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This may strike some as unusual, at first. An old Japanese philosophy directly relevant to cptsd healing/recovery work? I found this little 4 minute video to be just that.

What I love about this is discovering a new beauty within the 'damage'...whether repairing pottery or trying to fix one's shattered life; and seeing it for its wholeness despite what we thought were our  flaws, finding that even our worst scars can contain hidden beauty.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBUTQkaSSTY&feature=em-subs_digest

Subtitled "How to Be Kind and Compassionate Toward Yourself", this is a series of free audio/video interviews with several people whose expertise touches on various aspects of recovery, focusing on the importance of self-acceptance in finding one's way through the fog.  The interviews are generally 30-45 minutes with over 20 people in various fields.

Most of the guests have also put together other programs by the producer--Sounds True Productions--but references to them are slight if any. The only "catch" is the registration asks your email so they can send announcements of their other products but it's easy to unsubscribe from it and just retain access to the "Self-Acceptance" interviews.

I found many of the presentations refreshing yet thorough. Perhaps some of the interviews have made their way to YouTube by now. Anyway, there's some interesting material here. The link is:

http://live.soundstrue.com/selfacceptance/   

This turned out a bit long  ; but I can't master sound-bites and would never make it on twitter. I'm also just always insecure about 1)being understood and 2)being judged. In person, I can drive people batty 'cause I don't speed-talk; one reason I enjoyed stage acting—the audience had to hear me out—slow/fast, ponderous/witty. Funny how in that setting they can accept you better, though.  Enough explanation...here's my version of one surprising step I took along this long trail called recovery...

One of the mysteries on my recovery road has been finding a way to bring the earlier version of 'me' forward into the current situation. After several tries at revisiting 'the past', writing letters, that sort of thing, I always got stuck. Venturing near that child's pain, even if only in the mind, brought up so much associated grief that it only created overwhelming depression—no relief for either the inner child or the current self. Those  attempts seemed more like visiting an old neglected prison(er). And after a trip to the past, it was shut the doors and leave him alone in that hostile place. Inner child work, as it's called, still fascinated me, but I was at a loss how to find a way that would mitigate my previous stumbles.

Then one day I hit on this approach—bring the abandoned kid into my present world, not the other way 'round;  this leaves the past—his and mine--behind, out of reach where it belongs. This tale is my mind's view of that story.

To start the journey back, I allow my imagination to undertake a visit to some dimly lit rooms of a spooky fog-shrouded place. Perhaps its musty rooms are really metaphors for memories in need of wholesale cleaning—lots of dust and eeriness in there. On second thought, why clean them? It seems better to just let them rot away, seal the doors, and get out, post-haste. And continue the  task of unlearning what happened there. Alas, it seems like all the energy expended revisiting cycles back to more anxiety, pain, and intense grief. I need to leave this place, not feel obligated to go back there and figure it all out. I just need to get out. But...

...in the process of leaving that place for good, within the gloom I see a crestfallen boy, probably in his mid-teens, but whose exact age would be hard to figure, given the forlorn character I now find beside me. He's wary of me but seems to desperately need a kind and gentle person to trust. I can sense that need, he can't—he appears to have had any faith in humans destroyed. He'd be terrified of even the slightest of hugs or any touch, for now. My adult side has carried that reluctance forward, so I get it. Within his extreme shyness I surmise a strong but battered soul, almost bereft of hope that there are people who are kind, encouraging, enabling, smart. His natural childhood curiosity seems to have barely survived, as he's retreated into a hyper-vigilant distrust of anyone.

I notice he's been absent-mindedly clutching an old photo. Perhaps it explains the dark torment hovering  in his eyes. As he sets the photo down, I ask "Mind if I see?" He shrugs a timid assent; or was it a "who cares"?. Hesitating a moment, I pick it up and see it bears his likeness, shown standing with a group of young teens, and he looks pathethic, almost ghoulish. The others appear 'normal', and slightly amused by his sorry stature.

I've rarely seen such vivid sadness in a person as evidenced by this photo. He stands in precise and stark contrast to those around him. The image reveals a weariness/anxiety that bids to sink any spirit left in him; he doesn't just look lonely, he personifies it...someone ready to cry, but not fully; it already hurts too much.

The photo's glossy feel indicates it may have been ripped  from a high school yearbook. Hmm...did no one notice this lad's desperation, I wonder? Did anyone reach out to a youth showing such obvious distress? Who would even see fit to include such a picture in a volume of supposed treasured memories? It's almost like piling on another level of shame. Seeing how the boy winces at my even viewing the photo, I gather he probably had no help. I lay the picture down again, but he grabs it, rips it, and throws it into an unlit fireplace. That decides it--I cannot leave this bedraggled kid here; I could never forgive myself knowing that I'd left him in such misery.

Reluctant as he is, I sense that he's unsure if I'm worthy of trust, for once. My reluctance matches his—but then I've never seen such intense pain/grief in anyone before, either. And so I ask him if he'd like to go with me. The slowly-built trust level allows for his affirmative, if whisperlike, response...without uttering the actual words, his weary eyes are witness to what he can't put in words: "please...help...please...be gentle...don't betray me...I need you, whoever you are".

To truly help him, I must take him beyond, without drawing attention to us. Dimly moving down a long hall past all those musty rooms, we find what looks to be an unused door; carefully creaking it open, we see a  trail leading out of a fog towards a steep riverbank, with a canoe seemingly ready for departure; a scene beckoning us to a new adventure. It feels like we're time travelers, eventually arriving at a forest clearing where I live, in present time. Home.

The trap would be to retreat; I'd be ensnared by the same gloom of that musty place. So I need to bring him forward too. He still seems wary, if vaguely  hopeful, as I'm probably different from the others—the ones we leave in the dust of his/our sad past; in those dank, dust-choked rooms. He is no longer destined for all the confused agony of that place and its inhabitants. I know this was best, for him and me, to have rescued him from their smirking, brutal hypocrisy. I feel my hand being squeezed tighter, unusual for a teen, but this is no usual guy.

Oh, that this might be real...and not some cruel trick. But even if it's just imagination's fancy, it can at least reorient my adult self to incorporate this child's interrupted promise into the process of recovery. I'm rather friendless as it is these days, and here he is, at my door, as if to say, "I need you, too...thanks, fella". Is that a twinkle in his eye? He's already changing...

And so it goes; I'm not even sure if I still make the distinction of then/now in this 'relationship' with that part we call the inner child. Rather it seems to be about becoming a whole person, no matter how the psyche differentiates the roles we play on the stage of one person's life story.

I was listening to a call-in radio show about resolutions and such. One caller talked of how she's still in excruciating pain stemming from a car accident of several years back. She told of how she had decided that if it kept getting worse, she could always end her life...but now she's gotten a tattoo that says something like "I'm stronger than my pain". And being in tattoo form she has it with her, always, and sees it as her daily reminder.

So it got me to wondering--what are my daily reminders? I have several all over the house, and yet how often I take them for granted. I was once in a creative service type of job, and many people brought me little tokens of appreciation for what I did. Most of them are handcrafted items, some would be worth quite a bit as art pieces. So they're all from-the-heart sort of gifts, and I see them daily, and I need them; and  yet so often it's as if they're invisible.

One of them I even took to an "inner journey" type 5-day intensive group I was in a few years ago. For the last day we were to choose something that is a bit of a stretch to want to give up. I chose one of these art works—a handmade, stained-glass item fashioned and given to me by a "troubled" youth group I'd performed a one-person play for. To give that away was a stretch, yes; but I reasoned I'd had it a while, and could give it away, and maybe it had served its time with me, etc.,   

So I brought the wrapped piece with me, set it in the gift pile, and the facilitator asked for a volunteer to use their intuition and distribute the gifts to whoever they felt it was meant for. This sounds a tad corny, perhaps, but it was a demo of how the universe works together, how group energy can work, etc. I'd been at a couple of these events before, and had seen how almost always people ended up with something they welcomed into their life, for various reasons. After the gifts made it to the "new" owners, the recipients would explain something about what it seemed to mean for them.

This particular day, that stained-glass object, nicely wrapped and with no indication who had put it there (no names attached), was carefully picked by the person distributing the wrapped items. I of course knew what was in the package coming my way once her deliberations had ended. I said nothing 'til my turn came, and then explained how I often received gifts like this, how this one came to be, and what receiving it meant to me.  And how stunned I was, but knew instantly the message: Love yourself, and know how much you'd meant to those whose lives you touched.

I shakily explained how I had a hard time acknowledging that I am somebody, that I really do touch others, that I have a talent and that I don't appreciate myself that way; that I was numb to people saying good things about me, that it somehow didn't register.

So I guess, like the gal with her tattoo reminding her, I have all these gifts to remind me, such as the stained-glass object; yet how often don't I look right at them and forget the message they share: I am a worthy human being...despite all the pain it took for me then, and now, to realize this.

Thanks for listening. We're all learning that we truly are deserving people. Yet...it's soooo hard.

Sometimes it's so innocuous, these ef/trigger situations; they come so easy. I needed to get some long-delayed car repairs made, set up an appointment, and arranged for an acquaintance with some free time to pick me up while the work was progressing.

Alright, well and good. Despite my usual social anxiety, my acquaintance shared endless good vibes about an upcoming time she's keenly anticipating with her family. That's great; while it's hard for me to relate to the notion of a loving family, I also appreciate knowing the good that some folks derive from it. Good for her.

***TRIGGER alert***end of following paragraph***

Unfortunately, though, the garage people hadn't finished the car by the time we returned, and she had to leave. So okay, they led me to a chair where I could wait. Fine, but it was in a dark, dank, uninviting corner, somewhat removed from everything and everyone, and the memories rushed in of especially one day when, after I'd been cruelly abused by a school teacher, I was later slammed into a chair as well, albeit that time it was in front of a roomful of gloating kids roaring at my disgrace. ***end of TRIGGER***

Well, the car work seemed delayed, so more sitting ensued, and growing unease, just an awful vibe. I'm actually feeling like I'm doing okay these days with much of my recovery, but there's times when this sort of thing easily seeks to overwhelm my best efforts; it's like an invisible monster following,  ready to swoop in any time it can. Sure there's techniques one can try to stem them with, but sometimes they overpower regardless of how well or how much "progress" one thinks they've made.

Eventually I somehow made it out of there; but the flashback symptoms lingered all day and from that chair-time my emotions stayed in panic mode; my freeze traits take over and I have this urge to sleep. Yet another childhood friend makes a return visit, though--asthma sets in and sleep is impossible. I never ever get asthma attacks anymore, but today it was there with a vengeance, just like those times when my child self reacted likewise.

A nice day, starting with a visit with a warm person...vibes  which all too soon are easily overtaken in an emotional flashback, asthma episode, and overwhelming distressful feelings. Finally I numb to chill out the feelings, and then...just a horrid reminder of how this cptsd cycle repeats. Disheartening.

I've subscribed (free via email) to a weekly series of writing prompts called "The Writer's Journey Roadmap" put together by Laura Davis of Santa Cruz, California. Davis is an abuse survivor herself and has been offering writing programs for several years.

While somewhat oriented to those interested in the writing craft, Davis's material usually touches on topics highly relevant to those pursuing healing and recovery in their lives. She invites responses to the prompts, and some of the responses people send in reflect deeply on this journey we're sharing.

Her site is: http://lauradavis.net/

I've found it helpful to use imagery or symbolism to aid the process of getting in touch with my inner self. 

One favourite symbol involves a  a word-picture I kind of tuck in my heart somewhere for when I need a little boost. I've camped lots, and have often used what's known as a candle-lantern. It's tin or brass, with a door inside which the candle is placed. There's tiny piercings all around the tin exterior, so even with the door shut and the wind howling, enough air gets in to keep the candle lit. Of course, if it's calm enough, you can fully open the door and enjoy the peaceful light.

The candle represents the spirit/soul/inner self, whatever it's called; with the lantern's door shut, even the fiercest storm can't extinguish it.

So light your candle, tuck it inside the lantern, close the door; and know it's always there and can't blow out, as in fact you are that protected candle.

I have other symbols and metaphors, but that one helps lots when I'm really down. It'd be fun to hear of a symbol/metaphor that's helped you "weather the storm."

Below is a pic of the lantern.

 

Spiritual bypass refers to the psychological detours many people take, avoiding what they really need in the name of so-called spirituality.

It isn't meant to be anti-religious at all, though it may appear that way to some. It merely seeks to describe the perils and pitfalls of relying on a strictly religious/spiritual approach when deeper healing is called for. This is especially relevant for people dealing with the sort of deep psychological wounds stemming from conditions such as cptsd. 

Three excellent discussions regarding spiritual bypass can be found via the following links:

http://lonerwolf.com/what-is-spiritual-bypassing/

http://robertmasters.com/writings/spiritual-bypassing/

https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/emotional-sobriety/201110/beware-spiritual-bypass

I've always been leery whenever I run across the word "power".

Many try to use it in a positive vein. Several authors in self-help genres use the p-word freely in their titles, like its a desired item and finding it will guarantee self-fulfillment and a trip to the promised land. Still, the very word makes me shudder whenever I see, hear, or use it. I attended a self-study sort of workshop once called "the power intensive" and while it had lots of good parts, that name distracted me throughout; couldn't think straight whenever it appeared.

I guess I get that it's one of those words that "should" have a good side. Fine. Not for me, though; it ranks as one of the most triggering words in my vocabulary.

Eckhart Tolle is considered a good read by many. Wrote what's probably a dandy book titled "The Power of Now". I could read that and possibly learn from and concur with much of Tolle's approach, but the "power" word sitting there on each page would ruin it.

Of course, my view dates back to the you-know-what time when all I saw of power was bad news. I had so-called caregivers who were drenched in power. A couple of my vocational niches involved power, I guess; as I was a boss/teacher/director, that sort of thing. But I never saw it as power, just a role where someone needed to say it might work out to do it this way, as some actions benefit from directives. If it even resembled power in my mind, I'd shift how I did it or, in one case, I left the position entirely.

I'd be curious about others' takes on this. Makes me cower just to use the word. Hate it. But like lots of phobias, maybe there is another way to see it? I'll listen, even if I have to see that word sitting there. Deep breath...

I've had huge problems with religion. For years the very word was a trigger for me that unleashed countless EF's no matter the context in which I heard the word. I've also seen a lot of people who seem comforted by it, who like its ritual, prayers, etc. and I've learned to accept their own legit take on why they value it. Just not my gig, as I could never get the personal injuries I endured in the name of religion untangled enough to ever consider it.

Religion is probably alright, for many people, and it's a great academic study for understanding human history, but I can never overcome my abuse from religious people enough to consider it as a meaningful part of my life.

Once, someone who knows a tad about my past remarked that I probably didn't pray. They were right, although I consider wishes (wishcraft!) the same thing, just without a deity's name attached. The names, especially the g-name, are huge triggers, so I do all to steer clear of them, though I'm okay if others find it useful (took me a long time to get to even that level of tolerance, though).

The idea of prayer, even using a deity's name (without expletives like I usually do!), was nonetheless intriguing. What would such a prayer sound like? Which deity should I talk up? My prayer project took a long time, for all the trigger/EF reasons already mentioned, but one day I just decided to suspend all judgment, resist the triggers, and see what I'd come up with.

This the only prayer I have, or probably ever will, that addresses a deity. I'll stick with wishcraft for the most part. Anyway, here's the "prayer" I came up with...I call it my Inner Child Prayer:

An experimental prayer...to a stand-up comic called Jesus...

Jesus, I've heard stories about deeds and tales attributed to someone bearing your name. So they say. But I'm still confused.

The first people I knew who used your name and praised you endlessly---umm, were they on the level? Because if they were, and they were your servants, then you must be one really mean dude.

Later, I ran into others who portray you as a person (or divinity even!) of good will who loved clowning around, and who had a repertoire of witty stories called parables by which you were said to nudge people towards greater truths.

So who, indeed, are you—the mean guy or the witty bloke? Frankly, I've given up searching for you, but don't take it personally, as I've given up all gurus, masters, teachers, techniques or methods designed to make us feel better, supposedly. Well, hang on, though--I have to admit I've always felt like I had an inner fool/jester traveling with me.

Whoa! Umm, maybe that's where you hang out, too, who you are...? So maybe your other name is the inner christ? Or buddha? Inner self, inner light, inner soul, whatever the clever words are? I like the name sacred clown, for reasons of my own, actually. Ah, names are just more words, admittedly; but if you indeed were wanting a disguise, what's better than to don one of those inner ones? Sounds like a fun take on hide-and-seek.

Who'd ever think to look for you inside? Maybe what's called soul-searching doesn't involve elaborate rituals or even those hard-to-read scriptures, even; but whatever, it all makes for a fun ride, full of potential twists and plots—people do love mysteries, after all.

And, if there's a divine plan already in place, why was creativity included as part of the package that humans ended up with? I mean, we're not supposed to think on our own, either? Then why allow it, if it's so bad? Who says? Do you really want to spoil the fun of allowing some free thoughts to float in? I bet you might even enjoy it.

So thanks for riding along, if you're really the inner sort I suspect. And no, I won't tell anyone, not a soul, if you follow my drift. Even if I don't know you, I can know myself, and if you're hiding...shhhh; even I don't want to really know. Surely one of those Truth people will set me right, ya think? No? Glad you agree.

Hey, nice visiting, whoever you are. I've got a life to live, so I'll be off now. Bye.

***TRIGGERS***/first 2 paragraphs

My parents weren't gung-ho religious, especially the f; the m seemed devout enough, when she wasn't more devoted to molesting me—my earliest memory is of her that way, and many subsequent memories repeat the pattern. Until I was 9, when the overt abuse turned to overt abandonment. I think the f caught on and stopped her—there seemed a period when he threatened to leave; flip side is he hinted it was my fault—my first experience of "blame the victim" mentality.

When I was sent to a religious school, ruled over by a cousin of the m, I entered the domain of holy sorts who masqueraded behind the g-word (it always sounded like they were saying GAWD). Turns out this deity was a perfect screen for sexual/physlcal abuse. My first memory of that place was being molested by the k teacher, dragged from a bathroom into a school hallway, and left screaming pathetically. And no...one...came; nobody; and my lonely course was set. This turned out to be just a prelude to childhood with the holy people. 

***END OF TRIGGERS***

So it went. Teachers of both genders perpetrated more holy *. I wasn't totally unique, but as the principal was the m's relative, it seemed there was intense focus on "dealing" with me. Guilt, shame, anger, and more ruled the day. As I grew older, and the familial pattern of the m's "distractions" with me ceased, it's as if I was handed over, like some toy, into the "loving" lecherous hands of the holy ones.

This pattern of abuse continued at a religious high school, with less overt physical but heaps more emotional flailings ahead. The hypocrisy demonstrated there was total, and colours my every reaction to religion.  So how, I ask myself, did I ever survive, despite these deep scars left from "educating mind, body, soul"—the very words the high school proudly used as their motto.

My saving grace (to use their liturgical term), seems to stem from an inner sense of humour that literally saved me from the brutal despair of their "up"-bringing. Especially after age 15, when I briefly ran away from the place, I remember imagining my tormentors as holy fools, prancing around in their favourite black robes solemnly invoking the holy names before bestowing their gifts of shame and humiliation.

I can now recognize that this inner humour was my own miracle, my inner child's response to the outer torments. Once I was past high school, many people have noted that I seem to possess a strong, creative sense of humour. Ah, but what they don't realize is how it came about, from the pit of depression as a devastated youth. They don't know that I developed it as an inner foil for the outer pain. Perhaps it was all that allowed my survival.

How it came about I have no idea—but I did consider Stan Laurel as my childhood idol, and I think that probably explains a large chunk of it. I didn't have Oliver Hardy for a foil, but I did have the GAWDawfuls, which became my name for the holy fools.

I started a game in my "inside" voice; "outer" would bring dangerous retribution from the GAWDawfuls. I'd hear their words, and in my mind, switch 'em around. I figured if they could cruelly twist words like "love" to suit their own thinly-disguised "hate", then I'd do likewise (if only they knew, poor sods). So I'd hear some supposed holy verse like "many are called, few are chosen" and turn it into "many are cold, few are frozen." I loved it, and like Stan Laurel, I became adept at hiding my inner mirth with an outer look of deadpan.


My experience comes down to one of having lived through a tragicomedy, and while I still cringe, rage, cry, and grieve at the tragic part, I can appreciate the clown side better too, and experience for the first time the joy of not wincing at the mere mention of religion or GAWD or JC or all the other names that once struck terror into my heart.

So, like the clown, I can cry and laugh at the same time.               

There's several good books that can help with one's healing journey. One of the best meditative reads, in my opinion, is Stephen Levine's "Guided Meditations, Explorations, and Healings". Originally published in 1991, it's still readily available, as it's considered a classic in the field of mindfulness meditation.

Stephen Levine and his wife Ondrea are noted for their pioneering work in hospice, as well as their contributions to the study of mindfulness. Unlike academics, their approach was always learned "in the field", as it were, person-to-person style. They were too busy helping people to spend much time otherwise.

This book showcases their extraordinary talent for creating powerful but concise meditations. It literally oozes peace, tranquility, and self-acceptance throughout its pages. The writing style speaks in a deep spiritual tone without any hint of dogmatic intent. Mindfulness is a word that fits what they do, although I'd call it "heartfulness".   

While I've used audio CD and YouTube-style meditations, I find it difficult to use them effectively. My hyper-vigilant nature tends to butt in, critiquing the speaker's voice, even if I record my own voice.

Levine minimizes the grandiose technique and procedures other authors insist on including. I suppose all that prepping has merits for some, but I've never found they fit my needs--all I do is worry about doing it "right". Hardly meditative, and one spends so much time "getting to" the proper state of mind, that I feel more like dozing off  before I arrive at the actual meditation. Meditation shouldn't be about arriving someplace, it's about here/now, and Levine understands that.

He has some suggestions for helping, but it's not like learning a multi-step procedure required to do it the "right" way. I don't get why so many meditation teachers want to complicate things, like if it's too simple it must not be 'spiritual' enough, or something.

Reflecting Levine's background, the meditations are very focused on emotional healing. Topics are expanded via brief explorations before/after a given meditation. Each meditation in turn is short but are best approached without a time frame in mind. These are the kind worth absorbing. 

Stephen Levine's "Guided Meditations, Explorations, and Healings" is a soothing read that allows you to gently find peace, self-compassion, acceptance, and healing. It's a  rare gem in the field of mindfulness meditation.
       

First, let me get this bad pun out of the way—I'm very touchy about touch. Thank you.

I've long avoided considering any therapy that involves touch, but lately I feel that maybe I should, and/or find a more general somatic approach. While I do some general exercise routines (and used to love chopping wood and other "natural" exercise), I'd like to work towards relieving the body armoring and tension that I carry around.  The flip of hoping to get very far with it is my fear of any touch (even self-touch). Much of what happened in my youth was internalized and I've retreated from human touch of any sort, for the most part.

***TRIGGERS next 2 paragraphs*** I can't ever remember being touched in a nice way, either at home or at school. In the first, I was regularly a victim of the m's attacks on me, usually in bathrooms (I still have a strange aversion to bathrooms; as in "where is the quickest exit"; as a kid, I was often constipated as that room I thought of as a danger zone and sought to avoid going there at all costs; unfortunately that fed right into the m's fondness for "other" solutions for a constipated kid, which seemed to make her very happy).

***TRIGGERS CONTINUE***At the private school I attended, negative touch was also out of control. It went beyond mere corporal punishment, although there was plenty of that. One teacher had this truly awful technique of pressing down on both your shoulders while intensely staring into your eyes, holding you like this so you couldn't look away; he kept his fingers moving massage-style but maintained his fierce downward pressure all the while. There wasn't always a "reason"—he just stopped me, held me in the shoulder lock, and stared.  Perv is the mildest I can call him. Sometimes, though, it was just a prelude to his next actions, more physical than even that awful touch.
***END OF TRIGGERS***

Those sort of memories had me resisting touch of any kind for most of my life. Once in a therapy group of around 10 folks, the leader asked if we could do one thing as a group activity, to ask. So I asked the group's permission to share a short hug. It was beautiful, the first time I'd ever felt any sort of safe hug in my life. Minor detail...I was in my 40's. It's not like I didn't have any relationships, they just didn't involve much hugging. And people could sense my unspoken message if their actions resembled a hug: don't go there. I mean, shaking hands was a huge leap-of-faith for me. It's not like I'm some total wallflower around people, anymore. I've been a popular speaker, actor, teacher, etc., but when it came to touching beyond a minimum...nope. Only exception involved some hospice situations, where they felt more than okay. The prob comes with the "normal" social interaction.

Once I allowed someone to try therapeutic touch/reiki, which don't involve actual physical touch. But even those felt awkward. Instead of relaxation they couldn't get me to any level of trust with hands moving around me. I really got bold and even tried standard physical massage, even some rolfing, but I just couldn't relax enough to get much benefit.

Well, okay, I'm still an adult (surprise) or at least well along in my arrested development. So in one of my wanders around the OOTS site archive, I ran into an approach called the "butterfly hug" and found it interesting (link at bottom of this post). Although when I tried it the first time, I literally flinched back as the first step involves touching the shoulders; all I could think of was that horrid teacher's "hug". But it was still nice, even just to think it through the way it was described.  There's another simpler technique in Kristen Neff's wonderful book "Self-Compassion" which I'm finding helpful as well.


As I'm sure many here probably have had a huge problem with touch, has anyone tried some of these approaches and found them beneficial? Specifically self-hugs? All I can offer you here are these sorts of hugs    which is huge for a non-hugger. Feels good, though. Thanks for allowing me.

Okay, here's the link to the butterfly hug, courtesy of some site called OOTS:

http://outofthefog.net/C-PTSD/forum/index.php?topic=667.0

Sorry for the triggered parts...it was cathartic to spit them out.                       

As a self-described "sociable hermit", I don't fare that badly in conversations. Perhaps it helps that my vocational life always involved a variety of necessary social contacts. 

Sometimes I catch certain comments, such as "you seem like you're thinking"; oh, yeah—what they don't realize is that my every interaction with people comes with hyper-vigilant thoughts attached.  It's a drag on my energy that I've never fully mastered—truly in a crowd but never really "in" it, I guess. Or perhaps I just "numb out" of feelings altogether, relying on intuitive instincts to get me through.

I'm also noted for a quirky, almost wild, sense of humour. There again, what people (mostly) don't know is the intense grief from where that funny-side originated; and yes, I know there are times when I hide behind it. Being funny can nicely deflect scrutiny, and I learned to be pretty good at using humour as a sort of safety valve (as an adult; when young I had it, but had to stifle it or risk retribution from some very serious dudes called adults).

There's one social interaction that truly strikes terror in my entire being. It's when someone hits me with this zinger: "So, what was your childhood like?". I want the floor to swallow me, be swept out to sea, or just vanish into thin air when I hear it. No social skills I ever acquired can fully mask my discomfort when someone poses that heart-stopper.

Of course my reticence is tied to all the cptsd crud we talk about here. But try to throw that into a social chat!     I can forget to breathe in the panic of that moment, and my cool "sociable hermit" demeanour easily morphs into "shy misfit".

Reactions can range from "what's wrong?" to "you can tell us—we're friends." Umm...I've learned not to trust that one, 'cause being totally frank carries huge risks—it can draw unwanted overbearing "poor you" sympathy or hostility for being weak or abnormal or...who knows? Soon I'm in my familiar freeze/dissociation mode, living in a "can't win" scenario for my already fragile state of mind.

My anxious response is often just an unsatisfactory "I'd rather not go there", or something like it. Except then it really seems like I'm hiding something, and can quash the simplest conversation. The chat can fizzle awkwardly, and for someone like me where it's so difficult to engage anyway, it can ruin the day, turn up my inner critic, and I seem lost in the swamp of self-loathing again. So tiring, so normal.

Anybody here have similar experiences? If so, how do you fare when THE QUESTION YOU NEVER WANT TO HEAR has just been asked?

After all this journeying with EF's and triggers and all those labeled symptoms, it seems like there's only one true constant. It's what I call The Ache.

I've always felt there's a part of me being dragged around. It's irritating and I've tried all kinds of techniques, programs,  books, this/that/other in efforts to understand, diminish, get rid of The Ache, and it sticks like perma-glue.

As if it's saying, "you're stuck with me, kid. And I ain't goin' away." Then I rage and cry and that only seems to please this monster. But I have to live, so I travel on, whether The Ache is there or not. Not there? Wonder what that's like.

With or without a name, The Ache just stays and I can't shake it loose. I can be humming the happiest tune, walking in a peaceful forest, any place of joy or distraction; and the Ache is always there. I've begged it to leave. Nope. I've written its name on pieces of paper, even strips of bark, burned 'em, and it pops right back. The Ache has its own magical powers.

The Ache feels numb and heavy, and I cannot recall a time it wasn't present. I tell myself I accept that, as what else can I do? But I'm not sure I really believe that. Tamping down expectations seems helpful, but I'm so sad when I realize my only takeaway true friend remains The Ache.

Once upon a time, I learned this – Love hurts; trust destroys. And then...I ran away. [***trigger possibilities, mostly early**]

I was in my mid-teens. What caused me to run was surreal —something, spirit maybe (?), overtook my entire being. Whatever it was, I'm forever grateful it did. 

[***Possible Triggers ahead***] My earliest memories involve too many sexual/emotional molestations from the m, abandonment by the f, and a feeling I was never wanted to begin with. The only time the m smiled in my presence was after her "visits", usually in bathrooms. She finally stopped  when I was 9, I think because the f caught on. Other highly emotional stuff is in there, but too much grief for me to relate.     

I was sent off to a quasi-religious school where I was molested by teachers in grades K, 3 & 4, and regularly beaten and shamed into their violent version of life, oddly strewn with love words.

I also became severely asthmatic, and many nights were spent plopped in the chair set out for me, left alone while the f scurried back to the roost if the meds kicked in. The m? No, she left all med stuff to the f. No teddy, no storybooks, nothing, no loving anything the rest of the night. 

Typical. So when the high school years rolled around, it was "well, where you gonna go?" Stupidly I picked a school run by the same folks as the earlier den of horrors—all I can say is that my adolescent mind figured they told me they had truth, and I thought they must have answers to life and that, being older, I'd learn the secret. My guilt for that early teen decision has haunted me endlessly. Only in recent years have I forgiven myself (forgive them? NO  ). I realized I was innocent, not only in years but in naivete; I've even read where this is true of some people trapped in dark situations, where they fear the unknown more than what they've come to know, bad as it is.

High school turned sour quick, with its message of "adopt our beliefs; start by hating those not like us, then hate yourself, you're no good."  Mentoring? They didn't even have counselors. There was one really good English teacher, but he was gone within a year.

I couldn't make friends anymore; it was odd, as my peers were sent there, but I'd actually chosen that *-hole! Those answers I thought were just around the corner? Nah. I did learn some things: I had a front row seat to bigotry, hatred, false values, and universal bullying. The only "values" I truly learned were: Love hurts and trust destroys you.

It took a long bus ride to get there—the place was suburban, and I lived in the city. So one morning, arriving at the school,  ... it felt like I was in a cloud, driven to just leave.No plans, the what-might-happen list, etc., just a knowingness to get out. It's like I blanked out but I was definitely conscious. So I just reversed course, at the door--turned around, started walking, passing all sorts of incoming staff, pupils, and other arrivals.

Several kids told me later they'd seen me, as did everyone, it seemed; yet no one stopped to ask what was going on, where I was off to, any of that—fairly typical for that den of trained dolts not to notice a zombie cruising by. Or care. Don't ask, don't tell (or be afraid to tell?). This was a school where everyone was spoonfed the "good samaritan" story...you know-helping?. Yeah, right.

Out on the street strangers, who did apparently find me odd, asked if I was going to another nearby school. Nope, I repied, and just plodded on—all that registered was I'm going...someplace.

The trek ended at home, an 18-mile hike by an asthmatic, which prompted the usual parental "ho-hum it's the kid" scenario; "well, think about going back tomorrow". I just holed up in a secret attic room, with my own pile of books around me, and a nice window to dream the day away.

I did go back the next day. And they were the same ("umm, where'd ya go? Oh."), and I was even deemed not worth beating anymore, I guess...truly a lost cause, so that was a plus. Know what? I'm soooooooooo proud that however that day happened, somehow there was a spirit that got me there, that pushed me back out the door...and maybe the message was that there really was a me to be found, and like, and be...myself, 'cause in the end that was all I had left.

There were still dark times, per usual; interestingly, though, I reversed course in other ways; my sense of humour emerged big-time from its hiding spot, I aced all the courses the "good" kids couldn't come close to matching and which literally horrified the faculty.  Except I made a point of failing the required religion stuff, got suspended a bunch, again to my delight and their horror. Now I had a different script, and I liked this play better.

Sorry this took so many words—I just wanted to share the discovery that sometimes there are unexplained events  that may help us turn the corner. I have more faith in that than the faith they tried to beat into me.

My cptsd repercussions are still huge...many days are still just one succession of triggers and EF's. And I know I'm a Freezer—I still carry that lesson of love hurts, trust destroys. Overcoming that may at last be the real destination I was headed for that day. Still traveling. Thanks for listening.

Like many here, I've a hard time with trust as it is. So when I find it's violated, it sets me back a bit. And yes, I'm pretty sensitive, but I'm aware of that. There just are certain things that can't be sugar-coated, IMO.

I've a friend who also runs a remote lodge—not exactly a programmed retreat center, just a unique place that gets rented for outings, meetings, conferences, etc. Some of the groups he has hosted has included therapists.

The gist of what he said is just that one wouldn't believe, or want to, the attitude found amongst some (emphasize some) therapists. Mainly how loose he's heard them be while discussing, or dissing in some cases, their own clients, even naming names and throwing  around other supposed confidential information with their colleagues and worse, with my entirely neutral friend—who, I must add, was completely confident with me other than sharing it as an example of behavior that shocked him. He never used names, he kept his own sharing more confidential than the so-called professional T's had.

Alas, I had a personal experience of this at a retreat I attended, with my then-T and several other clients I'd never met before. One person had experienced some cathartic moments. Later, the T related, in the client's absence, that it was because he had such-and-such going on in his life, then gave details no one needed to know, and casually shared out of context tidbits, treating it as if it were just backyard gossip. In retrospect, I regret not calling the T out on that; it was blatant. I don't think I was the only one left wondering—discussing symptoms is one thing, but when the person is named and not even far away...I mean...

Shortly after, I left that T. Revealingly, the T went ballistic in a phone call to me, telling me  about my attitude and how I still needed a "de-briefing" session or something. When I asked if that was just an excuse to grab another $150/session fee...she finally got the message. And while typing this, I suddenly recalled another T who didn't know he'd left the door slightly ajar one day. He was on the phone, apparently, as I heard him laughingly discuss the next "oddball" (me) waiting in his office.

Okay...yes, I have had experience with decent T's. The above incidents might indeed be isolated. I know and trust several of you who have appreciated the interactions with your own T's. And I read some excellent on-line material from several T's, e.g. Pete Walker, so I know this isn't a universal problem, but one that still merits acknowledgment.

Granted, being a T has to be rough at times—no need to project perfectionism on the whole lot. But one would hope that confidentiality would come in as rule #1.   

I'm a voracious reader, an activity that defines a huge chunk of my life. I'm often reading multiple titles simultaneously.

Most of my reads are non-fiction and cover a vast array of subjects. Of course I've a huge section on cptsd-related material. But I'm curious as to whether anyone here has run across a good fictional tale that touches on cptsd. There's a few titles described in reviews as dealing with ptsd, but I found none covering the cptsd variety.

Mind you, there's lots of psychology in all sorts of novels. But I was just curious if anyone has read any fiction that does a good job weaving some of the cptsd-specific issues into the story. It might at least provide a useful companion to the growing body of scholarly non-fictional material that's finally lifted the veil on the topic.

Thanks.

I was frantic this morning...my recurring "why is this stuff still happening" thought floated through along with the familiar "will I ever heal" lament.

A little later I wandered onto a web site and found a link about a fresh perspective on healing...so I took a look and it dovetailed with what I needed to hear, to be reminded of, so I thought I'd share it here, where so many of us are searching for that elusive healing...here is the link:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cRLKZN1LRFM

I have a hard time asking for help (my IC is saying..."see, you're not so great, have to ask," etc.), but I'll try.

I've been to 9 therapists; I think I counted right. My journeys with T's all seem like a canoe trip I was once on where, on a large island-strewn lake, I carefully followed the map and, at nightfall, ended up precisely where I'd started that morning.

The last in-person T lasted only a few months last year. My tendency with in-person T's is that I find myself falling back into full freeze (per Walker) mode and my hyper-vigilance/fear factor dominates what I can do in person...I freak out and the T and I end up just having a nice conversation. I feel okay when I leave--after all, just to have a talk with anyone is a big accomplishment for me. But a bland aftertaste is all I feel later.

I revert to going alone again (books, websites, etc.), do alright in many respects, but that can just be self-talk, too. Even if I didn't feel like a T was helping a lot, it was neat to have some feedback for a change, 'cause the handful of acquaintances I have don't have a clue beyond the niceties of "everyone's got problems" or some other banal change-the-subject-quick-please chit chat.

Complicating the T situation is that I live in a very isolated area, where the main "T's" are found in bars or churches, establishments I don't frequent. And I rue the prospect of long travels again in search of a T.

So my question is: has anyone experienced or know about "distance therapy", for lack of a better term? One that uses email or some alternative to the live interaction? I've read a couple articles on them, found a few sites that could pan out, but don't want to chase around if perhaps someone on here has experience in this sort of T/client relationship.

I know I saw some references in one thread or another here but can't find my way back to where they're located and the search feature hasn't gotten me there either. So I'm giving up my reluctance to ask (shut up, IC!) and seeking help.

Thank you.