“Recovery from PTSD is fragile and strong at the same time. It's a wonderful mixture to be constantly dismantled and put together. I am a painting that is almost finished, beautiful but not quite complete. "~ Kate J. Tate
I have never considered myself a trauma survivor.
I didn't think I'd have something as severe as PTSD. I have reserved this diagnosis for those who have suffered from things far worse than me.
Calling me a "trauma survivor" felt dramatic and attention grabbing.
What is trauma? The term is usually tossed around loosely and the meaning can be difficult to identify. Essentially, trauma is an event that overwhelms the central nervous system and exceeds our ability to manage or integrate the emotions associated with the experience. The more fearful and helpless we feel, the more likely it is that we will be traumatized.
PTSD is a mental illness that can develop after a person has been through a traumatic event or has been repeatedly exposed to trauma. But not every traumatic event will lead to PTSD.
It is natural to be afraid during and after a traumatic situation. Our internal "fight or flight" response is the way our bodies protect us from harm. While virtually everyone will experience a range of reactions after a traumatic event, it is those who are unable to properly integrate the experience and when it begins to interfere with daily life it will develop into PTSD.
Symptoms such as flashbacks, bad dreams, or frightening thoughts that last more than a month and are severe enough to affect relationships or work are considered PTSD.
I know this area very well because I have experienced it, but also because I have studied it. I recently graduated as an art therapist and was wondering if it was "professional" to write so openly about something as intense and vulnerable as my own journey through PTSD.
As a student it was perfectly okay to write about the pain of my past. I was still learning, developing, healing. But as a graduate, it feels like I've already solved it. Unfortunately, I realized that healing from psychological trauma can be a lifelong journey.
Those who know me well know that my sister died of suicide. While I rarely speak about the subject, I have written extensively about my grief and pain. It's been seven years since she died and I still feel the trauma from those years before and after her death.
Anyone who has lost someone they love can understand the guilt, shame and isolation that add to the excruciating heartache of their loss. We are often plagued by feelings of guilt. "Wasn't there anything more I could have done?" Suicide is still so misunderstood and stigmatized.
For years I was unaware of the accumulation of trauma on my body until I moved to the other side of the world, met the man I am with today and created a life in which I was at home Environment finally felt safe and secure
With no real threat my mind was confused by the stability of my life. I had dealt with actual life or death situations for over ten years and now there weren't any. It was just calm and quiet.
It wasn't long before I was dragged into another kind of storm, a toxic workplace. What made matters worse was that I couldn't quit or go on a stressful vacation if I wasn't ready to leave the country. In essence, my visa to stay in Australia was tied to this job.
I saw a lawyer and was told if I wanted to stay in the country I would have to hold out for the next two and a half years. Only then could I stop. It felt like I had been sentenced to prison.
The feeling of being trapped and helpless sparked memories of my past when I was fighting to save my sister's life. After having a panic attack at work and being prescribed three different types of medication, I became seriously concerned about my health.
It scared me because I did everything I was supposed to do. I ate well, exercised, saw a psychotherapist, and meditated almost every day. I worked relatively well on the outside. Still, I had terrible stomach pains, regular nightmares, and severe chest pain.
Finally these painful two and a half years passed and the day came when I could finally stop. The last time I left the office, I almost kissed the floor in euphoria. I felt so free and alive. Magically all of my physical symptoms subsided. I was finally able to breathe and appreciated every single easy breath.
Unfortunately, it didn't last. Slowly but surely, all known physical symptoms of anxiety were slowly returning. This made me realize that all of this unprocessed pain is still in my body. I finally understood what Eckhart Tolle was referring to when he spoke about "the pain body". I knew I needed to heal myself by better understanding my unconscious triggers.
Of course I had no idea how to go about this because they are unconscious. This led me to where I am now; a so-called desensitization and reprocessing of eye movements (EMDR).
The aim of EMDR is to process traumatic memories and to integrate them into normal, less emotionally charged memories. I expected that the first session would "heal" me and leave a new person just in time for my art therapist degree! But of course life rarely follows what we expect from it.
My psychologist also stated that EMDR is best suited for a one-time traumatic event like a car accident. For those like me who have complex PTSD, a few more sessions are usually required. In addition to the monthly EMDR sessions, my psychologist recommended that I read The Body Keeps the Score and try trauma-sensitive yoga. I also take a meditation practitioner course where I meditate daily and learn from wise teachers like Tara Brach, Eckhart Tolle and Deepak Chopra.
While the process was unbearably slow, I can feel a little more space in my heart. The pace still makes me angry at times if I'm honest. But I know that rush and rush do not aid the healing process. In fact, it appears to have the opposite effect. Now I'm doing what I've never done before: slowing down. Create time for conscious silence through meditation and connect with my body to learn its language through yoga.
I now have moments when I feel overwhelmed by my to-do list and my whole body feels tense. Usually, I can pinpoint exactly when I've fallen out of my tolerance window because I suddenly have the urge to react immediately to every single thing. Not a moment to lose! Get out of my way!
In these moments I stop. I relax my shoulders and take a deep breath. When I am inundated with anxiety-inducing thoughts about any worst case scenario, I think about the opposite of those thoughts. This pause could be less than a second and then the train of thought swarms me out again. If so, I try my best to be compassionate and forgive myself for falling back on my old ways.
We are who we are due to years of repetition that led to habits. I can create a new one. I change every day. These moments of silence and peace during the day add up. They are the building blocks for a new way of being. They are the daisies and sunflowers on their way to healing.
There are no shortcuts or accelerator programs that can be "cured". At least none that I know of. It takes time to break through the fog of the past and settle into the stillness of being. To let go of the pain we once endured and return to the life that now lies ahead. It requires continuous daily exertion and requires inordinate forgiveness and compassion.
If I don't know if I'll ever get a full cure, and maybe that's not the point. Maybe it's about expanding my tolerance of everything that it means to be human. Perhaps the way to be a healer of any kind is not to show people the way, but just to be with them. We all experience things so differently anyway. There is no one size fits all.
In the meantime, I keep doing what I do. Or continue what I am. Take every day as it comes. One breath at a time.
About Kimberly Hetherington
Kimberly Hetherington is a Canadian writer and art therapist based in Sydney, Australia. She loves to write, read, create, listen to podcasts, be in nature and have the kind of conversation that goes beyond the "mask" of everyday life. On her website you can learn more about her journey through grief and loss, hope and self-discovery.
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