress disorder and complex trauma therapy. The monster I call shame resists, and I know that story. I’ve played it over and over again. The stories my shame have told me, all this time, like a Bible I’ve built my beliefs upon. The weight of which bookends my very valid and protective fear and incredible distrust of the world and others. Of myself.

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

It wasn’t that long ago (maybe a few months?) that I called my therapist, Elise, in a panic. 9 am on a Sunday morning. Her small boy crying in the background and her little girl chatting. I interrupted her life. My trauma responses interrupted her life and mine. And yet, she stopped whatever (what I still believe was more imporant than me and my shame-induced suicide ideation) she was doing to be with me, as she could, and help me find this part of me, this part that writes all these things about trauma and mental health. Even I lose my wise mind sometimes - part of my three week process has been one of radical acceptance and loving-kindness practice. And a lot of forgiveness.

Since we’re being honest, I’ll tell you a hard truth - I didn’t join the Air Force in 2003 soley because I had been sitting in chemistry class as a senior in highschool when the twin towers plummeted. I also joined because to me, at the time, it felt like the only true way in which I could turn inward, escape the misery of my life in Indiana. It felt like the option of last resort. I could have gone to the local university, lived at home, stayed working at the local Dairy Queen.

And yet, I couldn’t. There was a part of me, a large part of me, that screamed through my passive silence. It screamed for relief. Escape. Understanding. Safety. The truth.

I began this three weeks with hope, humility, grief, anger, a rickety scaffolding around my sacred self.

The three weeks are nearly up and now I feel grief, hope, and some anger. But at least now, I don’t blame myself for the actions, thoughts, emotions of others. Mostly the actions.

When we believe something for a long time, sometimes we can’t un-believe it without a whole lot of inner work and outer change. Big change. To see our truth for what it is, thorns and flowers, is like asking to be stabbed in the eye with a hot coal poker. Who wants to live in the truth when ignorance, denial, is much more forgiving?

I’ve learned a lot more about myself while I’ve been here. I identified some of my values (in fact, that’s one of the very first excercises we did) and have been reminded that while I may have a traumatic brain injury (TBI), I am not incapable of living an independant life. For a while (okay, for a long while), I thought I would forever need someone around to take care of me because of this wholly inacurate belief I’ve had of my inablity to take care of myself.

If I’m not soley or even remotely responsible for others, why have I pushed this expectation onto other people like my wife? Because for me, sitting in emotional distress felt impossible. I hadn’t really done it before. I sat in my anger when I was in the Air Force and back then, that was helpful. Protective. Rewarded. Until it destroyed my life.

Photo by George Pagan III on Unsplash

I’ve learned that feelings aren’t facts and while here, that’s been re-iterated a number of times in a number of different ways. I’ve come to realize that my feelings aren’t the only ones that matter. And I am allowed to take up space. I’m deserving of space. I need it, agency. To be understood. To be seen.

I’ve cut ties with those that opted to only accept or “love” parts of me they approved of or liked. Conditionally.

And somehow, I managed to learn to love myself conditionally, too. As if that’s acceptable, for me to treat myself in such a manner. It’s not acceptable. It’s completely unacceptable. To love myself in parts and pieces is to deny that I’ve existed. That I’ve been in situations I chose myself and I’ve been put in some I had no control over. To deny myself the love I so willingly give away (or attempt to) is a cruelty parallel to that of an abusive relationship.

I’ve been drowning all this time, and the lifeboat has been within reach. I only needed to reach out for it. Open my eyes. Be a little more willing and a lot less stubborn.

I’ve also learned that my visceral distaste of asking for help stems from a false belief of incapability.

I’ve learned that I am worthy, intelligent, creative. I’ve learned the truth and unskewed the facts. I’ve cleared the muddy water, making way for brevity and transparency to co-exist.

I’ve learned that grief is much more complicated than “getting over it” or “getting through it.” Getting through to what? To the next phase of my life, filled with wonder and probably some pain?

I’ve learned being nice can sometimes be the incorrect response to a situation when my feelings are involved (or at stake) and that being nice is much different than being assertive.

I’ve learned that I have a very real sensitivity to noise, especially competing noises (like a tv on, and a radio, and a phone, and a dog barking, and kids yelling) and that’s okay. That doesn’t mean I like it. I wish that weren’t true.

But I wish a lot of things. Don’t you?

Now I not only know, but feel like I have choices. Because I don’t have to let my emotions run my life, or make my decisions. I am able to think for myself. I am able to be by myself. I am able to be by myself inside a very busy grocery store in a town I hardly recognize from my childhood. I’ve learned I can sit with my emotional distress without always feeling as though I need the lifeline of my therapist, or the suicide hotline, or my wife, or my best friend. I can still count on all of those people if I want the support, the help, the guidance. But I don’t have to discount my own ability to self-soothe. I don’t have to discount my own strength just because something is uncomfortable.

I can do this thing called life. And I can accept my life for all it’s been, for all it is.

Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash

I’ve realized that I’ve managed to create a life worth showing up for. I did that. This me, right in front of my own eyes. The reflection on the screen as I write smiles and now I smile back.

So, dear reader, I leave you to curiously endeavor into the following:

• What are some strengths you have that you don’t give yourself credit for? What things in your life have been changed for the better because you decided?

And now, exhale…

“Trauma is hell on earth. Trauma resolved is a gift from the gods.”

-Peter Levine