Category: Meet my Monsters

When a Trigger is Pulled – Reminders of Sexual Violence

Today was hard.

I teach massage therapy. Starting last year as part of the program we began to incorporate a guest lecture on sexual violence and trauma. It is needed, informative and very important for the students to have. I have attended this lecture other times and was fine. Today was different.

Have been fairly open in my stories and experiences and their effects on my life. I am a rape and sexual violence survivor. I have mental illness that presents as GAD and CPTSD. At times this manifests as elevated pain in areas previously injured by violence. This becomes more apparent the more stressed and anxious I am. Along with other signs of anxiety this can become a self perpetuating cycle. I lose my ability to speak my needs and boundaries. The pain can worsen, affecting other areas of my body, triggering more anxiety. The cycle goes until it burns out, I shut down or am able to use my tools to effectively work at stopping the cycle.

I have been ill longer in my life than I have been ‘well’. It started in childhood, I am now 47. Over the last 25 years there have been ebbs and flows in my illness, but in some form shades my life.

Over the last decade I have been driven to work harder at finding different therapies and combinations to decrease the effects and severity of the monsters that plague my mind and body. As of the last few months I have been engaging in mindful physical and cognitive work, trying to break the feedback cycle of ⬆️ stress/anxiety ➡️ pain ➡️ feeling helpless ➡️⬆️ stress/anxiety and continual looping.

This has been intense work. It has taken me to dark realizations and places. It has allowed for some of the deeper body’s memories to surface, be acknowledged and hopefully dismantled. I believe this can lead to transformation and as much healing as is possible.

Which brings me to the weirdness of today, and things I didn’t consider. I have participated in this class conversation before, yet today it triggered me.

Being the instructor I sat calmly, helped to facilitate and participated in the conversation. I could hear my voice, clear, firm and very much in command.

However on my head there was screaming, knots in my stomach, tears threatening to fall. I felt shaky, like a cat in a room full of rocking chairs, but outward appearances seemed calm. Some of the tightness and pain flaring up in the specific areas I’ve been working on. I did not anticipate this. Although in hindsight I see how I should have guarded and prepared.

I am in a strange place in my head. I feel the ground beneath my feet shifting, the growling and murmurs of the monsters waiting for the shift to show cracks, for me to fall through.

The cold finger of fear trailing down my spine.

I am doing my best to breathe, remind my body it is safe at the moment. There are no hands on me, betraying trust, causing pain. There are phantoms I don’t want to let in.

I must be attentive to my duties. Stay present. Do my job. Be here. The ground tilts. This is a test. A test of the new work, newer tools.

The head detaches.

It’s dizzying.

Maintain my ground. Find my safety.

Be gentle.

There was work done, before class, as part of my plan. I did not anticipate what the day was going to be. It feels threatened to be undone.

The ground beneath me pitches and rolls. The poison rising to be drawn out. The stench in the scar tissue.

Slow the breath

Stay present until I’m in a place I can let the wounds bleed to clean.

Shadow work is hard

Shadow work shows our fragility

Shadow work shows our strength

I honour myself

My work

In time

Muted

It felt like a sigh

But really it was a deflation

To be heard, felt, understood.

This is where heaven lies.

But words had failed

The barbs she tried to pull from her soul

To show, to show what it felt like in her head

Somehow became seen as weapons

Her ugliness rebuked, disdain, failure

Then came the sigh

Wrap the ugliness in the deflated self

A costume again applied

To be accepted to the proper place again

A Prayer for Chronic Illness

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the pain is low and meek

If it rises before I wake

I pray for the right meds to take

Now I lay me down to sleep

It’s quiet here, so I can weep

The smile I wore all day was fake

It’s almost more than I can take

Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray for rest, for I feel weak

Let the monsters be still, until I wake

So to the next morning I will make.

Can’t I just enjoy the moment?

I have been working on details for my daughter’s upcoming birthday.

She’s asked for something small, simple. In part because of Covid, in part because she’s 12, in junior high and her tastes have changed.

And this morning the trigger pulled so quick it was like a starters pistol. The take down by a wall of emotion was swift. These are some of the last of my critical markers to pass.

42, the age my Mother was when she died, I cleared that hurdle.

Grade 6, for my kid- which strangely reflected mine for loss.

I left school months before it ended ( my Mother was ill and we were waiting for her passing.) I never went back to finish. I spent a lonely summer with my dog before grade 7.

In turn Lily was forced from her life ( as were all) by a virus, her grade 6 experience cut short, her summer had very little friend contact and she spent it with her dog.

While my own 12th marked a hard end to my childhood, I see for Lily ( and blessedly so) her own childhood is softly receding.

But this morning I’m overwhelmed by emotion.

A mix of grieving for myself, and the young girl who really needed her Mom.

Excitement that I’m here to share this with Lily, and share her future.

A somewhat irrational fear that it’s a tease and I won’t be here much past this for her. Disappointment at the altered landscape she has to experience. Frustration that both myself and my kid never got ‘normal’ at this age. ( what does that mean really?!)

Fear that I know even less of what to do parenting wise than I did before.

I think my monsters and I have been wrestling with this in the background for a while. Hidden by the immediacy of other battles.

I’m not sure what to do with this.

I’m blessed, I know. It’s irrational I know, ( welcome to the tasty cocktail of mental illness, trauma and life stress ). But it is, for the moment my reality.

I now have a moment before she gets up to start her day, to pack it all away, for now. To get back to helping her with the little details of her birthday, let her excitement be infectious, her smile warm the chill of my fears.

She really is an amazing young lady, and I’m so lucky to be her mom. ❤️

Day Break

I stood in the grayed in dawn , the silence and took in a big breath.

The noise in my head has been so loud, the pain that comes along with that has been so sharp.

The inner and outer worlds have been clashing for a while. I’ve tried to hold steady.

The faint trace of smoke is in the air, as I breathe down into my lungs and push my feet into the cold cold grass.

Touchstones, the cold of the grass reminds me I’m real, the taste of the smoke reminds me I’m real, I haven’t yet disappeared, I haven’t yet faded with the mist of the dawn.

I do not know if today holds battle, or a blessed retreat and peace. All I know is in this fractured moment I find stillness.

A Bright Light Amongst Dark Thoughts

September is suicide prevention month. 

We can talk statistics:

In 2018, 7,254 Albertans visited the Emergency Department for suicide attempts.

50% of all visits were made by YOUTH, ages 0-24.

3 out of 4 suicide deaths are male.

Almost 50% are middle-aged men, ages 40-64. 

63-67% of LGTBQ+ youth, ages 14-25, report thoughts about suicide.

Suicide is 5 to 6X higher for Indigenous youth than non-Indigenous youth.

Every year, more Albertans die by suicide than the number of people who in die in motor vehicle collisions.

But statistics are not the actual people. Statistics aren’t the ones who look into that abyss. Statistics aren’t the ones who can’t look away and get swallowed by it. Statistics aren’t the ones who can look away and crawl out of the abyss’s tar like grip. Statistics aren’t the ones that struggle, to keep those thoughts away.

Suicide is not malicious.

Suicide is not cowardly.

Suicide is not selfish.

Suicide is not loud.

Suicide is not attention seeking.

Suicide is desperate for relief from pain, mental and/or physical.

Suicide is a release from torment.

Suicide is because of being tired of being a burden.

Suicide is to quiet the inner monsters who have stolen the outer voice.

Suicide is when there seems to be no other relief to be found anywhere.

I have lost people to that abyss.

I have almost lost myself into that abyss.

I have had mental health problems since I was a child. Not diagnosed until I was older, but in looking back, markers had been there since my earliest trauma. I am also genetically wired to be susceptible to mental illness and addiction. 

The first time I remember wanting to end my life was maybe a year after my Mother died. I would have been 13. The weight of the shattered pieces of my life were too much. I never had a concrete plan at that time, I was numb then, I  knew I wanted my life to fade to black, to match the way I felt inside. 

I was so full, that I couldn’t feel. It is about the time that the self harm behaviour began. 

Rather than take my life in one swoop, I did it in chunks. I began to outwardly (I’ll be it secretly) hurt myself, as well as engage in risky behaviour. Cutting, underage drinking, taking drugs…… by the age of 15 this included promiscuity too. Allowing myself to remain in violent situations. All with the secret ‘hope’ that one of these things might accidentally go too far, and end me. At least then it would be over and no one’s fault. 

Counselling? Yep… many times over the years. I can relay, in a very dry way the things I have experienced. I can join into my own analyzing with the best of them. The ‘rational” vs ‘non rational’ internal conversation does not change. 

Medication? That too, has been explored in many forms. While I see the wonderful things these meds can offer, I have never found one that has worked effectively for me. 

I have, over the years built weaponry and armour to protect myself and battle the mental monsters that live inside my head. I continually do the work, some days are great, some days are good and some days are hell. Some days I feel engaged with the life around me, other days I am detached and isolated.

There are many facets to my journey in my shadow side. 

I lead a very full life. A career I love, I have the honour of helping people. I am the mother to two incredible humans. I have amazing experiences, adventures and connections.

I carry the battle scars of my life.

Why have I wanted to just not be here? To die? Because it hurts, the world hurts, I am easily wounded, the noises too loud, light to bright, words to harsh, humans too uncaring- it can be an unbelievable amount of pain. I feel invisible, unworthy, damaged, a needy void that will never be satiated. This manifests physical pain at times, and when it doesn’t, I pray it will- to make it easier to explain. The fog that comes with the roaring screams of my mental monsters threatens at times to obscure me. 

It was never as revenge, (they’ll be sorry they were mean to me). It was never for attention or drama, (at least now I will have some attention).

Why am I still here? Some days I can answer confidently and without hesitation. I am loved. I have a job to do. I am needed, I matter. I am determined. I am in love with the magic of life. 

Sometimes it takes me time to answer this, sometimes I am unsure. Sometimes I am angry that I am.

It has been almost three decades since my last ‘serious’, planned attempt. I would love to say those dark feelings are not a part of my current battles with my monsters. But they are there, The underlying whispers behind the screaming refrain of ‘you are not worthy’, ‘you are not needed’, ‘you are not valued’, ‘everyone will see you for the damaged fraud you are.’

I empathize with anyone choosing suicide. I know that desperation. That pain. Not feeling heard. Not feeling seen. Afraid to ask for help, not just because of the courage and vulnerability it takes, but for the fear of being turned away, turned down, ignored.

While I appreciate the attempt to normalize these conversations, the campaigns encouraging people to ask for help, the posters with positive affirmations, etc…..But here in lies the rub, most of us in that real dark place can’t (or won’t ) ask for help, let alone your time. We are frozen on the path. We can’t hear platitudes above the din of the fog. We fundamentally know : “it’s not that bad. It will get better, but……..” 

There are things I have yearned for when I am on that dark side, that I am mindful to offer when I am in the light. 

I have learned the value of sitting with someone in their dark, (holding space), just a hug and quiet acceptance that even in their mess they are valued.

I truly try to listen, validate the pain they are experiencing, their story as they are living it. 

I try very hard not to give advice, (unless asked), most times people just need to speak their truth out loud to hear their own answers they carry.

I try not to point out positivity unless it is sought out, Most often people know the wheel will turn, but they want to talk the moment, not what’s to come. 

I try very much to see the people I engage with, the beauty in their flaws, their wholeness.

I try to be aware, because we all carry some shadow, we all carry some pain and sometimes we all need help. And most times we will not ask.

I try to check in with those that I can, especially given the times we are in. Just to let them know someone is here.

I am not ashamed of my anxiety disorder. 

I am not ashamed for having stared into that abyss. 

I am not ashamed for sharing my story. 

I am humbled I have found a way to remain, when others have not.

For as long as I can, I will Always Keep Fighting. For myself. For you. 

My Steady

Inspired by my encounter with the old man at the train I was called to visit another Old Man on my way home.

Although my to do pile threatens to topple at any moment I had to take the time to come and see my steadfast friend.

He listens with out judgment. He does not tell me I’m dramatic. He lets me lean in, and does not shift away. He has seen my true broken self, heard my anguished cries, my whispers of joy, my tenuous hope and still welcomes me to the quiet safe haven.

I am sinking. I am in pain. I am overwhelmed. I am overwrought. I have failed at so much.

My words feel lost. I feel ungrateful. I feel selfish. I feel invisible. I feel exhausted. I weep at his feet. I try to slow my breath to match his ancient rhythm. I try hard to hear his message from the Gods.

For a moment there is stillness. For a moment the monsters stop talking. For a moment…….

As I take my leave, I let the late summer sun dry my tears. I give thanks for the gift he has been in my life. Off to do battle once more.

Writers Block

I’ve been trying to write for weeks.

It is something that sustains me, it is something that heals me and when I don’t feel heard it as a way to make my voice amplified, to connect and not feel so stuck in my head.

There’s been points in my life where I stepped away from it, much to my detriment.

A few years back, with a renewed energy the stories began to pour out, I committed to working on the shadow side of myself, and from there a few narratives were born. There was some collaboration, tidal wave of inspiration and such trust that the stories and essays would flow.

While this particular bout of writer’s block feels like it came on just after the start of the pandemic, truly, when I look back, it has been a slow death since last fall.

First the fiction. There was the death of two cherished characters. They showed such promise and longevity, and were exhilarating to write.

But unfortunately that once promised epic story has became representative of what has become a bittersweet and painful period for me. In a tortuous narrative, (as devastating as I felt) they met their end. Silenced, stopped in mid journey. In the ether they now languish.

Though I did find the courage just before shut down to submit a short version to a few publications.

There has been a fair amount of interest in what may have come next and some suggestions for editing. The real possibilities to see it in print.

But now I am frozen. I can not bring myself to open the file, to polish it up and let it move forward. I did not anticipate how raw I still feel about all that was lost at that time, including the grief about the two leads. How much I miss them. How much they still have to say.

I’ve been able to hiccup some poems and the odd paragraph out, but even the ability to write essays has withered.

Those are my best connection to navigate the world around me and my mental health. But it has been near impossible to write anything I feel confident with.

I want to add hope, insight and support to the people that read my stuff. But all I can muster is despondent rage, and no adequate words to explain.

Life as we knew it has always had its hardships. But this global clusterfuck has added a layer of grimy soot that has not left anyone untouched.

I wait… wait for the words to come. I hope that there are characters choose to speak. I hope the characters ( myself) I laid waste to may someday forgive me. I wait for wisdom, knowledge and hope to share. I wait for the insight to be able to move through, over, under or around this block that feels insurmountable.

I wait….