Tag Archives: ptsd

a hard thing

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18

The day before yesterday I learned that Sara, a WordPress blogger, took her own life. I’ve been bereft since then, mainly because I feel I have no right to feel this way. For a period of time, Sara and I corresponded after she posted about her experience at Sheppard Pratt. In that particular posting she ranted in that brilliant and funny way of hers about Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT). I resonated with her rant because I also find it exhausting that too many of these places that treat PTSD and DID put all their eggs in the DBT basket. DBT is not a bad concept, it certainly has its’ good points … but please it is not the be all and end all cure for PTSD. I had completed a stay at Mclean Hosptial’s residential program for traumatic and dissociative disorders, and it was interesting for both of us to hear about each other’s experiences in what many consider the top two psychiatric programs for PTSD in the country. From our correspondence you could see that we both found our programs acceptable, but way too ballyhooed for their own britches.

Sara was much more articulate than I was in ranting about it. I wish I could recall the specifics of what she wrote.

I am most disappointed in myself because I fell out of contact with her. It’s one of those things that happens when life gets in the way.

I will further admit that I became aware that Sara lived less than a 3 hour drive from me. In the back of my mind I planned to tell Sara that I lived close enough to drive to her, and I would ask if she would like to meet. But, it never came to pass. My own life struggles take center stage far too often, and that plan never got off the back burner. Now it will never be.

I sit here stuck now in front of my laptop computer, immobilized from disappointment and undeserved grief.

just hold on

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3

You’ve come to realize the depths of your self-loathing today. You subscribe to “dissociative identity disorder” google news alerts, and today you received such an alert. The news alert featured a story with a video of someone describing their experience with DID, and in the video the person briefly spoke using the voices of all of their alters. You find yourself wincing as you watch this, and you ask yourself Why? Why would I wince at this? You wince because you see how it looks to others. There’s no question it looks strange. You look strange enough in life (with your thick glasses and nondescript face, for starters), and to have another piece of strangeness (DID) juxtaposed upon your original strangeness sometimes feels like a strangle hold, an infinite prison of madness and weirdness.

As much as you have grown to love Letty, your younger alter, you hate having DID. You wish you could somehow give it back, return it, exchange it, anything but have it. But, that is not how this works. It’s not how it works with any mental illness. It’s here, ensconced in your being, and you have to learn how to cope with whatever ails you.

DID is the great division between you and the rest of the world. It’s the big secret that you have to constantly weigh when and if to disclose it to people. You know, you’ve heard it all …

“DID is what saved you, kept you from going insane, made it possible to survive your childhood.”

Lately, you truly wonder what the worth was in being saved. Saved to function in some half-assed way with the DID albatross? Yes, because that’s a full life, getting all triggery, and freaky from time to time with PTSD, DID or a lovely hybrid of both. And, you argue that DID helped you go insane. It most certainly did not protect you from mental illness.

If only DID was like a rock you could throw back into the ocean. Alas, no. DID is something you have to work around, like a part of the road that tends to flood. You either avoid that road when it rains, or you do the hard work to fix it.

DID is full body robbery. It robs your mind, your body and your voice, all at the same time. The professionals call it protection. Let’s dispense with the euphemisms. It’s robbery. You see people with similar talents to you, and you are keenly aware that they are going to surpass you. You are further aware that they are going to surpass you because they are not held back by mental illness. You can plot all your career setbacks, and they are all attributed to your DID or PTSD. Either you let promotions pass you by because you know you should minimize your stress, or you’ve had situations with people because you are so sensitive. It’s been abundantly clear to you that the best loves and friends you’ve lost can be connected back to these two issues. You despise that you are this way. You desperately want to NOT be DID, but you might as well throw a penny into a wishing well because that’s how likely your desire to NOT be DID will come true.

You find yourself again thinking of the news article that brought a spotlight to your self-loathing, and you realize your own hypocrisy in that you want people to accept you, DID and all, but you wince at the mere sight of someone telling their DID story on the news. Ok, so you’re a hypocrite, but now what? What is one to do with this information?

Right now, in this moment, all you can do is tell yourself that in another time, and another place, heck, maybe tomorrow, you will feel differently about yourself. You’ll be kinder and nicer, and you’ll be glad you’re here. Until then, all you can do is hold on, and try not freak any more people out along the way.

Inside and outside

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2

Yoga has lost it’s initial allure for me. I was taking all of my yoga classes from the same yoga teacher, Anna, a vivacious thirtysomething gal with long brown hair and a penchant for for eschewing the typical “yoga music” in favor of songs like Van Morrison’s “Moondance” or Kenny Chesney’s “You and Tequila.” Her music choices are odd, but they strangely work. Her goofiness is often displayed during her teaching, such as the moment she asked us to “put our hands together.” Then she thought better of it, and said, “Pancake your hands together. Hmmm … pancakes … I sure could use a stack of them right now.” And the class just giggles with her.

I found Anna after I stopped going to the “Gentle Yoga” class at this same studio that was given on Sunday mornings. It was advertised as “appropriate for all levels,” but, no, it is much preferred that you know what you are doing. For some reason, all the yoga teachers at this yoga studio are infatuated with the flowy vinyasa style, which is fine if you tell us that the class will be taught in this style. This teacher’s favorite thing was to have us flow from plank pose to downward dog. There may have been another pose in between those two. The flow was hard for me, but I was doing it to the best of my ability when all of a sudden I hear the instructor say, “Nope, nope, nope. We need to take a timeout.” There I am unaware and wondering what could possibly be wrong when she comes over to me, and says, “No, that is not what we are doing.” She then demonstrates for me what my flow should look like, but I am unable to do it as I stumble in my efforts with the entire class stopped and mouths a bit agape. She then gives up, and says to me, “It’s a learning thing that you need to work on,” as if stretching the word “learning” will hasten my mastery of what I need to do. Mean Sunday Teacher has since changed the title of this class to “Hot Yoga Flow.” Every time I see her I am tempted to say to her, “You didn’t have to change the name. No chance of me returning after our last interaction.” I’ve refrained because these days I can never tell if I say too much.

Then there’s that moment 3 Saturdays ago where we were doing the Seated Forward Bend in Anna’s allegedly advertised “Gentle Yoga” class on Saturday morning. There I am seated and bending, though my bend is barely a bend, but trying to bend nonetheless. Anna is going around making adjustments as she always does. I think nothing of it when she comes over, places her hands on my back and asks me to breathe deeply, and when I do she gently pushes me forward. At the time I thought nothing of it, but, for some reason, I am convinced that this is when I hurt my back. There is a chance it could have happened during another part of this class, but it definitely happened in this class. It was likely a bad sign at the start of class when she looked out at us, smiled, and said, “I’m not feeling gentle today.” Apparently, she also was not up to keeping the room at normal temperature because the temperature warmed up considerably, and I was not dressed appropriately for yoga that was warm or hot. Between the heat and the too far Seated Forward Bend it was a recipe for bad news. As I left the class I was incredibly sore, which made me initially unaware of my back injury. My whole body felt like a Mack truck ran over it.

By the next day it was clear that I had a muscle spasm in my upper back. The pain intensified as the days wore on until I finally dragged myself to acupuncture for relief. Four sessions later, I am improved though I still have intermittent twingy pain in my upper left back. It saddens beyond measure that this occurred in Anna’s class.

I miss yoga and hate it all at the same time. Anna has since changed the title of Saturday “Gentle Yoga” class to “Hot Power Yoga.” That’s what it should have been called from the start. I no longer go to this class, and I’m attending only her evening slow flow class because the class is as advertised. Even so, I am not entirely comfortable in her classes. I miss the way the right sad song, such as “You and Tequila,” in one of her classes during shavasana would cause a single tear to fall out of my eye, and right into my mouth. The saltiness of the tear was strangely cathartic.

I’ve started venturing out to other classes. Last Sunday I took a Yoga Nidra restorative class. The room was arctic, and that detracted a bit from the restorative aspect of the class. The instructor was neither friendly nor rude, a strangely indescribable affect that does not entice me to return. It’s unfortunate because I liked all the comfy props that prop you into a blissful state of being. More than that, I liked the practice.

Today I found a Svaroopa yoga class, what a fun name, Svaroopa! I amuse myself just saying the name. You use a lot of props to support your body in the poses, it’s safe for people with back injuries, at least, according to the brochure it is … I am late because I am a ding dong with getting moving on Saturday mornings. I’ve no good reason for my lateness.

Mercifully, I finally find the strip mall that has the Svaroopa yoga class. I walk in, and, literally, walk into the class. You open the door and you immediately are in the midst of the yoga class if one is in session. I was exactly 1 minute late, but they were engaged as if they had been at it for at least 15 minutes. I was mortified. The instructor came over, and kindly whispered to me when I could come over to join them. I then learned I did not need my yoga mat as the practice is done on a thick blanket. One could walk into this class with absolutely no knowledge of yoga, and still fully participate in the entire class without difficulty.

Unfortunately, it was very cold in the class, but I liked her style of teaching. I am catching on that cold yoga studios may be the norm in the colder months in the Northeastern United States. If I return I will have to become accustomed to her propensity to repeatedly say “inside and outside” during body sending meditation. I get so distracted by her intonation that it becomes a song in my head “inside and outside” …

Inside and outside I am lost in my search for a yoga home.