Monthly Archives: June 2017

I am NOT traumatized

“Cara, you’re traumatized. You have trauma in your body cells that you can’t remove. But that’s okay, because when I pray just now, God is going to banish the trauma from your cells and you are not going to live another day traumatized.”

That was how I was introduced to PTSD. This statement did nothing for me but freak me out, which, for an apparently “traumatized” person, this surely is not a good feeling to have in front of a counselor; the very person who is supposed to make me feel better, not worse.

Worse yet, was the next morning when the perfume of the lady on the bus next to me sent me into an episode of flashbacks and dissociation(which I didn’t actually have a name for then as I didn’t know what was going on), and I realized that God in fact hadn’t “banished the trauma from my cells” as my counselor had said She would. So, alongside the normal fright, confusion, and exhaustion that follows flashbacks, there was now an illusion added to the mix that being “traumatized” must be my destiny, since the quick fix suggested by the professional hadn’t worked.

This initial encounter with (false) awareness with PTSD led me to stigmatize my own illness. I let myself wear the label of “traumatized”, which for me portrayed weakness and inability to cope with life’s obstacles. I also believed that there was a quick fix for PTSD, and that if I couldn’t find it or make it miraculously heal me over night, then I would diminish all possibilities of ever being able to undress from the “traumatized” label I made myself wear.

But fear not! This story gets better!

Now, after legitimate diagnosis and treatment, my understandings of my PTSD are much healthier and more truthful:

  1. Just because I have PTSD, I do not see myself as a traumatized person. Rather, I am a whole being who has experienced some traumatic events in my past, and sometimes my body and brain forget that these events aren’t still happening now, and like to default into coping mechanisms that helped me to survive at the time. This isn’t my fault. It’s just bad luck that my brain was affected in this way.
  2. There is no quick fix for PTSD. PTSD is a physical, chemical change in my amygdala and hippocampus that will not be magically healed over night. My brain needs re-training. It needs to be taught that it doesn’t need to activate the fight-or-flight response everyday anymore. It needs to be taught how to differentiate past memories with the present-day reality. This takes a lot of practice, patience, and love, just like training a puppy.

In saying this, however, I definitely do still have my moments. I have moments of wondering whether I will ever be able to fully escape my past. I have moments of guilt, self-blame, and self-victimisation. I have moments of convincing myself I don’t have the energy to face another day of differentiating reality vs brain-tricks; past vs present; healthy vs unhealthy coping mechanisms.

But each day I am coming to a deeper understanding of who I am without the trauma, and learning how to be more and more in touch with the reality of my present, rather than my past.

Just some facts that everybody should know:

  • Not everybody who experiences trauma develops PTSD, and those of us who do aren’t weaker or more “stuck in our past” than those who don’t. It’s just bad luck that our brains were affected in this way.
  • Not only war veterans suffer from PTSD, and it can develop from both an accumulation of experiences as well as from just one experience.
  • PTSD isn’t weakness. It’s an illness.

 

I’m not destined to flashbacks and dissociation for the rest of my life because of my experiences. I fully believe that one day I will be 100% free of PTSD.

Please bear with me a moment while I undress from my “traumatized” label, and banish it from every ounce of my being.

I will never be seen wearing it again.

 

Dear Creator

Dear Creator,

This weekend I’ve seen so many beautiful things.

They’re not new things. Mountains, snow, ducks, waxeyes, fantails, lakes, tussocks, sunsets…

But this weekend I’ve seen new beauty in them. My mind is blown at the intricate detail of beauty; the many many different levels and layers of beauty around me. I feel overwhelmed when I think deeply about Your power and beauty reflected in Your creation. I am reminded that You place beauty right in front of my eyes every second of every day, yet I forget to focus my lens. Forgive me.

I also learn that if You have put this much effort and love into Your creation of the beautiful things around me, the amount of effort and love you’ve put into Your creation of me must be

truly,

gigantically,

spectacular.

 

You must love me more than I could ever imagine. And that’s really quite an overwhelming thought. I don’t think I realise how much love, care, and hope that has gone into Your crafting of me.

Surely, one can only craft as much love into others’ lives as she understands is crafted into her own…

You are the potter who creates uniquely beautiful mugs, in the hope that one day they will be the source of life and replenishment for those with whom they cross paths.

As I take a moment to fully take that in, I find myself close to tears. Surely I don’t deserve this. Why do you love me so much?

“I just do.” I hear you tell me.

“All I need is for you to accept it.”

 

My gratitude is out of this world. Not only for Your creation of me, but for the beauty You have surrounded me with.

You are truly…

…there’s not even a word. Powerful isn’t enough. Magnificent isn’t enough. Wonderful isn’t enough.

And as a word person this really frustrates me!

 

“All I need is for you to accept it”, you repeat.

Eyes

The naturally gentle, sobering, rocking-chair-like motion of the car ride becomes roller-coaster-like tossing from side to side as we travel further and further away from civilisation. It’s best to keep my eyes on the road, especially since Ellice beat me to shotgun.

But from the corner of my eye I notice his. Both of them. Gorgeous, wide, infant, Italian. Except this isn’t my usual lively, pleasantly-surprised wide-eyed brother. This time the wide eyes are glassy, accompanied with a frown and pouty puppy lips.

They don’t leave my face. Mine don’t leave the road. What’s he upset about? As mine meet his, his gaze suddenly shifts out the window. I no longer see the pout, but I hear the whimpering.

My hand on his knee prompts his knees to his chest.

So we return to our starting positions.

His eyes on me. Mine on the road.

And, action.

My eyes on his. His out of sight.

And so we practice this scene. Over and over again.

Except this is not a play.

It’s my fault. The glassy eyes are my fault. The whimpers are my fault. The frown. The puppy pout. They’re my fault because his big sister isn’t in his life.  His big sister isn’t in his life while he’s growing into a young man. She’s not there to see him swim his first lap of the pool; to read his first written story; to help him count out his pocket money as he makes his first purchase.

It breaks my heart to see his broken. It twists my mind to think I must return home soon.

It takes all my energy to remind myself I have my own life to get on with. That with a twelve-year age gap there comes separation and sacrifice. That the bond of blood is there for life and will still be there for my next visit.

If only a six year old had the capability of holding this understanding too.