The alarm hasn’t yet gone off, but I am awake. I’ve been so since about 5:30, like many mornings. The oblivion of sleep, its escape from reality, at least on the nights I have no nightmares, is over. While my regular blanket keeps me groggy and warm, the weight of the other blanket starts pressing me into the mattress. It is the heavy sensation of feeling scared, hopeless, and like I have done something wrong and will soon be in trouble. I neither want to stay in bed nor get up. I wish I could just sleep in oblivion all day. Getting up means facing another day of writing, struggling to live with the pain it releases, and holding the chaos I feel inside.
I get up anyway, because by now, in my 7th decade, I know that this is part of my life, my existence, at least for the time being. Even as I felt great last night, felt ready to take on the world, yet again, this morning, the black cloud was there to greet me when my eyes opened and consciousness returned. But life has taught me that, like the weather, everything eventually changes. You just have to wait long enough. So for now, I just focus on my “routine.”
The routine. It is something I had to create after I retired from teaching at Raleigh’s North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences. When I was working, I didn’t have time to feel all of this. I had to get up, get moving, battle traffic, and then revel in the last job of my life — which was my total joy.
Painting by author – Author as an infant on hood of her father’s car
Driven to paint
Before I share below a sampling of the visual elements I am using in my book, I thought I would share the “WHY” I not only used them, but HAD to use them.
Rebuilding my life
The book incorporates the story not only of the abuse I endured, but also of my journey from my parents’ house—the depression and despair—to my rebuilding, and my creating of a meaningful life.
Even after the initial crises of my escape and recovery with the help of good therapists and friends, I would return for rounds of therapy off and on throughout adulthood. Given all of the life lessons I had missed out on during my early phases of life, I looked at it as “preventive maintenance.” Why “wing something” when I wasn’t sure how to handle it and risk messing it up, then have to fix it? Better to learn as I went along.
The traumas of life
This approach worked well, and I thought I had finally put the past to rest…until midlife. Menopause hit. My husband almost died. The dog did die. My son left for college. All at once. But even worse, those new traumas blasted open a well of trapped emotions I never realized were even there. Like opening Pandora’s box, it unleashed a flood of unresolved depression, anxiety, flashbacks, nightmares…severe PTSD. At the time, I had no idea what was going on. Desperate and having major anxiety, I began working with a skilled trauma specialist who was and remains a godsend in my life.
This was fortunate because, in addition to everything that I was dealing with, I also began navigating the last chapters of my parents’ lives and their deaths. It was then that I realized just how much work I still had to do.
The past comes calling to claim its due
Those first decades of adulthood had been about building a life. Now, it was about returning to the past to address the well of unfinished business and unresolved pain that had come forward to claim its due. It had patiently waited a lifetime…my son came first all those years. But now, it was time for me…and that long-suffering child.
However, I had no tools to reach the pain, to know how much was there, or to express it. I only knew its presence through the agony of body memories and nightmares. That was when I made the discovery that art heals.
The “ancient history look” of 1950s black-and-white photos
It’s one of those typical 1950s black-and-white photos found in family albums — those of the era of the late Baby Boomers but before the 1960s when you could more easily obtain color film. It has that dated look and these days, it could simply be viewed as “back then, ancient history.” Only the car gives a clue as to the time period. The bottom line is that this picture comes across more as something found in a history book than a real moment out of a real life. So, while I’ll use some photos in this book, for a large part I am going to use paintings.
The details of a photo…
Why? First, check out the difference when viewing that same moment in full color:
In one respect, I wish I could go back in time to 1955-1957 and be a fly on the wall in this apartment. But maybe it’s better I can’t. Whatever went on at 57 xxxx Avenue is something I will never know because I can’t remember…consciously. But boy my body does.
The battle-scarred lioness thrives with quiet confidence
Painted by the author
Have I said that I love being older? And no, I am not being facetious. I truly DO love being older. No, I am not fond of arthritis, pre-diabetes, or fatigue. But I have received some “gifts” from life that may at first seem not so “gift-like.” And while I can’t say I wished for or enjoyed the experiences, I AM grateful for the strength they gave me.
Quiet power
Friends of mine traveled to Africa not long ago. As they shared pictures of savannah landscapes, giraffes nibbling on tree leaves, spectacular sunsets, one picture jumped out at me and I knew immediately that it was “mine.”
There in the photo, on the side of the road some distance from their vehicle, lay a lioness. She was not young — her face testified to the fact she had fought and survived a number of battles in life. “Experienced” is a good way to describe her — not old, but not a novice.
Her demeanor as she rested in the twilight, seemed one of perfect ease. Not oblivious, she was certainly scanning and vigilant. But there was no evidence of fear or anxiety. In fact, to me she seemed almost …bored is not the right word, but maybe “unimpressed.” As if to say “is this the best you can throw at me for a challenge?”
What I saw, looking at her in that photo, was quiet power — the sense that she could be there alone, apparently at ease, not because there were no possible threats in the bushes, but because in spite of whatever might come at her, she would meet it as she always did. Because she had done it before. She emanted this sense that she knew what to do, knew her own power, and thus, she would meet the challenge.
A kindred spirit
When I saw the picture, before I could even speak it, my gut almost yelled “YES!” And I knew I needed to paint her. Like that lioness, I bear the scars of many battles over a lifetime. I have been broken and brought to my knees many times by the twists and turns of life. And I won’t say I am “grateful” for those battles. No one happily seeks out fear, wounds, threats, or pain. But the one thing the battles did give me was the awareness of my own capabilities and power.
In my early years I was prevented from fighting back, and had to step back out of fear. But gradually, I grew stronger and rose to the challenge. I didn’t always win the battles. Sometimes they were a bloody, messy draw at best. But…I showed up. I stood up for what I felt was right. I learned to trust my gut, dig down deep, and find I really did have courage even in the midst of terror. Being tested, forced to choose between running or standing firm, I learned I could sustain and do whatever I thought was the honorable thing in that moment. I learned that I “could take it,” and what my capabilities were, so that became a gift even if I wouldn’t have chosen it.
Scars
Many of us have scars from life. We are no longer the pristine version of ourselves when we first arrived in this world. But the scars possess a power, bestow a beauty upon us that can only come from meeting a challenge and emerge maybe on our knees, maybe still standing, but unbowed. And the fact we are still here means we got back up and met the next challenge. And the next. And thus, we also have the ability to stop now and then, take our ease, and survey our path to our current moment.
As to those scars, many of us carry them on the inside, invisible to others. But it doesn’t matter. They are real, we earned them, and we know what they have knighted us with. Even if life or others were to strip us of everything we have, they cannot strip us of the power of that hard-earned wisdom and the honor that comes with it. That power is ours to keep, and it is that power that allows us to take our rest at moments, even as we know more challenges will come.
To know yourself…and your power
So now, in a twilight moment, no longer young, but still very much alive and aware of my abilities, I take a rest now and then. And I know that whatever the future holds, I will stand…or kneel… to meet it, but meet it I will, because I’ve done it before. Like that lioness…I know what to do, I know I can take it, and win, lose, or draw, I will do it.
The Roman philosopher and leader, Seneca, captured the gift of adversity perfectly when he said to those who had never been tested:
“I judge you unfortunate because you have never lived through misfortune. You have passed through life without an opponent — no one can ever know what you are capable of, not even you.”
I live with PTSD and anxiety. I have my whole life, even for those decades when I didn’t know it, or denied it. I just shrugged it off as irritable bowel, being “high-strong,” or having a small bladder. Other than that I was fine, no different than anyone else, right? Because if you ignore what you feel, mobilize some anger at your “weakness” and push harder, of course you will get over it, right?
Be KIND to anxiety???
There are so many things wrong with that paragraph I won’t even waste time to list them.
Now, I am not a psychologist so I am not going to give anyone advice. I will just relate my own experience. As to the above, that is how I lived my life for years, and I will simply say that unless you are looking to cause yourself more harm, I wouldn’t recommend it.
I now work with a wonderful trauma specialist. And anytime I said anything like the above to her, if I didn’t get an eye roll, I would see her take a deep breath, smile with compassion, maybe say something like “Yes, well…” and then proceed to help me understand why treating myself that way was me abusing myself the way I’d been abused for years.
For starters, she said: “ You come by your anxiety honestly,” by which she meant it would have been abnormal not to have PTSD and anxiety after what I lived through. That was a major revelation to me. I actually had to take a bit of time to wrap my head around the fact I wasn’t being weak. And imagine that, there was actually a valid reason for what I was experiencing.
Second, when we first started working together I was shocked to see the amount of compassion she showed me. That was certainly nothing I’d experienced much of in my earlier years, never mind allowed for myself. So Clue #2 — perhaps I was not approaching this whole “healing thing” correctly?
“Weak” vs “tough”
Regarding “weak,” I should note that I grew up in a situation where weakness was reviled and it was all about being tough. And I had to be anyway because it was survival. The mantra I learned was “hurry up and get over it.”
I remember having a stomach flu one time and right after being ill my father insisted I needed to eat because I needed to get over this fast. So I came by “tough” honestly, too.
My therapist gradually helped me understand there was nothing wrong with being kind to myself, and that believe it or not, healing is a life-long endeavor. I learned that PTSD and the various things that came along for the ride in me — depression, anxiety, and anger — made total sense given the stress-hormone-fueled cocktail that flooded my system for decades. I joked with a friend, that I had no idea what “calm” felt like, except for maybe the time I was coming out of anesthesia after a colonoscopy. It finally started sinking in that I had a fair bit of “relearning” to do.
The nature of trauma and PTSD
Given I spent my adult life in medical research, I did what I did best — hunted for information that would teach me what I’d not learned my whole life. I consumed research journals and Psychology Today articles on anxiety, stress, and PTSD. I read books, such as one my therapist recommended: Bessel van der Kolk’s The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. I read anything and everything to help me understand why my body felt like the painting above. Once I realized how totally unaware I’d been of how poorly I was treating myself, I was hungry for all the knowledge I could get. After all, I might be decades late, but I can be taught.
So then, of course, I did the opposite. I figured that if I read everything I could find, worked as hard as possible with my therapist as fast as possible, and pushed myself to relax and meditate and… Yeah. It might not have been the stomach virus anymore, but it was still that “hurry up and get well” mentality. So much for self-compassion and letting healing become a way of life.
Compassion?
I will say with total gratitude, that my therapist is a blessing and the most patient, compassionate person I have ever dealt with besides my husband and a few good friends. Like coming back to the breath when you get distracted in meditation, she kindly brings me back, again and again, to self-compassion…and at least the “suggestion” of patience with myself.
Her knowledge of Yoga and meditative techniques also rekindled the practices I had first started learning in the 1990s when I came across a wonderful book by the former Buddhist monk Jack Kornfield, A Path With Heart. It was all about the reminder that life is filled with suffering, but that we can still show ourselves and others compassion. It was such a help, as were books by Pema Chodron and other meditation practitioners.
This is not to say that this fixed my PTSD. No, nor the anxiety. In spite of all my work in life, that “word salad” still walks with me. Yet, progress does come and I recently had another “aha” moment.
The moment of insight
I was sitting on the couch, aware of those pesky tendrils of anxiety starting to spread through my body, as they often do, uninvited. My initial thought was one of “God, when will this ever go away?” and an answer immediately flashed across my brain: “Never.” But instead of being upset, I actually felt a calmness at that. A sense finally, of acceptance and the awareness I wouldn’t be failing if I just stopped fighting it.
In that moment, I was aware of a level of compassion coming in along with the anxiety. It occurred to me that the frantic, anxious part of me…WAS me. A piece of me. She was my lifelong companion, maybe even a friend of sorts — she sure could be as we’d traversed enough of my life together.
Finally, the awareness dawned on me that I could either spend the rest of my life hating her or…I could simply accept her…welcome her in. I could offer that part of me love and acceptance, and invite her to just “come on over, and sit with me and we will weather the storm together until it eases.”
“Holding the baby”
This is not to downplay the discomfort or the need for my anxiety meds or continued therapy. But something shifted in that moment just a bit…something softened. To just stop the battle against myself was actually a relief.
After all, if I had a friend who was struggling and upset, what would I do with them? I knew without question — I’d hug them. I’d walk beside them and tell them I love them no matter what. It wouldn’t cure their anxiety, but it would give them relief to know they were loved, accepted, and not alone. So why wasn’t I doing this for myself?
I flashed on this image of “calm me” just holding that quivering stressed-out me and saying gentle words of love. And I remembered a quote I’d read years ago by the Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh, about holding ourselves like a mother holding and calming an upset infant. Sure, he was talking about managing anger but the same thing applies to anxiety:
Anger is like a howling baby, suffering and crying. Your anger is your baby. The baby needs his mother to embrace him. You are the mother. Embrace your baby.
Embracing the Tiger Within: Meditations on Transforming Difficult Emotions Thich Nhat Hanh
I figured, if it works for anger, then it might work for anxiety. And God knows, I struggle with anger and impatience too, so what could I lose to try?
Two sides of the same coin
And then, the other day I found the Psychology Today article by Leon F Selzer, PhD: “Why Anger is Nothing More Than Repressed Anxiety,” and if that didn’t set off waves of self-recognition, nothing would.
Dr. Selzer explaied how “anxiety and anger are two sides of the same emotional coin, kindred states of ‘agitated unease.’” That hit me. He went on to explain that “most people would prefer to ‘mutate’ their anxiety into anger…” He noted that anger gives a person the “illusion” of regaining control and it was a “pseudo-solution” to the self-shaming that went along with having anxiety.
Well, hello again. In one short article, he connected the dots between my anxiety, the shame I always felt at “failing to get rid of it,” and my anger and impatience. I resorted to that last one because at least getting angry and taking some action seemed better than being “weak, anxious and stuck.”
The “antidote”
I suddently understood what Thich Nhat Hanh was getting at, and why his antidote to anger had deep relevance as an antidote to anxiety. Imagine that — self-compassion as a better way of life than kicking yourself? Who would have thought.
Now no, it doesn’t mean I will not feel that familiar creeping sensation of anxiety at unexpected moments, or that I can stop working with a therapist, or doing all the self-caring things she recommends. I just finally understood for the first time in almost 7 decades, how nice it is to be nice to me. So, now, when things get upsetting, I can hold my own “baby” with care, and at least I don’t have to add “self-hate” to the word salad of things I live with.
If anyone else has felt that familiar sinking sensation of fear spreading through your nervous system, I would of course encourage them to seek their own therapist, mentor, or spiritual guide to help them explore and navigate ways to healing. But I can also add that for anyone, giving oneself a few moments of quiet attention, love, and “holding your own baby” is always a soothing and loving experience. May you all find a way to “comfort that inner being.”
Soul Mosaic 