Woodsgnome's New Life Journal

[woodsgnome]

My life as a semi-colon (;)...

One of the worst features of this cptsd journey is the tendency to over-analyze the shock of 'what happened' . I try to understand the people and events only to find that there isn't any logical explanations that make any sense--so much was so cruel as to be beyond the pale of there being any rhyme or reason to what happened. Then I try to critique why I did or didn't do this/that/other and not something else. And conclude that I'm no good, never was, and I can't break the pattern of blaming myself when there's no way I caused any of it. Analysis seems built to end in failure. Why/why/why? So often I've felt closer to the abyss, with thoughts of ending life; instead of living with hope, however dim, that feels real and I can sense light ahead.

There are no answers. One of the most salient points made in Pete Walker's book "From Surviving to Thriving" is his observation that cptsd recovery becomes a lifelong task. That can sound utterly discouraging in a society built on instant gratification and sure answers, but accepting Walker's take seems more sensible by far. And strangely less stressful, once one accepts his honest assessment.

Every answer I've ever come up with has been upended at some point. It seems safer to back off grasping at any one-size-fits-all approach en route to the happy ending and settle in for the ride. The nice thing about dead ends with answers is that they do establish an informational backdrop that might hold nuggets of still useful material, even if not the be-all end-all solution. In other words, reinventing one's life becomes ever more appealing, maybe even necessary. Sounds radical, but after reaching bottom, one looks for unorthodox means of escape from the box of pain and grief. Parts of this or another approach may still prove helpful, but it becomes apparent the one-stop answer doesn't cut it.

The 'why' is surprisingly easy to discern. None of this ever made sense to begin with. The much-talked of 'normal' didn't exist for people with cptsd, if indeed it's at all true that many people's lives can be considered 'normal'. The comparison game of normal/abnormal may be interesting, but hardly conclusive when it comes to truly feeling better about one's individual journey and needs.

I've been fortunate to be working with a therapist who doesn't hide behind her degrees, reputation, or status within a certain expertise. She knows a lot, for sure; but remains flexible and states openly she's not about dispensing therapy to her clients, but working with them in creating safe ways to redesign one's recovery. It took me a while, but after years of uneven therapists, it's remarkable to find someone like this. The trick, as always, is to apply the recovery pattern to life outside the individual sessions.

All of which leaves me still roiling with pain and angst over the old story, and I remain horribly susceptible to emotional upheavals. And no how or why has ever caught up with the residual wounds. Despite some notable creative success over the years, I keep dwelling on the hurts. Influenced by my interest in theatre, I sometimes regard life as an act of sorts, along the lines of the famous Shakespeare line: "all the world's a stage; and we are but actors in the play." I'm still emerging from the old play, slowly but more surely these days. What I seem to want is a blank sheet again, with empty spaces for creativity to flow once more. Including creatively transforming my life's tragedies into at least tragi-comedies, if not a heroic love story.

One of the hardest realizations is that this play is ongoing. I have helpful metaphors (old life/old movie script; new one--new screen and script). Or, as my therapist pointed out, "Life is like a semi-colon; when one uses a semi-colon, the sentence never really stopped, there was something yet to come. So it is with life; even with cptsd. Eventually one finds a way to continue and add something better."

I'm still writing that sentence, past the semi-colon; it speaks of possibilities, not absolute endings. For me, it's funny how that little grammatical symbol can translate to hope. Then it's my turn to help create that something and reinvigorate the search; not for answers anymore, but for ways to be, not just do.

Circling back to Walker's statement--yup; cptsd recovery is lifelong, but in a way that builds on hope for a change; putting meaning back in the word re-new.

[woodsgnome]

It's weird, all the places one's Inner Child can choose to materialize. But I know the feeling better now than I used to; and am pleasantly surprised by what I discovered about myself. Then the weirdness even begins to make sense. I'm so glad to have the Inner Child now; a wonderful foil for the inner critic as well, I've found. And I know how the Inner Child first made contact; while I didn't know it then, it sure seems obvious now. And it was via my vocation that I discovered how the Inner Child was there all along, like a hidden helper keeping me from dropping off the edge.

What's a person's vocation got to do with cptsd anyway? I used to think it was irrelevant--that it really didn't matter what or how one makes a living; that it was always just the person underneath that somehow rose to the surface. That may even be true; but what if that inner core had been ripped away from one early in life? Who is left to rise to the surface? Who wants to even try when life seems stacked against you?

Having served stints in various jobs, one stands out--my in/out years in performing improv (unscripted) acting gigs. Mostly with a small core theatrical group in which I became the main creator/supervisor/performer; plus a little bit of administrative drudgery, if there was no one else and it had to get done. Looking back, it's apparent to me that became the dominant influence in my starting to heal, if not find a cure, from the after-effects of cptsd.

I'm retired now, and I miss the creative parts more than I thought would be the case. In retrospect, one of my better 'creations' was 'myself'.  That statement right there is one reason it's so hard to explain. Acting already has some built-in difficulties that are prone to misunderstanding, but how on earth did I invent (or re-invent) myself? Fair question, and one I didn't understand myself 'til after the fact; although as the years flew by, I realized more and more what had happened.

The first bit is that I never intended to get into acting; it was pure accident/coincidence--happened once when I was around a group of adolescents and was asked my opinion on a topic I was very familiar with. Reluctantly I agreed; but within seconds started 'dissociating from myself', if that makes sense. Main thing is I didn't feel right about a straight-on delivery style, but fell into an on-the-spot character who told the story in a much more animated and entertaining direction. My body/voice were still there, but suddenly 'someone' else--almost like another part of 'me'--was telling the story. Afterwards, I reverted to 'same old me'--hyper-alert towards people, extremely shy/vigilant and all the rest of my 'normal', but something powerful had shifted during that first unintended performance. I'd never spent a minute with any acting training whatsoever, but there I was pulling off quite the show while still being informative.

Why'd that happen? To me, it's obvious, now--I was young (early 20's), barely having survived bad childhood history of cptsd, somewhat ashamed of 'myself' with the resultant ultra wallflower personality, rock-bottom self-esteem, etc.; an attitude reinforced following an assault in young adulthood which almost drove me to suicide (hopeless, worthless, etc.)

Being asked to speak that day--umm, well, okay; the character seemed to come to me, instantly; it covered over, as it were, my self-perceived lack of 'real personality' and my improvisational performance was a smash hit. It was like my speech had turned into a solo mini-play and 'someone else' took 'me' over. (sorry to surround so many words in quote marks, but along with this comes a feeling of unreality so I use them to describe better...I hope). Nowadays I regard that original character as my Inner Child escaping, as it were (although I pooh-poohd the existence of an Inner Child as pure fantasy until recently). It wasn't like I invented the character--it just 'appeared'. Not spooky at all, it just seemed part of the flow.

Okay, suffice to say that I was sought out afterwards by an outfit needing such an actor, and things snowballed from there. The income usually hovered on the low side (very few actors make much money), but the creative part was what kept me rolling; with ups and downs it had a nearly 40-year run. Not bad. Back to its effects per cptsd--it covered up lots of the old pain, to the point where I felt I'd passed through that crucible. But...but...no--the inner pain, it turns out, never really left me. But at least I'd acquired a new 'persona' to help cover it better. Which was alright socially, to an extent; inwardly, though, I remained a wreck.

These thoughts come back to me after seeing some recent interviews with the American stand-up comic Maria Bamford. Turns out she appears to have experienced a form of what I'm trying to describe. As she admits, her personality offstage usually doesn't match what her onstage presence projects, which of course can disappoint her fans as they sense a disconnect; even though she feels her onstage presence IS the real inner person, which to me resembles what I'm calling the Inner Child at work. I know exactly where she's coming from--it may seem out of synch to many observers, but the performer knows it well. It fits how the acting often felt. Most people who know me offstage would never guess that I was an actor, similar to Banford's experience (at least before her fame skyrocketed).

This surprises many, but she feels it's entirely natural. Here's the difference--onstage gives the performer a form of control they don't experience off, and the scary audience becomes less relevant. So it's odd--you're being yourself in that you're drawing strength from within. This feels as real as anything, but offstage (or even on if you glance at the audience for just a second) old habits kick in and all the people seem like potential judges and harsh critics. My original cptsd-induced personality can overtake the presentation persona if I'm not careful; if that happens, I feel like shutting down, running away, etc., just as if the audience were abusers-in-waiting. I sometimes see faces or discern small movements which threaten instant EFs if I don't stay focused on performing. Almost as scary as trying to describe it in writing on this forum, LOL.

One difference between what Bamford says and my situation--she readily admits that dysfunctional as her FOO was/is, and as she often depicts in skits, she does feel some support from them nonetheless. I didn't have that, my FOO were so awful I went NC on them early into adulthood; literally had to invent a FOC--family of choice, and they were drawn from my acting troupe, some of them with similar backgrounds to mine. But without them, I can still be wildly lost...the question of self-identity remains nefarious at best; especially the early 'me'. This has affected my personal philosophical take, though--more along the lines of what some call zen or advaita in the East, known in the West as Perennial Wisdom or Non-duality (off topic slightly, but I mention it in hopes of explaining some of my mind jolts)

I'm very hesitant to explain this via OOTS, especially as I had a previous major misunderstanding with someone on the forum who invalidated me to the point of causing a major EF on my part. With that in mind, I'm a little reluctant to mention it again, but since the Bamford interviews, it's made me aware of just how large an effect this all had on my route to and with recovery from the traumas still haunting my everyday life. Hmm...maybe the cptsd years even did their part; after all, one learns how to try avoiding abusive people by acting as best they can; using acting like an avoidance technique, the worst of which can lead to lots of dissociation. Which is why I'd never consider any of that pain, grief and anxiety as a 'gift', like some people suggest. 

Bottom line #1--I was able to literally create a new personality. The original, from which I do derive some good things via Inner Child work, was pretty much destroyed by multiple abuses. Bottom line #2--vocational choices can and do have unseen consequences not apparent until one journeys further down their recovery road. While I still carry the effects of the early cptsd, it feels good to look back and know that my acting helped me create a semblance of healing, if not feel cured. Regarding the latter, I have doubts that a real fix is possible, which is what Walker suggests when he hints that the road to 'thriving' with cptsd becomes one's true lifetime pursuit.

Everyone's journey is different, but i'm always reminded of Shakespeare's line: "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women ... players". And here's what my Inner Child reminds me: be ready to surprise yourself. I had no idea until well after-the-fact how much my own bit in life's play was sort of a play within a play. Doesn't sound very logical to some, I suppose or even contradictory, or perhaps more evidence of a real dreamer. Guess what? I've apologized for being me too often in life already; but Inner Child has this habit of seeing the unreal and reframing the whole scenario. So, Bottom Line #3--be willing to surprise yourself.

Theories aside, the play continues...surprises (good and bad) included.

[woodsgnome]

There's an old phrase which suggests that you should follow your highest desires, wishes, bliss, or whatever you choose to call it. So in my own quest for relief I've tried lots of visualizations involving what I'll call 'wishcraft', with only one consistent result--the urge to just cry.

I mean, one is supposed to expect better, it's said, but the crying urge is always my result--like I'm in this pocket of mist, within cloud vapours that never fall as rain. I really tried to picture those other outcomes; but they always seemed to recede further down the road. Maybe the urge to cry really is my 'better', highest desire.

Why is this, I ask myself, sometimes endlessly. Sure there's lots of bonafide reasons I can come up with for this feeling--one therapist even suggested that of course I was this way, as I was carrying so much grief. But do we always need reasons? While I'm not prone to instant gushing or full-fledged cries, it's essentially what I feel like much of the time. On the edge of tears, almost wanting a flood that will only cease...who knows when.

This has been with me forever and a day, as the saying goes. It's more like a part of me, as much as anything else that identifies me to me. All the rest seems like ego-talk, although I've learned the ego is either the home to or a close friend of the inner critic. With no human friends, these mind monsters tend to rush into the void, like the awful voices at night that seek to disrupt any notion of rest. Sigh.

Sure there's times I have cried, many times in response to hearing or reading about some result of something involving deep-seated love; or even just reading words like 'you deserve love'. There have even been times when I did burst into tears when I felt loved, which ended up distressing the other person. I knew--it was my 'don't deserve love' notion--but only scared the other person. A truly awful feeling--to feel shattered when someone tries to express love for you, as you don't feel deserving of it. And when you show emotion, it then scares people further away. 

There's an angry side as well. Just hearing a report of war or reading, say, about wars in history--that brings instant tearing as well. To think that people have to butcher and damn each other. Oddly, I'm considered quite the historian; true, but I skip right over the wars  . It bugs me to know there's people who proudly march around today re-living those horrors  . 

I used to regard this edge of tears feeling as yet another weakness to be overcome. I'm better with it now, more accepting, but it still causes enough wonder to discuss it in this journal.  I've reached the point, though, where  I'd rather not try to understand it, as it's derived from what happened when young and the effects that settled into my core being. It's a lonely task to always be at war with inner demons on top of the outer sort. 

Like so many aspects, there's few options to find people who'd understand. I don't want sympathy, not sure that's something that can be given to another--or should; sometimes it only reinforces the pain. Compassion maybe; understanding, sure, but maybe it's all just asking too much when I don't understand much beyond the incessant ache behind the urge to cry. Re-winding the mind and thinking I could have done more or shame that I couldn't help myself--those memories only hold me back. But if a crying parlour existed, I'd be its best customer.

I do think maybe I've arrived at an answer for my own question. Why do I want to cry? It's really all that makes sense. Like so many other searches, there aren't answers; only these tears. 

[woodsgnome]

Frantic, I am. Yet I treasure relaxation; yearn for it...built my life around creating conditions of peace and tranquility. I shouldn't have to strain to relax, but I fall into frantic remorse that people won't like me, never did, that I've been passed by, and all my life amounts to is a long narrative of pain, defeat, resignation, shame, and apology. Just ego-talk? Perhaps, but don't know for sure. Maybe not knowing is now being replaced by not even caring. It only seems contradictory if one still buys the notion of finding some perfect way out, until one finds that all that hope was yet another false lead.

I might not want to know, as I'm weary of thoughts, tired of the troubling game of pleasing others, of living my life in re-action instead of pro-action. As if I have to earn love; as if deserving it isn't enough, or has to be justified.

I deserve love; I shouldn't have to work to realize or remember those three little words. I deserve love. I worry incessantly about how I'll ever feel that way, beyond the words. Where's it going to come from--but that's 'futurespeak' instead of true surrender to this moment. Vulnerability is harsh, but I should be well used to it by now. Bottom line...no one should have to plead and beg and wonder if they're worthy of love; love which doesn't come from somebody (parent, teacher, lover, etc.) but forms a mutual bond  that builds instead of rips people apart.

It's sad/mad but not bad to live that way. Still I deserve better, and need to keep at the notion that it's more real to realize that as a truth than see it as some fantastic far-out dream that's out there in futureland. The tragedy is that what was left behind included nothing that I can take hold of that can be called love. I heard the word; but it never matched the actions I saw around it...just words in a hollow vacuum chamber, echoing to sounds of distress and agony instead of what they called love (if they ever wondered anyway).

Today I read a meditation that speaks of "giving up the hope of a better past". It's about the most practical thing I've ever heard. This isn't the old "just get over it" line in disguise--it's built on taking responsibility for what truly could or could not have happened any differently. It's about dissing the self-blame and knowing you did your best. Guilt-free instead of hammering out the details of the could-have-beens.

I don't care about the childhood people anymore, but I do hate their ignorance. Hate what they did, hate how I've had to spend a lifetime battling back. Hate it like little else. My reason can start and end with not being loved--sure it didn't happen then but that doesn't cancel out the present. I don't even know the form that love might take--expectations only get in the way.

I deserve love--my Inner Child sure knew that, all along. But I had no connection to him. Now I do, after a powerful visualization that took me to the haunted house where I found him...hiding, sad/mad, numb and cold; huddled by a roaring fireplace that still didn't warm him. He was, though, almost mindlessly ripping old photos from a school yearbook and tossing them in the flames; eventually he just tossed 'em all in--which did lighten his mood as well, and I even detected a small smile. It was all he could really do. Where it's taken me years more to reach the same discard mentality, he knew what was needed. Though I'd made the visit before, this time I took him with me, so now he can be my own best teacher.

[***trigger in this paragraph***] Just a story, they'd say...no more, no less than any story, including those on which whole religions are founded. Including the religious people whose idea of love for children included molesting them, screaming that they were doing so in the name of their deity as they pillaged an innocent who so badly wanted the peace they said they represented. So I hate that too, and always will; and they can damn me for my stories and go back to lying about theirs.

I deserve love really can't be said too often. Of course--but at last I feel like including myself in that statement. But in doing so, it will eventually be absorbed into the beautiful person I am, that my Inner Child has taught me about. Eventually even the words won't need saying; I'll just know it's real, and I'm okay...and finally safe. 

It's not a mental trick. How do I know? They're called scars--they have a truth that no words come close to matching. They, and I, deserve love. Even these tears will never make me ashamed again.

[radical]

Woodsgnome,

I feel I'm intruding somehow, responding to this, but I wanted you to know that I was moved by your words.  I feel relieved because there don't seem to be any words that can break through when there have been so many words and actions that oppose love.   When we are most receptive  we can so easily come to believe the things that take love's rightful place, and I know how that can feel like any impenetrable barrier, worse a terrible truth about ourselves.  In some it seems to cause a blight to be taken out on the world.  In others, maybe the most tender and sensitive, it seems to have the opposite effect.  The best hearts refuse to harden, they wait for us.

[woodsgnome]

I ran across the following recently in an article about finding a new way:

..."as Einstein is purported to have said, no problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it." Aha--so that's another take on why this is so hard...it'a all about reinventing, upping the ante to another level; and all we have to draw on is the old experiences which tend to make us want to stay in our caves. So where's the magic wand?

The journey of recovery becomes more like traveling into space, with no gear to speak of--other than what we might have read or heard about the trip--plus one hardly feels safe when their trust level in other people starts from zilch anyway.

Lots of these instructive 'manuals' ("7 steps to a better life; fix everything with my proven method, etc.,  ") are written by people who've never made the trip themselves. They're easy to spot with their insistence that all is forgivable, you suffer from self-inflicted 'woundology' and like being hurt (welcome--guilt trip/blame the victim), etc. That said, there are notable exceptions such as Pete Walker's materials on cptsd--the difference is he did travel the route he's describing.

Thinking about this self-help advice overload, I'm reminded of a cartoon that once pictured two dogs in outer space, looking back to Earth. One mutt says "I think I hear a can being opened" to which the other replies..."Let's go back!"  The familiar seems more reliable than exploring the new territory.

That's where I'm at these days--wandering the planets, finding an uncharted route to an unknown destination. Some call this recovery, but I have huge doubts. Why does it feel so much like endlessly recycling the grief? I can give myself pep talks, read how the rest of my life will be perfect once this, that, and the other happens; or...

...just keep on keeping on; in hopes I have built enough strength to do even that. Even "stay on track" doesn't apply; it's all too strange to find any track, yet alone stay on it. And the hope seems more like a rickety swinging bridge suspended high over a canyon where one misstep...

[bring em all in]

Woodsgnome: I can relate to the feelings you've described. Lately it seems like I have made a slight improvement and I now view my suffering as growing pains. Just this change in belief has had a positive impact on me.

As I noted in another post today, it's easier to endure the downs when you can see the ups in life.

[woodsgnome]

About perfectionism...surprises...and the Inner Child.

When dealing with cptsd symptoms and/or memories, I used to strongly believe that if I only found the perfect technique/system/teacher/program/book/group, etc., all would be well and the happy cart would take me on as a rider. Oh shucks, it doesn't seem to be that simple. I mean, all the pop psychologists who write the self-help books preach otherwise, and imply that 'if only' you do this/that/other all will be well with you. And for heaven's sake, stay away from surprises.

Surprises can, of course, hurt. I know so much of my cptsd feels that way. Now I'm surmising that perhaps that was more a severe imbalance, not a consistent injury that will always prevail and ruin my life. Maybe some surprises are okay?

Quote: "An individual dies when he ceases to be surprised"--Abraham Heschel. Hearing that sentence grabbed my attention. Surprises that are good--that you 'die' without them? Can even bad  surprises be re-oriented to be a positive, even if it originated as a negative? Maybe it's premature to have to always be ready to judge the positive/negative equation. Like so many labels, they never seem to fit precisely or consistently. So much for perfectionism, I guess.

Some surprises I've experienced per cptsd:

...The persistence and flexibility of symptoms; it's like a revolving jackpot wheel that spins on its own; once one thing is 'dealt' with (you think) something else happens that says not quite, or it shape-shifts into something you didn't suspect. The "I thought I'd dealt with that" notion is turned on its head. Unfortunately, it can set off more depression (negative), but maybe there's even something to learn from it (positive). Weird stuff, this life business. Learning from all this crap? Why not...and while it's surprising, it does carry a glimmer of hope if one puts a new frame over the old picture.

...How reframing what I'm doing is a perspective that feels better than frantically trying to tamp down all the inner torments at once. I keep hearing that positive thinking at all costs is a winner. But it makes me feel as full of doubts as anything else, as it sets up useless expectations, and the grand outcome--happiness--turns out to be yet another illusive 'out there' hope. Stuff happens--being positive at all costs is impossible anyway, without a negative to oppose it (otherwise it wouldn't be truly positive). My take on this has changed from 'you should' (should-ism) to 'maybe'. And the maybe isn't permanent, it's just a normal pattern in life's ever-changing cycle of surprises. The challenge is gaining some balance surrounded by all the confusion and lingering hurt of cptsd.

I certainly wish for positivity, and perfectly happy outcomes, but it's okay if I follow my own drummer, and I'm not a bad dude for accepting that there is positive and negative aspects to all this perfectionist striving. While surprises can hurt, they can also change into positives. So I'm caring less about the labels and more about what my heart is telling me; and that says that even I, who grew up with so much embedded hurt and anguish, am worthy of love; that it hasn't passed me by entirely. That's a giddy surprise I'll accept anyday. 

Some who would read this might be prone to critique all this theory and prefer 'for sure' steps on the route out of this * we call cptsd. It's certainly what I wanted--get me out and get me out now. Yet theory isn't a monster for someone trying to reassemble their life. Yes, there are action steps to take. My starting step, though, turns out to be discovering a childlike wonder and willingness to accept surprises. Thinking back, I'm surprised/shocked that I even survived what was happening to me. Only now am I finding the Inner Child's resilience (another surprise!) as something with real meaning for me. Surprise is no longer always a bad word, and the Inner Child considers it a way of life. Surprise is only a word, don't trip over it and let it ruin your life (again). 

Funny, another huge surprise was finding myself on a forum with others who went through a lot of what happened to me. Had I not been willing to be surprised, I wouldn't even be dabbling at the possibility (and surprise) of experiencing anything close to recovery. I'm still not sure what that really means either, but I'm more willing to let it surprise me.

[woodsgnome]

A letter at 3 a.m., during another bout of sadness washing over me.

Hello, friend. Yes, come in; make yourself comfortable. I won't try and chase you away anymore. It was just a natural impulse, those times before. You have to admit, you do bear a sense of prickliness about you, though it's not your fault. In that way, you're as innocent as the sweetest child. Perhaps I need you more than I ever knew. So--welcome, sadness.

All these years I've fought you, I don't think it was justified. Sometimes, like now, you've been my only friend. I think many are afraid to call you that. I know I was; I tried to tell myself that no, you came from a past I wanted to deny. My journals are filled with peptalks about how I'm getting bettouer, every long journey begins with small steps, one thing at a time, and all the usual good-vibes wishful thinking. It seemed like the thing to do; cheer myself up, all would be well.

But you never left, did you? And here we are, with nothing left to figure out, too tired to cover our relationship with empty words that don't lead to anything but more frantic ideas about improving. As in what's to improve anyway?  You're here, and why not? You've turned out to be the most faithful friend I've ever had.

They'd call me weird, or odd, if they ever knew. I have this happy demeanour, after all...in public. I got paid to be that way those years as an actor. Sometimes I'd tell myself I really was that happy character, but in private--there you were, steady friend come to pay a visit. Instead of chasing you away, I might have known you were just looking for your rightful home. And maybe I'm okay to thank you for always coming back. I'm sure some would hate me for that, think I'm giving up something--perhaps a better life without you, in that land above the rainbow or however it's expressed. All the world's messaging says you're bad; I'm no longer sure of that, at all.

I can't play the game anymore. Of denying you. Of telling you you're not wanted. What's desire to do with any of this? Must it all seem logical? Strange, isn't it--maybe I like having you around, as my last faithful friend. I keep wanting friends...and you keep coming around. Pretty coy about it, even, you don't jump and stomp in desperation to gain my attention, but you keep hanging around, like a lost and awkward child.

So that's two of us--lost, awkward, and finally I'm feeling okay to have you. I think you have more to teach me if I don't resist you so harshly. Maybe I have to fully welcome your embrace, rough as it is at first. Here's an odd one--maybe if I finally surrender to you, I'll be surrendering to other goodness all around me--earth, sky, woods, the moon, stars, deer, eagles, and the coyotes whose plaintive calls create a musical interlude to many lonely nights.

All of these, and more, were a big part of my seeking solace in the lonely cabin where we are tonight. Like those others, you are a natural part of the landscape, older too. Sometimes that hurts, but I think by trying to shut you down so often I've missed your mission to keep me alive to all of life. Even the tears--as only becomes apparent after, their release has been essential and they come from...? Yes, you--sadness.

Many would say, for instance, that because of you, sadness, I'll never get better, or be able to discover that elusive promise called recovery. Your persistent presence kind of puts the lie to that. But your being here isn't indicative of failure or mean I'm bad or weak. None of that--all it means is I'm alive and yes, you have played a large role in that life; no amount of work or self-improvement mantras will eradicate that. Learning how to be--that seems an important part of what you're telling me; that maybe, just maybe, it's a sign of strength to accept you, sadness, as the dear companion you've been.

You, sadness, are not my enemy. You're only like a lost and lonely child, wanting to be held, not rejected. Remember that, so many years ago? We both know that other lost/lonely child, and we've been together ever since. You bring a tenderness I thought I'd lost; it's foolish to deny you any longer. It's okay to cry together, and this time not to freak out and try for a quick fix. You're here, with me, and I'm not weak to hold you. Thanks, friend...you do make me stronger.

[woodsgnome]

What a strange sense of relief that last tearful journal entry provided...to accept a quality--sadness--that I've always fought so tirelessly in frantic attempts to fend off, diminish, defeat. Every day, especially at night, it seems to try again, and always I succumb to the notion of finding yet new ways to rid myself of this supposed pest. If only I'd be rid of it...and...I'd struggle until it was just an old song of false hope. Each time, I resigned myself to sadness as a sign of failure, not of strength. It's not supposed to be that way, I thought. Now I think I've turned to a new realization of sadness' part in my life.

In desperation I wrote the little note to my sadness, as if it would listen. I equated sadness as being like inner critic, but turns out it's not the same at all--sadness is just a fellow traveler who shows up, and most importantly doesn't want anything in return--is just here, with me; wanting to be held. Nothing to provide for it, no expectations it will change, it still will come round but now it might even be my most powerful, if once unwanted, friend.

Sadness, exactly like my own childhood self, was blamed for what wasn't its fault. Scapegoated. Maybe sadness is a key component of Inner Child after all. Just allowing the sadness to be present, without judging why it comes or goes or stays; but just accepting it has made today feel more peaceful. Nothing to figure out, but I'll accept the peace that's followed. I always need peace, no matter how it materializes. Even unexpectedly--maybe it's even better that way, it loosens the tension around trying to always bring these demons under control.

Last words to sadness--you came, and come, when you're needed; I could not ask for more.

[woodsgnome]

"If only" rhymes with lonely. And it still hurts.

I live in a sparsely populated area, but we do have an interesting arts/history museum based on some local happenings of note. Actually, I was instrumental in getting it started and in seeing it progress over the years. If I were into self-congratulation, there's lots there I could draw from. What I can't stand, and what freaks me out--is when my role in this is pointed out to me by others. I can't stand it, want to run, and frankly, usually do...from any accolades or even faint praise. I can only conclude that I hate myself...and can't escape its drag on my life. Nothing new, same old, and it still hurts. These self-hatred roots were planted so deep I can't pull them out, it seems.

What brings all these feelings back was a little talk I was invited to give for a retirement 'roast' in honour of the recently retired museum director. I have lots of stories about and with that fellow, so it was obvious why they asked me to chime in. Oddly, I have a long history of public speaking, despite my enormous people fears stemming from my cptsd. Still the old self-hatred stays put, regardless. This self-depradation flies in the face of the socially amiable (if private) person I'm apparently regarded as and am able to project. Yet it also makes me cringe--please, I don't want that, can't stand it runs my inner self-talk loop. Inner critic will cruelly cut me down, and I readily accept that instead of the good vibes I hear from others. Fine...I'll just hate myself, something I'm well-versed in, even if others don't know; it's a secret I can't share and that stuff builds up.

I tell myself I deserve love, that I won't be freaked out anymore. Rather it's just...I really don't know any of the why--I've worked hard to overcome this, and all I get is this "if only" message of hope that I'll ever feel anything besides numb. And that spirals into more self-hate; soon in comes the familiar depression and here I am, back in the land of the lonely.

At the event I mentioned, my talk was well-received, and lots of people seemed genuinely happy to have heard it, and mostly to see me again. I did have a huge effect, apparently. But...but...and it also scares me. I want the closeness, but can't 1) fully believe I'm worthy, and 2) am scared if I dare poke out past my numbness. Most, I think, are alright with that, too--they see it as an admirable trait of mine, or so it seems in my clouded, confused vision.

So I'm still highly dissociative, I found out. Sure I'll probably keep plugging away at it, inwardly--maybe understand it better, but who cares when I can't break through and feel--as in how I seem to have touched people out there but won't let them in here, to my heart. Outwardly, I can't seem to make it past wondering the "if only" implications. And it's all still so lonely. Go figure? I know why, and of course that's extremely dangerous territory--all the old demons, and the voices...you're really no good, never were/never could be, won't be...aaargh, I want to scream, stamp my feet, punch a wall; but all that comes is more self-hate. Then I just want to numb out, curl into a tight ball, go rigid, wear the body armour to keep the danger away. Even the people with compliments--no, I can't trust, can't accept, can't/can't/can't. Go away--and if they don't want to, I'll make my own escape; at least I'll feel safe.

These aren't the people who turned on me as a kid, but my inner mind seems to regard any and all with that same suspicion, fearing that it will turn out the same. Illogical as it is, those decades-old emotional chains still drag me down and I've lost the key to unlock them. 

If only I could laugh, like I made the people in that room laugh..."if only" again. If I could accept better...could, would, if, should...no wonder I succumb to the urge to numb out.

No point to all this rambling; just grief...like sadness, my only steady friend. Story of my life.."if only". And the sequels keep coming.

[woodsgnome]

Re-framing forgiveness. Still troubled by the glibness with which that word is used.

I can see the utility of cutting emotional cords that way. But the snips have to be precise and not subject to slip and re-injure. So it's more fragile than the easy-come, easy-go, quick-fix forgiveness formulas currently in vogue. In that sense forgiveness--cutting cords--is more art project than casual and simple letting go. We're talking deep wounds here. I'm not sure any one word can suffice to describe what needs to happen.

This is too radical to readily discuss with many people who just go with the language flow and don't care what or how they do cut the cords. Nor is it complicated; albeit more individual than the easy all-conclusive one-word fixes suggested by just forgiving. My own take is further blurred by the misuse of the word by my religious zealot parents (especially the m) and teacher/abusers at school. They literally screamed forgiveness but neither demonstrated how to use it and/or what it even was; it was some holy word but durned if I knew what it meant. It was said (and felt) with wrathful; not peaceful, intent.

It sounded to me like one of those scary god-words to stay away from, be afraid of, not comforted or supported by. Forgiveness actually became a word I associated with punishment in that environment (you are bad and need forgiveness, but not 'til you're beaten for...being you). Nowadays, I can say I believe in the concept of forgiveness but can't use the word without walking on the edge of trigger-land. What seems like just word-games to some rubs raw on some of my deepest scars.

On my adult side, this is an attitude with a lot of flux in my shaky self-care, it seems. I lurch all over in ways to tackle it. But I've come to regard acceptance as key--stuff happened, and is over. I deal with the effects as best i can, but I can't hop on a time machine and literally fix what went so horribly wrong. Nor can I panic whenever the old film reappears in my mind's theatre. The panic-and-never-again vibe tends to reinforce the fear, instead of regarding it as part of the now discarded memory set I'd prefer it be.

So for a while I may thrash about with it; beat myself up; rant, rave, cry, and rage at cruel fate and how I can't forgive. That's alright, and also needs acceptance--THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH FEELING BAD--IT...WAS...BAD. End of sentence. End. It's still there, I'm not...I'm over here now. Hooray! I survived!

Do I call it forgiveness, though? Like so much, since when did forgiveness become a prescription instead of a re-framing that includes letting go, but doesn't even need be inclusive of the socially acceptable word for it. Any comfort level I attain with forgiveness I owe to myself, not to what society prescribes for me.

Walker said that recovery becomes a lifelong job, not a passing fancy. So it is with forgiveness--I've changed with regards to how I let it ride in my life, and it may change again. What I do know is that no one's couple-easy-step method will work for me; instead I'm finding my own way through this wilderness and, like the rest of the journey, one step at a time seems to get me closer to where I need to be than rushing in by the carnival sign promoting "forgiveness! -- step right up here and be cured by the magic word..."

So I'll take the first step--acceptance. Wow--now these new roads are visible--they were hidden before because my frame of view was so cluttered with the anxiety of 'am I doing it right?'. Doing isn't the key; being is...and I choose to be within love, which already includes forgiveness that doesn't need naming.

Another lonely gambit, though. Not everyone will understand. It's like that old saying of Emerson's: "Do not go where the path may lead; go instead where there is no path and leave a trail." Hmm...leave a trail? Ah, not for others--it may or may not matter to them--but I'll need to find my path again and not be distracted. Perhaps I'll find a nameless forgiveness. Beyond any understanding--just soft breezes bringing peace and love.

[woodsgnome]

I seem to have a natural curiosity, which must translate via my agreeable persona--many seem to enjoy my unique, often whimsical viewpoints. That of course is the public view, without knowing the pain from which it springs. The quandary is I'm too scared of people to allow anyone to get inside my protective bubble for very long. I of course grant my therapist such access, but that's more on the order of a controlled experiment.

I spend a lot of time wondering about this life--in general, as to what's going on in the first place; but also those unanswerable why questions regarding how/why this personality drew into the life I did. No one in any reasonable frame of mind would ever have picked a route that started within a milieu of abuse on all sides--parents, siblings, teachers, peers.

From a comfort level, there for sure is no sense to having landed where I did. While there may be logic to overcoming difficulties, no one would see as a good beginning point to be born into a situation so stacked with impossible odds; starting with a m who was simultaneously cold/distant and sinister/invasive and, objectively, absurd if not insane.

No wonder I actively turned to wondering how to get adopted, to the point of once going to a convent and asking them to take me in. Knowing what I've learned about nuns, not sure of that logic, but as a kid it at least made sense in being with someone, anyone, else.

As I enlessly turn all these wonders around, I get tired. All this thinking, mostly about things in my past movie, many vile and awful in the worst ways. This can induce sadness beyond comprehension, but often it just heightens the sense of numbness. Really, I'm still just that stunned little kid who didn't know what they were doing to me. The only logic coming out of that is anger. Yet I spend oodles of time wondering how to tackle this forgiveness 'they' all say everyone needs and can benefit from. Some even get antagonistic--'you must' forgive, at all costs. Trouble with that? I tried! Often. Maybe I'm dense, but instead of relief i kept coming up with more grief, just in a costume that said 'forgiveness'.

Here's my current take, what I want to do once I feel bold enough to get on my new raft for the voyage back to life. I want to ban all definitions of where I've been; for that matter where I am.

I want to, for the first time, wake up and just breathe in this life, minus the encrustations weighing me down on every turn. When the question as to goals is put forward, it ends up like those inane power-point presentations; just more bunches of words designed to look nice, but devoid of meaning. I want meaning, but I'm also sick of working and straining for it. And of making words about it.

I know there's an Inner Child waiting to bust free; maybe the waiting is over...I think it's called recovery. I think that, but Inner Child doesn't care for the words and runs to embrace the breeze.

[radical]

I don't think I've ever heard anyone else talk about curiosity in trauma.

Like you I was always curious about many things, including things that no-one i ever met was curious about.

The weird thing is that it has been with me in some form during the darkest times.  It is strange to say, but it may have been my most faithful companion, the only part that never entirely abandoned me.  It feels like it has always been there, a place inside that was almost dispassionately interested, observing.  By dispassionate I mean interested without a particular stake in how things turned out, but somehow compassionate despite that. 

I think the purity of curiosity comes from its separateness and lack of entanglement and the way it is a part and also apart.

[radical]

I want to, for the first time, wake up and just breathe in this life, minus the encrustations weighing me down on every turn. When the question as to goals is put forward, it ends up like those inane power-point presentations; just more bunches of words designed to look nice, but devoid of meaning. I want meaning, but I'm also sick of working and straining for it. And of making words about it.

I know there's an Inner Child waiting to bust free; maybe the waiting is over...I think it's called recovery. I think that, but Inner Child doesn't care for the words and runs to embrace the breeze.[/u]   

edited to add - I wanted to separate this reply from the above