Post election triggers

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I cried today. I haven’t cried in weeks, maybe longer. There was a period of months this year when I was hard pressed to find a day where I didn’t cry. I’m not like that anymore. I’m better now. I’m stronger now. I’m out of my cocoon…aren’t I? I thought I was. I peeled off those painful layers and processed each one…sobbing, aching, fearing…I did that already. I’m all done with the part of therapy where you physically feel your emotions and memories. I’m all done with flashbacks, nausea, hyper-vigilance, insecurity, depression…fear. I made it out to the other side. I found my voice. I told my story. I released my shame. I became confident. I became me. Right? Isn’t that what I’ve been telling you all about? About finding me? Becoming the butterfly? I’ve been admiring my wings for weeks now. That part was over….wasn’t it? I’m confused. Why would I start crying today? Why would I feel nauseated, nervous, and small? Because someone I didn’t vote for was elected president? That happens all the time and I just roll with it…that’s how democracy goes…you can’t win them all. No, it’s not because my choice didn’t win. I knew my choice wouldn’t win. I voted 3rd party. What the hell was going on?

It started this morning, driving to work. My eyes started stinging and a few small tears rolled down my face. Where did that come from? I rubbed them away and went into the office. Coming home a few hours later, it happened again. I went inside and it just flowed. Sobbing, I started to release pain I thought I had already released. Wait…why is this still here? I already did this. I spent thousands of dollars on therapy this year. I’m better now….aren’t I? As I realized those emotions were real, and I was turning into an earlier version of me, I panicked and  I stuffed them down. I stuffed those emotions back into that box that held on to them for so many years. I had to sit on the lid to make them fit, but I did it. Snap out of it, Jami. Stop being such a baby. You’re acting like a drama queen. I scolded myself, which I’m not supposed to be doing anymore, but it worked. I proudly pulled myself together, pulled up my big girl panties,  stopped crying and went back to work.

As I went about the rest of my morning, I held the lid to the box down pretty good.  I could tell it was trying to open, so I had to be vigilant. I kept busy with work…my go-to distraction. Still, in between those distracting work thoughts and chores, I did my “other” work. You know, the thinking work. The work you do during therapy to process everything that’s happening. The work you don’t really want to do, but you have to do. The work that comes with the package of opening up that damn box.  I kept thinking about why I was so tearful. What was it, exactly, that was making me so….so what? I couldn’t even come up with a word for it. Sad? Angry? Scared? Disappointed? Sort of. I did feel a little bit of all of those things, but that wasn’t “it”. I started to judge myself. I mean really, how would I feel if she had won, instead? I know I wouldn’t be happy then, either. I hate what happened in Benghazi. She’s politics as usual, and I hate politics as usual. So, what the hell is wrong with me? I thought of all my friends who voted for him, along with half of the country. Oh. Wait a minute. I think I’m on to something. As soon as I started to think of his supporters, I started crying again. Weird. What is it? What is THIS feeling? Oh, I’ve got it….abandonment. Of course! This is triggering feelings of abandonment in me.  That’s why I was feeling so small, so invisible, so…unlovable. So similar to the feelings I had when I was being abused and the people who were supposed to support me, supposed to nurture me…looked the other way. I know, I know…the people who voted for him weren’t knowingly telling me my feelings don’t matter, they weren’t intentionally telling me I’m not worthy, but that’s how it felt. Intent or no intent, feelings are feelings. Ha! And here I was, all cocky, saying things like, “Back when I had PTSD”. I just figured I had conquered PTSD because I went to intense, frequent therapy. I worked at therapy like it was a full-time job, and I was successful. I crawled out of that hole and the PTSD was gone. Poof! So easy, really. All you have to do is put in the work. Symptom free for months now. Ha ha. So not true. I  haven’t been having any PTSD symptoms because I had removed the triggers. I removed my husband, I removed my toxic family members, I spoke up for myself, I gained confidence, I spoke up against misogyny …all was well. But only because I removed my triggers, and I never even realized that was what I was doing. Then, the election neared. Yes, he was a giant trigger. But somehow, he seemed so distant, and by speaking up against sexual assault, I felt powerful. No way would America choose someone like this, someone who likes to intimidate people, speak down to people, mock people…just because of their race, gender, religion, disability or country of origin. No way would they choose him, especially with Republican women like me speaking up. No way.

But choose him, they did. And that is hard for me to handle. They are just words to them. Words said 11 years ago. No matter that those words were him admitting he sexually assaulted women= No matter that those words were him admitting he entered the dressing rooms of 15-year-old girls= No matter= No matter that it bothers me= No matter that I’ve been sexually assaulted= I don’t matter. Intellectually, I know that is not true. I know I matter. But, that’s the thing with trauma. It doesn’t really give a shit about how intelligent you are or what you understand about trauma. It bypasses your intelligence and hits you where it counts…in your soul. You can’t just talk yourself out of that shit. You just can’t.

I emailed my therapist today. I had a check in with her a few weeks ago after my husband moved out. Nothing major, just checked in. I’ve been kind of proud for not needing to go there anymore. I’ve been feeling like the badass, appliance fixing, independent single mom that I became over the past few weeks. Today, while I was crying, and not crying, and stuffing emotions back into that horrible box inside my soul, I wasn’t badass anymore. I was ashamed. I felt ashamed for feeling so emotional about something as routine as an election. Do I need more therapy?  I felt like a failure. How could I have gone through all of that intense therapy, done all of that work, felt so damn good…fixed my damn washing machine TWICE… and be right back where I started?! I sent her an email, just looking for validation, I guess. Honestly, I don’t really know what I was looking for. I asked her if I was normal. I asked her if this was what all women like me were going through today. I asked her, “It’s going to go away, right?” I figured I would get a response tomorrow morning, as that’s when she seems to check her emails. So, when she called me, I wasn’t ready. I already stuffed the damn feelings down, Susan…I can’t talk about them now! I stared at the phone, deciding to let it go to voicemail. I just couldn’t bring myself to answer. I felt ashamed for feeling ashamed. God, I hate this. At the last second, I answered. She asked me if I was OK. I started crying, but I didn’t want her to know I was crying, so I kept my answers short. I was embarrassed. I was driving and hoped the sound of the car would hide my cracking voice, but we both knew better. I said I was fine, just surprised at the emotions I was having. She let me know I was not the first one to call today, and that a lot of her clients were upset and crying. I said, “Oh good, that makes me feel better”. But I was lying. I’m sitting there crying, listening to her tell me that there’s other women doing the same thing, and a voice in my head is calling them whiners. And that voice was calling me a whiner, too.  Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me? She asked again if I was ok, if I wanted to come in. I’m fine. Just surprised.  I think I said that phrase 3 or 4 times, acting as though she’s the one who initiated contact, not me. We hung up. I went in my house, flopped on the bed, and let it out. I mean LET IT OUT… crying like it was last February and I just told her about my abuse for the first time. Crying like it was this summer and we uised the word “divorce”. Crying like I hadn’t done a damn bit of therapy. Like I was still “damaged goods Jami”.

I posted a tweet on Facebook about asking people to be nice because many women are going through what I was going through today. The first comment was from an old coworker, saying something about the men that died in Benghazi. His comment totally dismissed what I said. I told him to “fuck off”. I never do that. I always try to be respectful, even when I disagree. But you know what? Today, I just did not have it in me to respect people who would cause me to feel this way, specifically after I asked them to be nice.  I did not have it in me to be respectful to people who only respect things that are convenient or easy for them.  I have no problem respecting people who vote for Trump, when they acknowledge how horrible his behavior is. I get it. We had two shitty major candidates to choose from, and you have to choose someone. I get it. What I don’t get is choosing one and not acknowledging the horrible things, and only acknowledging the horrible things the other candidate has done. Not fair. I told him that Benghazi has nothing to do with sexual assault. I am sick and tired of people justifying bad behavior simply because other people have demonstrated worse or equal bad behavior. Like saying Trump’s “words” are not as bad as Clinton’s “actions”. Bullshit. They are both bad. Both Trump and Bill Clinton sexually assaulted women. One is not worse than the other. Why can’t they both be denounced? Benghazi is bad. The emails are bad. It’s all bad. How can they decide which “bads” to dismiss, and which “bads” to be angry about? I don’t get it. I don’t want to get it.

So, that’s my vent today. I can’t be badass every day, you know.

 

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Appliance repair chronicles, part 3

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So, we all know what went down with my washing machine Tuesday night. Since then, we’ve done a few loads (I’m still feeling kind of cocky as I turn it on, because, well…you know…I’m kind of badass for repairing it).  Anyway, today I throw in another load. I sort of strut away after, still riding the high from Tuesday night’s success with the socket driver. A bit later, I walk into the living room and stop, dead in my tracks. I take a breath to yell at Eric because “someone” (and he and his friends are the only ones home) spilled what looks like at least a few 2 liter bottles of something soda-ish and foamy, all over the floor. The foam had literally splashed up the walls on each side of the hallway. It’s the hallway near the bathroom that houses the washing machine, which really, is a weird place for that much soda to be spilled. OK, let’s get real here… I think at this point in the story, we all know that it’s not soda. The washing machine leaked what seemed to be every gallon it had of soapy water all over the bathroom, into the hallway…and it was slowly seeping toward the living room. My heart went in my throat. Damn. I didn’t fix it after all. I’m not badass. I swore out loud a little bit (just 3 or 4 F bombs) and hung my head in shame as I grabbed an armful of towels. As I spread them over the small pond in my hallway, I wondered if I should call Sears or an independent appliance guy. I called my husband to ask his opinion on who to call. He didn’t answer. This was way more in-depth than that noise it was making the other day, and obviously not something I’m going to be able to fix. It seemed to me that this was most likely a result of my “fixing” it the other night. What were you thinking, Jami? Of course it was easy to fix…you didn’t fix it. You broke the damn thing. As I sopped it up in despair, and was calculating how much it might cost me…I was surprised by a little voice inside me, who whispered, “Just try it”.  So, I reset the machine to see if I could tell where it was leaking from. Water POURED out of the soap dispenser area! I’m talking Hoover Dam water release type of pouring. Yikes! A picture popped in my head of my children finding me electrocuted in the bathroom, so I unplugged it before heading to my trusted resource…Google. Sure enough, there were plenty of answers to “water leaking out of soap dispenser Kenmore front load washing machine.” Go figure. It said to check for a blockage in the pipe leading from the soap to the drum. Apparently, small articles of clothing can get wedged in that pipe if you over stuff the machine. I usually have to close the door with my body weight to get all the clothes in there. Oops. I read on to find that all you have to do to check it is feel around for the hole to the pipe on the top left hand corner of the drum. Sounds easy enough.  I put my upper body INSIDE the drum with a flashlight, trying to find the hole where the water enters. Nothing. I kept rubbing my hand all over the inside. There’s nothing there, no hole…just the little holes in the drum. I’m thinking that’s where the water comes in, through those little holes. They must make it that way so you HAVE to hire a repair man. Google just scammed me. Just as I’m about to give up, I get this idea, maybe from that little voice who told me to try this in the first place,  to stick my fingers behind the little flap of the rubber part that lines the door opening. It’s kind of a tight seal, so I wedge my fingers in there, feeling around. My fingers were pinched and red, and I was fearful I was going to break that rubber seal thing.  I focus on the area that’s near the soap dispenser and…BULLSEYE!!!! I found the culprit….a lone sock, wedged in where it didn’t belong, shoved there by yours truly when I used my body weight to over stuff this damn thing. I shared this appliance repair adventure with my friends, because you know…not much happening on Cape Cod in November. One of them congratulated me on finally solving the mystery of where missing socks go, so that’s a pretty good thing in its own right. I don’t think anyone’s ever figured out what happens to those missing socks before.  Anyway, it’s working now…and I’m back to being badass. Carry on.

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Bitches get stuff done

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My husband moved out 10 days ago. That weekend was full of anxiety for all of us. I’d say he was stressing out the most. It can’t be easy to pack up your things and move away from your children, even if it’s only 5 minutes away. Especially when you don’t want to move out. My anxiety stemmed more from wondering if I’ll be able to manage. Not emotionally…more like, “will I be able to manage the bills? Will I be able to snow blow the driveway?” Over the years, many of our arguments were about chores, which sounds silly to write.  I always felt like I did more than he did, and he always felt like he “did plenty”.  He always thought I was a bitch for complaining about it, and I thought he was taking advantage of me. Typical couple, maybe. I remember him telling me, not too long before he moved out, “You’re going to miss me doing the things I do around here. I’m not going to be here to fix something when it breaks”. He had a point. The man is the handiest person I know. He can fix just about anything, even if he has to invent a way to do it. I pushed that thought away…

So yesterday, I hear a sort of screeching, not so good sound coming from the washing machine. Shit. One week after he moves out and the washer is crapping out on me??  I video tape it and text it to him. “Any idea what’s going on here?” His quick reply, “Nope”. I wondered if that meant “nope, never heard that noise. Sorry, I wish I could help you.” Or, “Nope. Bet you wished I was there to fix it, bitch.” He never really called me a “bitch”, but we both know that’s what he thought.  I decided to assume it was the latter, and used that thought to motivate me. I’m going to fix this. Now, I have never heard of any of my girlfriends ever fixing their washing machines. I really haven’t heard of any of my male friends fixing their washing machines, either… other than my husband. Most people just automatically call the appliance guy, right? Well, seeing how I’m now in charge of paying the bills around here, and I’m about to take a giant pay cut and I really have no savings and I’m panicking about money…I’m not hiring the damn appliance guy unless I exhaust all my options. I post the video on Facebook, asking if anyone knew what it was. Plenty of guys responded, none with any real certainty. “Might be a belt…maybe the bearings”. OK, I know they are trying to be helpful, but a bunch of “maybes” is not going to fix my machine. So, I decide to use my most trusted resource…Google. Turns out, there’s volumes of videos on home appliance repair, FYI.  On Youtube, I learned that if the high pitched sound only occurs during the spin cycle, which it did, then you would want to check the drain pump first. I happen to know what the drain pump is, because my husband often had to empty it when the washer would leak all over the floor from the boys not emptying their pockets. It would usually fill with pencils, coins, candy wrappers…but it never made this screeching sound, it just leaked. I read up a bit more, and found that if you manually rotate the drum and don’t hear the sound, it’s not the bearings. That was easy enough to do, and sure enough, it wasn’t the bearings. So, I watch a few videos on accessing the drain pump. I head into the garage to grab a socket driver…and stare at the empty corner. I forgot he took his tools with him. I scold myself. Why didn’t I think to buy tools? I make a mental note to add “tools” to my shopping list. I forage around our junk drawers and only come up with a few screwdrivers and a hammer. At this point, it’s 8pm. I need to get this done. Well, no…I don’t NEED to, but I really want to. I’ve got something to prove here, dammit! I head over to my brother in law’s and borrow his socket set. It’s funny how I just said that, because I obviously had no idea it was called a socket. “Um, I need a tool that will unscrew these things…they aren’t really screws….sort of like hexagon flat things….like a screwdriver but skinnier with a thing on the end. You know, a thing…like it has a hole shaped like a hexagon, or maybe octagon. I don’t know. The screw things in the washing machine go inside this non-screwdriver thing”.   OK,  so now we all  know what a socket driver is.  You’re welcome.  I race home and  set myself up on the floor with the SOCKET DRIVER and flashlight and get to work. Let’s do this! I find the socket driver attachment thing that fits the other socket thing in the washing machine and start unscrewing. After a good 30 seconds or so, I realize all my twisting has accomplished nothing.  The tools aren’t the right size. Why are the appliance gods forsaking me tonight?  I keep trying, because I really couldn’t stand the thought of failing. Like, if I just keep repeating the same twisting motion, it will suddenly change it’s mind and fit. I spend another 20 minutes there, twisting, pushing, sweating, swearing….almost crying, willing it to work. It doesn’t.   I can’t do this. Hanging my head in defeat, I realize what I have to do. I call him. “I just need to borrow your socket drivers” I say casually, like I’m borrowing a book or a cup of sugar.  “Tonight?” he asks, as it’s now closing in on 10pm. “Yes, tonight. I know what it is, it’s the drain pump. I Googled it”.  I drive over to his new house and follow him into the garage. It’s nearly empty. He still hasn’t moved most of his things from my house. But he had to move the damn tool box, didn’t he?  “I don’t see how the drain pump would cause that noise” he tells me.  I knew he was thinking I didn’t have a clue as to what I was doing. I also knew he was right, but I wasn’t about to let him in on that. “I watched a lot of Youtube videos, so yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what it is” I replied, as I walked out the door. I kept hearing his voice in my head on the ride home, You’re going to miss me doing the things I do around here….

 

By the time I find myself lying on the floor again, it’s after 10pm. No, I did not need to finish this right that  minute, but damn, I was not about to give up now. I was on a mission. This task was going to prove to the world that I wasn’t wrong for making him move out. No, that’s not true. No one thinks that…other than him. This task was going to prove to him that I could survive without him. Wait, was it? Did he even care about me doing this? For all I knew, he was watching the ball game, drinking wine and me an my washing machine were the last things on his mind. No, this task was really going to prove something to me. It was going to prove that I can do this. Not “this”, meaning just the washing machine, but “this”, meaning survive this divorce. Manage things. Not need him there. You’ve got this, Jami.  I lie on my side in front of that damn washer, aim my flash light and get to work. The socket driver fit! I removed the front panel…Hell YEAH! I felt powerful! No wonder he thought he walked on water around here. He fixed things! My moment of empowerment was short lived, though…the drain pump didn’t look like the one I saw on You Tube. Crap. I tried twisting it open, but it wouldn’t budge. The last thing I wanted to do was break the damn thing, so I bit the bullet and called my him…again. “I’ve got the front panel  off…just wondering how to get the pump out. It won’t budge”. I say it so casually, like I remove panels from washing machines every day. I didn’t want him to think I really needed him, just that I wanted some advice…one repairman to another.  He’s genuinely being helpful, which is kind of awesome. He tells me it’s really hard to unscrew and he had to use tools to open it last time. That was validating. He had greased it a bit, but said I probably would have a hard time getting it open and should maybe ask my 16 year old to help me. He then reminded me again that he doesn’t think it’s the pump. I quickly thank him and hang up. It has to be the pump. Please God, let it be the pump. I NEED it to be the God damned pump.  It was do or die time.  I placed a cookie sheet under the drain to catch any water and summoned up the strength and fury of all scorned women and started twisting. My fingers turned purple and this weird sound came out of me, sort of like when you’re 7 centimeters dilated and the baby’s pressing on your sciatic nerve. Just as I feel as though I might pop a blood vessel in my eye, it loosens. Water flows out onto the cookie sheet, with not a drop on the floor. I let my hands collapse and smile at the draining water, like I’m looking at my newborn son. I just made that. I pull the pump out to find it’s completely clogged with two broken pencils, a nickel, and a shredded zip lock sandwich bag. Pretty much the typical contents of my 13 year old’s pockets on any given day. Who the hell carries pencils in their pants pockets? Everything smelled awful and was covered with this strange black slime. I think it was wet lead mixed with whatever was originally in that zip lock bag. I scrubbed it out and reassembled the pump, gently placing it back in it’s little nest, like the efficient washer repairwoman I now was. Wait…why is it that every time I feel accomplished in this story, something goes wrong? As I went to put the front panel back on, I realized I could not operate the socket driver while holding the panel in place. Each time I tried to screw it in, the panel would slide down and the little sprocket thing would roll under the washer. It was so frustrating…I was so close! I used my feet, propped it up with a shoe, tried to tilt the machine backwards…nothing worked. No way in hell was I going to call my husband again. Think, Jami. Just think. I quieted my mind and walked into the garage. It’s filled with every possible thing you could put in a garage… except for tools, of course. As I scan the clutter, it comes to me. I end up using a broken broomstick (yes, we like to keep broken broomsticks around, just in case) to hold the panel in place. I have one end wedged between my chin and chest and the other between the panel and the floor. It was scraping painfully against my neck. Suck it up, Jami. It’s just a flesh wound!  Finally, it’s all back together. I exhale and smile. It’s now after 11pm. I yawn. Oh hell no…we are finishing this shit TONIGHT! I fill the washer with clothes, turn it on and say a small prayer. Please God, let this work. Let me know I can manage. Thirty minutes later, I remember our washing machine takes an unusually long time to run it’s cycle. I mean, really unusually long. It will say “4 minutes remaining” for 40 minutes. I think it’s laughing at us, because we believe it every time. It’s almost done, just 4 minutes to go… Damn. It’s now after 11:30. I settle in on the couch and check my Facebook. People are seriously waiting to see how it turns out. “Well, did it work?” “We’re still waiting to hear”  “Was it the pump?” Not much happening on a Tuesday night in November on Cape Cod, I guess. I go back in the bathroom and just sit in the dark, staring at the clothes. I was so tired. I’m sure I could have dozed off right there, sitting on the bathroom floor. Why the hell does this machine take so long to run? Are we that dirty? Just after midnight, it happened…the spin cycle. Suddenly, I’m as alert as a gazelle on Animal Kingdom. My heart was palpating  and I held a hand over my mouth in anticipation. 30 seconds…one minute…two minutes… Oh my God.  It worked. It freaking worked! Nothing but the smooth sound of a normally working washing machine on the spin cycle. Yes! I pump my fist in the air and strut around the house. Do you hear that? No, no you don’t…because I freaking FIXED it! God, it felt so good! I have to admit, I had no idea appliance repair was so empowering! Why aren’t more women doing this? I took a video of the beautifully quiet spin cycle and posted it to my eagerly awaiting friends, soaking in their praise and admiration. They thought I was pretty badass, and you know what?  I was badass.

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Brag about Jag

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I’m attending a Halloween party tonight and bringing my signature party dish, Jag. I love bringing this to parties because I can  be pretty sure no one else will be making it.  I cringe when I show up with something that someone else brought…it always makes me feel bad for the other person, like I ruined their contribution.  I don’t like carrying that kind of guilt around all night. One time, I brought a Mexican dip to a party and sneaked it back into the car, because I didn’t want the owners of the two other Mexican dips to feel bad when they see no one eating it.  With this dish,  I know I’ll never hear, “Oh, you can just put it on the table next to the other Jags”. More often than not, I have to explain to the guests just exactly what Jag is. I live on Cape Cod, home of clam chowder and lobster rolls. Jag is a Cape Verde beans and rice dish, though often thought of as Portuguese, as it’s full of delicious linguica.  Everyone’s recipe is a bit different, but it really doesn’t matter, because on Cape Cod, in my circle of friends, you can be pretty sure no place I’m going to has even heard of it.  Mine is full of bacon, linguica, butter…(do NOT tell my cardiologist I eat this stuff!) I’m not the type to brag…unless it’s about my Jag. (Damn, the poetry just kinda flowed right there).I’m sorry, but my Jag is the bomb! My friends at this party are expecting it. I can’t show up with paltry cheese and crackers anymore. That’s so beneath me.  People are depending on me! Tonight, as I walk in, the crowd will part to create a path for us.  “It’s here” they’ll whisper. I’ll cradle the pot in my arms, smiling… holding it out towards the food table like Rashiki holding up baby Simba in the Lion King. “Behold…the Jag!” Yes, that’s right…my Jag is as good as a royal newborn son.

I wrote about my Jag once, in my journal. I know I’ve mentioned in my other posts about going to therapy.  My therapist got me started on writing in a journal as a way to process things when I wasn’t in her office. Most who know me know how fortunate I am to have found the perfect match in a therapist. Let’s be real here… she is the best therapist on Cape Cod. I know, I haven’t actually been to any other therapists on Cape Cod… or anywhere, but it’s pretty obvious. Her name is Susan and she is a compassionate, badass, confident, empowering LISCW. She’s the kind of woman who’s not afraid to tell you when you’re off track, but also the first to validate you when it’s right. She has a way of planting seeds in my insecurities that grow into confidence. It’s really hard for me to give an accurate description of her, other than to say that I am 100% sure I would have ended up stuck in that dark, uncomfortable, cold cocoon for the rest of my life if I hadn’t met her. I wouldn’t have even known I was in a cocoon. I just would have died in there, never knowing  I could have fought my way out. She’s given me the tools I needed to chip away at my shell and progress in my transformation to the butterfly. I always kind of feel bad for people when I hear them say they are going to therapy. I think, “gee, it’s too bad they are going to such a mediocre therapist”, which is funny, because I have no idea who they are even seeing. All I know is it’s not Susan, so they must at least be a little sucky. Even when they talk about how much their therapist has helped them, I think “Aw, poor thing. It’s too bad that you think this is good help. Imagine how much better you would be if you went to Susan”. If Susan ever retires, I’m screwed.

Earlier this year, as I started to peel off the layers of trauma, I started to have a spiritual awakening. It’s really a whole other story for another time. Though one interesting part of it was the synchronicity I suddenly  became keenly aware of. It felt as if the Universe was trying to show me that I was on the right path. Coincidences and signs everywhere I turned. Some major, some small, but they happened all the time. Even Susan noticed it. Guess what her signature party dish is? Yep….Jag!

The awakening came at a time when I was doubting so much in my life….doubting myself, mostly, but also the entire process of my therapeutic journey. When you start peeling off those layers you’ve been carrying around all these years, it can get pretty ugly. You begin to wonder if you are doing the right thing. “Hmmm…I’m paying Susan one hundred dollars an hour to make me feel like I’m dying inside?” It seems like the process is taking forever and you begin to think that this might be as good as it gets.

It was an emotionally charged day when I had finally mustered up the courage to tell a friend for the first time about my childhood sexual abuse. I had only told Susan and my husband, and never imagined telling another soul. I honestly couldn’t even believe that I had told them about it. I thought I was taking that shit to the grave. You don’t just go around sharing your shame with people, you know? That’s the whole reason I kept it inside me for 30 years….if anyone ever found out, they would know how dirty and disgusting I was, and realize I was a fraud. As I pulled up to her driveway, overflowing with anxiety and considering turning around and going home, a family of four deer walked out of her back yard, crossing my path on the street. NOT a regular occurrence around here! I’d never seen anything like it. I couldn’t stop thinking about those deer, and how they appeared as I was about to share the most shameful secret of my childhood. Later that day, I looked up the meaning of a deer visit. It symbolizes “the innocence of the inner child”. Whoa. I told my husband, in disbelief.  He was not impressed. How could he not see the connection between the innocence of the inner child and me telling the story of losing my childhood innocence? Come ON!! That man just does not get anything about me. Those next few weeks were dark for me. There were way too many puzzle pieces swirling around in my brain. I was confused and depressed, for sure.  I had been working hard on figuring out how to forgive 13 year old Jami (I was 13 when the sexual abuse started) and I just couldn’t find a way to do it. I thought 13 year old Jami was shameful, dirty and disgusting. I just couldn’t shake it. I was discouraged and felt like giving up on all this therapy. It wasn’t working. I was more miserable than when I started. I remember lying on the couch one day, staring at the TV. My husband and youngest son came home. I could hear my husband say something to my son about “tell Mom what happened this morning”. I pulled myself up to a sitting position for the first time in hours. I knew I was just going through the motions for my family, but it was the best I could do. I looked over at my son, who was just 3 days shy of his 13th birthday. His face lit up as he started to share with me…“Mom, I was getting ready for school this morning and I looked out the window in the back yard and there was a deer looking at me!” I stared at him. It was like I had cleaned the dirt of my glasses and could see clear, for the first time in weeks… no, months. As I stared at him, it happened. I understood the significance of what was going on. God, it was right there, in plain sight, this whole time! It just took the coincidence of the deer to get me to notice. My son was turning 13. My sweet, innocent son. The son who still gives me tender kisses goodnight. The son who plays video games and hasn’t even gotten his braces yet. The son who feels excitement about a deer being in our yard. My inner voice spoke loudly, “He’s 13, just like you were. If that happened to him, would you forgive him?” I got up and went into my room so he wouldn’t see me crying. He’s only 13. If someone molested him, he wouldn’t be dirty. He wouldn’t be guilty. It wouldn’t be his fault. I would not think he was disgusting, shameful or unworthy. 13 year old Eric is pure. So why do I feel those things about 13 year old Jami? And just like that, the dark cloud lifted.

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I just might wear this costume all year long.

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Bully in my brain

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bullyWhen I was first diagnosed with PTSD (and really, even now), I punished myself for having it.  I guess that’s pretty common for people like me. As I journaled through the influx of emotions and hyper-vigilance of those first overwhelming weeks, I wrote and said some pretty nasty things to myself. “Stop being such a drama queen! You’re such an attention whore…these things happened YEARS ago! Get over it!” It was pretty ugly, but I was ugly, so it makes sense. I was a bully.  I shamed myself for needing to go to therapy twice a week. I shamed myself needing therapy at all. I shamed myself for being dramatic and sleeping with a knife by my bed and one eye on the door. I shamed myself for how I felt when I was faced with a trigger. I shamed myself for even having triggers. I shamed myself for my nightmares.  I shamed myself for not being a good enough wife. I shamed myself for spending so much time writing in my journal.  Yeah, I shamed myself for just about everything. That’s PTSD for you. It’s a self-centered bitch that likes to be in charge. “Oh, you’re planning on spending time snuggling your husband on the couch tonight? I don’t THINK so! You’re going to have tachycardia and nausea instead, loser!”  My life was like a giant puzzle tossed in the air…pieces flying everywhere and nothing seemed to connect. I couldn’t put any of it together to see the bigger picture, or even a fragment of the picture. Pieces would fly right in front of me, and slip away before I could make any sense of them. Even a four year old can put together a puzzle. What the hell was wrong with me?

Somehow, I managed to keep it together enough to continue raising my kids and keep my business running. It took every ounce of energy and concentration I had, because what I really wanted to be doing was lying under my blanket in my locked bedroom. I spent most of this year like this: kids, therapy, journal, work, bed…kids, therapy, journal, work, bed.  Unfortunately for my husband, there was no room for him. Journaling was a tool my therapist gave me. She gives me the tools, and I have to figure out how to use them to fix my problems. At least, that’s the plan. Anyway, I just so happened to have signed up for a four week course to become a Certified Alzheimer’s Case Manager, right around the time all this PTSD shit hit the fan. “Great”, I thought. “I have to learn about dementia right now?!” She started the lecture by discussing the brain, specifically the limbic system. I dreaded where this was going, but once we started,  I actually found it to be a welcome distraction from my flashbacks and paranoia. But here’s where it gets exciting… I actually learned about something that was directly related to what I was going through…the amygdala.

In a nutshell, the amygdala ( pronounced “ah-MIG-dah-la”) is a section of the brain that is responsible for emotional responses, including detecting fear and preparing for emergency events. Any physical or psychological threat activates the amygdala. When this happens, the pre frontal cortex part of the brain activates. It assesses the situation and decides whether the threat is real and what to do about it, then shuts down the amygdala. Like when someone startles you…your amygdala reacts with fear, and the pre frontal cortex realizes it’s someone you know and shuts down that fear response. Pretty simple, right?  However, chemical and biological imbalances can present after trauma, resulting in an over-stimulated amygdala. So, instead of the quick “fight, flight or freeze” then relaxation, sufferers often find themselves without the relaxation part of that process. Basically, the amygdala holds on to that trauma…and won’t let go.

“Ahhh…so THAT’S why I feel this way”. It made sense. It was like I put at least 6 pieces of the corner section of my puzzle together. Validation! “So, I’m NOT a drama queen, after all…it’s just my amygdala”. I felt the heavy weight I’d been carrying around just lift from me. I felt…good.  I sort of skipped out there, humming U2’s “It’s a Beautiful Day” and replaced the word “beautiful” with “amygdala”. “It’s an amygdala dayyyyy…..” (yes, I’m that big of a dork). I felt free. Wow…I couldn’t believe an Alzheimer’s class cleared up my PTSD! So easy! Why didn’t my therapist know about this? We could have saved me so much angst…and so many co-pays!  I couldn’t wait to fill her in on the cure I’d just discovered. She was going to be so grateful to me!

Well, that’s kind of funny to read now, isn’t it? Yeah, that euphoria lasted a good 45 minutes or so, before I returned home to my trigger of a husband and learned my next lesson… just because you understand why you have these feelings, doesn’t mean you can control them. So, in perfect traumatized form, I beat myself up for singing that song… for thinking I was better. “You fool. There’s no fixing you. You’re damaged. The whole world doesn’t change just because you took a dumb class, you dumbass. You’re still scared. You’re still needy. You’re still worthless. What’s wrong with you?” God, I  hate that damn bully.

So here I am, 7 months later, still finding I’m beating myself up for my feelings, my needs, my expectations. Only now, since I’ve learned about why I’m such a bully, I’ve found I’m a little less mean. I’m slowly rewiring my brain to allow myself have these feelings and not judge them so harshly.  When I’m feeling sad or insecure, I allow myself to feel sad or insecure (well, sometimes). That in itself takes a boatload of work, but that’s what this journey is: work.  The rewiring work is a heck of a lot easier when you’ve got the right tools. Each therapy visit, each journal entry, each mediation, each yoga class…each one gives me a new tool. Now it’s up to me to remember to use them.

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Dare to dream

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young-nana

This summer, as I was crawling out of the hole of PTSD and facing the brick wall of my husband not wanting to get divorced, I had a  dream. Calling it a dream feels like such an injustice. It was an experience…one that just so happened to occur while I was sound asleep. Yes, that sounds better.

It’s been four months, but I still remember it. You don’t normally remember dreams for this long, but like I said…I’m sure it wasn’t just a dream. Here’s how it went down: In between the hodge podge of me traveling to all sorts of places, staying in weird hotels, bringing the boys skiing, whatever (just a chaotic mix of running around), I come to see my Nana. My sweet Nana, my dad’s mom…the one who I stayed with every weekend after Mom moved away when I was 9.  The female caretaker who gave me the attachment bond I was craving after the bond with my mother was severed. In real life, I wear her wedding band. I have her rocking chair. I use her baking pans. I keep her memory alive in my daily routine as best I can. In the dream, she was there, right in front of me. Sitting at a picnic bench. So vivid. So real.  So beautiful.  I stop the chaotic running around and center myself to her presence. As it is in every single dream I’ve had about her since she died, I know it’s a dream. I know it’s not real, but I don’t care, because I’m just so happy I get to see her sweet face in front of me and not have it be a memory or photograph. Since I know it’s a dream,  I appreciate every second of it, and dread the end…the waking up. Every time I see her in my dreams, she doesn’t talk and I never touch her. That’s just the unspoken rule we both understand…until that night. I see her sitting at the table. She’s looking away from me, like she often does. I get up close to her and look at her face, her skin. It feels so good, so nostalgic, to be that close to her again. I’m absorbing every part of what I see…her cheeks, her neck, her mouth, her hands. She looks up at me. I’m standing next to her as she’s sitting, and she looks up at me, smiling. But unlike her other dream visits, she has tears in her eyes. At first, I can’t tell if she’s really sad or happy. As  I know it’s a dream,  I can appreciate that this is different than when I normally see her. Smiling,  I take her face and I cup it in my hands. I’ve never touched her in my dreams before. This was so special. I’m cupping her chin in my hands, with my fingers holding each cheek. I’m actually feeling my grandmother for the first time in 16 years. God, it felt so real.  Her eyes are welled with small puddles of tears, but she’s smiling. I know I can’t talk to her, nor she to me. That’s the rule.  Touching her grounded me. Amid all the turmoil in my life, touching her made everything bad stop for a few minutes and I felt lovable again. In my mind, I’m thinking “I miss you so much. What am I going to do when I wake up and you’re not here?” Wow, I’m crying as I typed that sentence. She looks at me, and doesn’t talk…but she thinks something, and I can hear it, in my brain. She thought “When you think about missing me, just think about the love you feel all around you. That’s me. That’s my love”. I could hear her think that in my head.I felt the emotion of what she was saying to me. I emerge from this dream hearing a sound emit from my body…like a start of a wail. I wake up to realize she’s gone. I’m in my bed, alone. Except, I don’t feel alone. I realize the magnitude of what just happened, and I feel lucky, because I know she just gave me such a powerful message, even though I’m not sure of what it is. I think that’s why she was crying. She’s sad for what I’m going through, because she loves me like no one has before, but she’s smiling to show me that love and to let me know that she knows I will pull through this and she knows I will be happy.   I’m not 100% sure, but I know it’s close to that. It has to be, because in just writing and remembering it, tears are flowing…and I feel  happy.

I often ask Nana to come to me in my dreams, because her unconditional love makes me feel safe. I want to wrap that love around me like a warm blanket and hibernate forever in it, but you can’t hibernate forever. That would mean you aren’t living.  She never comes when I ask, of course. She comes when it’s time. The week of that dream, I’d been using guided meditations of Lisa A. Romano on the Insight Timer app. They are all about healing the inner child, whether it’s from abuse or neglect or living with narcissistic parents. They are supposed to reprogram your brain to get rid of the thought processes that were created as a byproduct of the abuse. I think the dream was a direct result of  listening to those meditations.  Nana has probably been giving me messages in her dream visits all the time, but I never knew how to receive them or even notice them. I wasn’t open because my thought processes were all screwed up. I was in survival mode, except I wasn’t really surviving. I’ve spent my life sealed shut…my brain’s way of protecting me. But now I’m starting to open. Therapy,  yoga, meditation, exercise…nurturing myself and learning to love myself has cracked open my shell. Nana was crying because she loves me so much…I’m going through all this pain, and she’s feeling it. Except, she’s smiling, because she knows it’s only temporary. She knows. It’s funny how we always shielded her when she was alive. She was so pure, we didn’t want to taint her. “Don’t tell Nana, it would kill her”. She never knew of any troubles I had. Ha! We were so wrong! She knows…and she’s not tainted. She was a stronger woman than we gave her credit for. She was looking at me, though those tears, knowing…and smiling. And I get it now. I’m a stronger woman than I gave myself credit for. Now, I can look at myself, through my tears, knowing….and smiling.

 

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