This Is My 100th Post!

One hundred posts. Here we are. You and me and one hundred posts!

Soooo.... <swings arms awkwardly>

What do you wanna do now?

_____

For reals, though, 100 posts is sort of something, isn't it? This has truly become a living, breathing thing, this blog; this action of writing what is happening to me despite my conditioned resistance to peek between my fingers and watch.

Over these one hundred posts, I have gone from feeling so stiff and alien in my own voice on the page-- unaccustomed as I was to speaking this way after so many silent years-- to comfortably re-inhabiting what I think is my most natural environment: right here at the keyboard, where I was always meant to be.

That first post, 2 1/2 years ago, took me two full weeks to write, and it's only a couple of paragraphs. I was so nervous then, so afraid of getting it wrong. 

I didn't know what would happen if I wrote it down. I wanted you to come and read, and react, and respond, but I didn't know if or why you would. I wasn't sure I'd be able to create anything worth responding to. I wasn't sure what I was hoping for, really. I had no idea, then, where it was possible for this project to go.

But I did write it, finally, painstakingly; drafting and redrafting that first post so many times I'm amazed anything finally made it out at all. And then, gauntlet thrown, I had to go and write some more, and in my awkward way I began to spool out the stories of the accident and the injuries and those first few months afterward, and set the stage for everything that has happened since.

I kept coming back to it because you kept reading, reacting, responding. You, the readers who began this journey with me, and the ones who have joined it along the way. You were the unknown quantity in all of this, and you've been an unexpected and unfathomable gift to me as I've done this work and committed this writing to the screen.

And as I've come back, week after week, month after month, I have seen myself change, not just as a person with PTSR, but as a writer as well. I have confidence in myself and my writing that I never quite achieved as a writing student and certainly never thought I'd achieve in the post-grad school world. I've finally come into myself here, and let this essential part of my identity assert itself.

Since I started this blog, I have begun to call myself "A Writer" when people ask me what I do. I never thought I'd have the nerve to say such a thing. I certainly never thought I'd earn the right.

But here I've been, writing nearly every week, committing to a practice that has changed my orientation to writing permanently. And while I've been writing this blog for me, but I've been writing it to you, and that's as essential an element to the process as the laptop on the table in front of me or the cafe au lait at my elbow.

You've been so nurturing to me during this work. It has been such hard and vulnerable work. Thank you for the support you have given me both publicly and privately for what I've done in this blog. 

It has meant more than you can imagine.

I hope you will continue with me. I hope you will comment more. I hope we will continue to learn from each other.

_____

I hadn't planned to do a retrospective here, but it does seem sort of appropriate, no? 

Here's a Sherlockian one, based on statistics:

My five most popular posts have been, in descending order, as follows:

1. So Many Posts, So Little Time (although I think this one just had some bot-friendly keywords in it or something. It is not a particularly interesting post. I had to change my blog security after this one)

2. Here Is What Happened (my first post)

3. Superbetter (a post with some pretty astonishing, potentially world-changing information in the links. I'm glad it's been seen a lot. It was a good one!)

4. New Post... Soon (a post whose popularity terrifies me because it contains a video of my tiny children break-dancing at the cable car turnaround at Powell and Market in San Francisco. Which is really, really cute. But who the hell were all those people who looked at it and how the hell did they find it?! O.o)

5. Active Release Technique. OMG. (a post about... well, exactly what it says on the tin. And also the wonderful and hilarious Dr. John Beall, D.C., C.S.C.S., A.R.T.. Both of which deserve all the page hits they get.

_____

And here are my personal favorite posts, in chronological order. These are the ones I'd read if I were to do a public reading from this blog (and I think I'd really like to do a public reading from this blog, if such a thing were ever appropriate to do somewhere. Ideas, anyone?):

1. Some of the first few posts: First, Next, and Scars, for their unflinching clarity and context, and for the way they pulled in so many readers and held you here, captive. ;)

 2. The View From Here, for the description of the Viet Nam Memorial in Washington, DC and the allegory to PTSD. There is still such a vivid connection for me in that image that I get chills every time I think about it.

3. Braced For Impact I and II. One of my first major breakthrough moments that went beyond figuring out what was happening to me and allowed me to start making changes in the ways I responded to the world around me. A important pair of posts. An important time.

4. The A-Ha Moment. The one where I finally figured out a) how my brain actually works now, and b) what is, and what is not, actually under my control, so that I might use said brain more effectively to my advantage. This is known in common parlance as PAGE ONE OF THE MANUAL.

5. Happily Ever After. One of my favorite posts to write, ever, about a day when I... lived. Me. Lived. Just like that. And also my sister got married and there were pretty dresses and lovely treats and wonderful family and friends and beautiful scenery and decorations and everything else was perfect, too.

_____

One hundred posts. Thanks for reading them. I hope you'll be with me for one hundred more, and that the next hundred illustrate even more profound change and growth than I've experienced so far along this road. 

Thanks to you, it hasn't been a lonely journey. More than you know, that has kept me going, and I have never lost faith that it will get me to where I hope to make it in the end. 

And so I dedicate this post, in gratitude, to you.

xo

kate. the girl who lived.

An Unexpected Breakthrough

I'm not really sure what to write about today. Med and migraine updates are boring (doubled Effexor dose again to 150mg, where I think I will stay; have migraine but it's my once-a-month menstrual one that I consider the most tolerable, somehow. There, done). Anything too off-subject isn't the point of this blog. So what, then?

I have some undeveloped thoughts about stuff I could share. See what you think.

I was thinking the other day about the nature of this whole PTSR thing-- the emotional numbing, the separation of the intellectual brain from the feeling one from the instinctive one, and how, all these years on, it feels like such a long and layered thing to unlearn.

But the truth of it, as I've written about here but never said in so many words and never really thought about in quite this way, is that it isn't something that happened slowly over time.

It happened immediately, the night of the crash. Bam. Boom. Splitsville.

That's really weird to me.

I've come to think of all this condition as something that has accumulated, and in so many ways it has-- protective behaviors and habits and blind spots that have built and layered upon each other over time.

But that initial split, the thing it all boils down to and the thing I'm still struggling with now that I've peeled away as many layers as I can, is something that wasn't conditioned or learned or developed over years and years.

It happened immediately.

Immediately.

That... blows me away.

I mean, all implications aside, think about that. The power of that. The brain is capable of taking such deeply protective measures that in a mere instant-- a second, no more than two-- it can reorient itself to the world so completely. 

It took the measure of that second and decided what needed to be done to keep me safe and made it happen: it shut down memory recording for me so I would never have to experience consciously the moment of impact-- a moment I did experience consciously, mind you-- and then it began, right then, to scan for further threat so that such an unthinkable, horrifying violation could never happen again.

I will save you, it said. And then I will keep you safe.

And 23 years later, it still hasn't stopped.

_____

WOW.

After I wrote that, I had... a really intense full-body physical reaction.

My legs and arms started doing the cold-fire, off-gassing thing, and my scalp started prickling, so I closed my eyes and put my head down and planted my feet on the floor and started doing my grounding exercises: pool of saliva in the mouth, table under the elbows, mantra in the head: I am here, I am safe, I am alive. I am alive. I am alive.

And then my scalp... and the migraine beneath it... just... released.

And a cold-fire shiver went from my neck down through my whole body to my feet.

And knots in my shoulders and abdomen I hadn't known were there... relaxed.

I lifted my head and opened my eyes and everything looked a little strange and floaty, like I was sitting too high in my seat and the lights were too bright, so I closed them again and went back to my mantra, and just did that for a while.

The next time I looked up, everything was settled again.

I think my body just let something go. Somehow, saying that stuff in just that way allowed me to let another piece go.

_____

That was cool and crazy!

The cold fire is still going strong all through my legs and up the backs of my wrists and forearms, an hour later.

The migraine is creeping back, though. :/

Whatever, body. We just had a moment, you and I. Deny it all you want. We both know what happened here today.

Ha. I should try writing undeveloped thoughts more often, eh?

Lists: a Pre-list

Another week on Effexor and all is well. The dose has been doubled and will likely be doubled again before long, and there are no side effects to speak of, so all is looking very, very well.

Now, we wait.

I can't wait for things to kick in a bit more and the motivation to seep back into my bones. I'm already getting a bit projecty. I've got, in fact, an absolutely heavenly pile of creative and body-moving projects to do that could keep me occupied mentally and physically for months upon months. I've got enough fuel.

I just need to flip a few switches and get myself going to take them on properly.

First up: I'm building myself a two-wall, wrap-around desk in my small office. One wall will be the writing side, the other will be for sewing projects, with a drop-down leaf that folds up to a huge cutting surface. I found plans online for a really cool and inexpensive way to do this, and we're modifying them to fit in my space and building it from scratch. We're pretty handy over here. I will post pics when we get going.

When that's done, I'll be able to get some sewing projects done. First up there: roman shades for my daughters' bedroom. I found the most FABULOUS fabric: it's got flowers and fairies in it, and yet it manages not to be too fussy or little-girlie. It's got a bit of an art nouveau vibe about it. And it matches perfectly with their bedding and the deep fuchsia fuzzy rug in their room. 

Hold on, Ill show you:

<swoon>

So, those things. Projects. Things you set up to a) keep you focused and occupied, b) give you something to look forward to and motivate toward c) serve as a yardstick for your ability to enjoy things you once found pleasurable.

See, Mr. Former Migraine Doctor? I TOLD you I took the fucking workshop.

For me, the surest sign that I'm heading out of the depression void and back to productive land is the list-making. I make lists. And although all this PTSD work and pulling everything apart has made the next step harder than it was before, I'm working now on pulling my focus in and completing the items on those lists in a coherent, linear way.

The list-making thing isn't quite happening yet, but it feels impending. I'm noticing areas where lists would be helpful. I'm making pre-lists. I'm collecting blank sheets of paper in my mind and pinning them to walls in preparation.

It seems as though there will be lists, soon.

And after lists, tasks.

And somewhere during that time, EXCITEMENT. And that's when I start to feel like maybe this whole thing might work, after all.

Which is good, because aside from a desk and some curtains, I have writing projects galore to get back to. 

And a treehouse that needs building.

And a piano that longs to be turquoise.

And art that wants reframing, and more art that is waiting to be found and brought home and hung on my walls.

And sprinklers in my front yard and back that would prefer to be dug up and placed elsewhere and lovingly coaxed back to life.

And a garden that wants to happen, despite my fears that I will kill it before it does.

And furniture yet to build.

And closets yearning for shelves.

And walls that want paint.

And baseboards and crown molding that knows for a fact that I will someday soon master the miter.

And little-girl short-sleeve comfy summer nightgowns made from old goth t-shirts that simply must become reality. 

This is all mine, all mine for the taking. This is how fucked up brain chemistry is that these projects have felt so scary and overwhelming that I've been afraid to even think about them a lot of the time.

Thinking about them is beginning to give me joy.

In a very little while, thinking about them will begin to give me fire in the blood.

From there, if I'm lucky, I will go fucking supernova in a frenzy of roman shades and nightgowns and front yard vetiver plants. You will know me by my industry.

And you will be smart to join me or get out of my way.

Well. Ahem. One can always hope, right?

So Far, So Good

Five days on Effexor, and so far, so good.

You usually notice the side effects of these drugs first, and the intended effects accumulate slowly over time.

This one gives me a bit of a lift in the morning, as promised. I need that. So that's good.

I'm noticing a small bit of what I experienced on Cymbalta, but so far none of the deal-breaker level stuff. Like, I have to pee more often, and when I do, I have to go RIGHT NOW.

(Hi, welcome to the yep-she's-going-there portion of today's post. And while we're on the subject...)

I was thinking about all the insane side effects of psychotropic medications-- truly, the lists are staggeringly long and varied-- and just how bloody unfair and singularly self-sustaining they are. So many of these drugs, like my last one, stimulate your appetite or just make you retain weight (or both), which makes exercising harder-- not to mention self esteem-- and exercise is an essential component for depressives. Exercise is, in fact, a more effective treatment for depression than drugs.

Hmmm... suspicious, that.

(Oh, and speaking of that, now that I've moved to the new med, I've lost 5 pounds in a week. The donuts of my little town are safe once again. Sheesh.)

Another really common side effect is sexual problems. Lowered libido, erectile dysfunction, difficulty reaching orgasm. Super fun! Fortunately, the ones I'm taking now are not affecting me in this area, but the first one I took, years and years ago, made it difficult to reach orgasm. All other systems worked as usual. Same desires, same responses, same everything right up until the crucial moment; just almost impossible to... you know. Get there.

HOW ON EARTH IS THAT HELPFUL TO A DEPRESSED PERSON? If you cut us, do we not bleed? Et-fucking-cetera?

So then my musings led me to conspiracy theories about Big Pharma and their evil intentions (a drone army. They're building a drone army, I'm pretty sure) and the guinea pig-like feeling of being a person trying to find the right drug and juggling all of these potential weird side effects.

Although if a drone army is the goal, creating a bunch of sexually frustrated doughy people who are constantly doing the pee-pee dance and would shank their own grandmothers for a donut is maybe not the most effective method.

I'm just saying.

_____

Anyway. Side effects minimal so far. I'm having some of the expected, transitional, slow-brain stuff. But just a little. The biggest thing is the sleep disturbance. Amitriptyline was a mild sleep aid, which was great-- it was helping me with my mild insomnia. I took it at bedtime, it made me drowsy and made me sleep more soundly, and all was a bit better in that area.

Effexor, being the opposite, does not help me sleep and is taken in the morning. And while it has created a problem, it also helps to solve it, which is funny-- it has taken away my drowsy-maker and right now, during the transition, I'm sleeping pretty horribly, but I have a morning pick-me-up that actually helps to counter those effects.

A pill to help counter the effects it helps create! OH MY GOD, I HAVE ACHIEVED THE AMERICAN DREAM! :D

Ha ha. No. I mean yes, I am sleeping not sleeping well at all this week, but I expect that to adjust itself a bit as well as this transition continues, and hopefully work itself out.

All in all, I actually feel quite good. My husband has noticed that I seem lighter, happier, in a better mood. I feel that way. 

I am hopeful. I double my dose tomorrow. I'm ramping up relatively quickly. Let's see what this baby can do.

_____

I do have some other new things I've been talking about with Dr. Oz, but I'm not ready to write about it here yet. 

I'm sorry, I don't mean to tease. I just need to get my mind around it a bit more before I can be articulate about it, and as evidenced above, now is not the time for that.

I'm in drone army training at the moment. We've got pee-pee dance drills all day, and then grandmother-shanking relays until midnight. No time for reflection I'm afraid.

Soon though. Like I said, I am hopeful.

That, in itself, seems like a good sign, no?

We All Have Reasons For Moving

I've been thinking about how difficult it can be to figure out how and when to move forward. How to figure out when moving is what you should be doing but aren't. And if it's because you're stalling or because you still have more to do where you are. Or if it's because you don't actually know what moving looks like so wouldn't know it even if you were doing it by accident.

There come times, in this work, where the next move gets handed to me and it's very clear and it just happens because the handing was the thing and then it's done and there I am, somewhere new. 

And then there are times where the preparation for the next move gets handed to me and seems obvious that the next move is one I'll be needing to make on my own recognizance. 

That one. That's the one I'm trying to do right now.

I hate that one.

I've been handed a bunch of awareness. Awareness of when I'm triggered, and even why and how a lot of the time. And what I need to do for the next move is get a handle on that in my body. 

DO something with it other than just react, react.

Or, you know, pop a lorazepam,

I've done the observing thing. Oh look, there's me, triggered. Yep. That's me, triggered all right. Triggered as all hell. Skin crawling, patience gone, feeling like I want to crawl into a cave and wait it out. I AM TRIGGERED AND I KNOW IT. Situation noted.

I was talking with Dr. Oz about this the other night, and I told her I thought it was time to add a new step to this. I was very good at noticing it. So then what?

"Maybe it's time for some self-talk, then," said Dr. Oz. "Have the Rational Adult step in and talk to that triggered part, and remind her that she's here in the present, she's safe, she's alive, she's okay."

I must have had that Oh jesus parts talking to each other again you've got to be kidding me expression on my face-- I didn't mean to but I can't seem to help it-- because then she said, "Or maybe you do some daily journaling about it. What happens when you get triggered? What are the triggers? What happens in your body? Where do you feel it? What makes it stop? Just doing some writing like this will help you to be mindful about it and keep it grounded in the present, in reality."

Well. Yeah. It would also keep me from just glossing over the noticing part. Instead of Yep, there it is, I'd have to do something more like: 

I notice that I get triggered when I feel defensive, and I feel defensive when I feel overwhelmed by having to hold too many plans or commitments in my head at one time, or when someone tells me what to do. Either something I already knew to do and was doing or was planning to and just hadn't communicated yet because I don't communicate well, or something I should have known to do but didn't because I am not on top of my game.

Both make me extremely defensive because both make me ashamed of the way I conduct myself. And shame = trigger.

And trigger = crawling skin, short temper, restricted breath, high anxiety, panic, hot/cold flashes, a need to escape and lock down, shut down, soothe, soothe, soothe and equalize.

Yeah. That. Daily journaling done for today.

_____

So, back to moving. I was thinking about how difficult it can be for me to move into a new way of being during all of this. How high the bar seems, how overwhelming it feels to think of adding another box to the checklist. I feel like I can only manage a small number of things at once, and adding more to the list will upset the balance irrevocably.

But I need to add a few, and now: care for my back. Yoga. Exercise. Neuro-feedback for the anxiety.

It's hard to feel like I can add these things smoothly into my day, even though I know there is time for them. I find it extremely difficult to see the ease in transitions between one thing and another. Everything feels too big for its time slot, too urgent, too difficult, too overwhelming. It's like my scale is broken and I can't properly size anything.

Intellectually, I totally get it. But my body is triggered over this right now. I'm refusing to let it escape. The med roller coaster has helped to gain back 25 pounds of the 35 I'd lost and kept off for more than a year. I'm switching to a new med with no association with weight gain, and I'm getting back on the weight loss and exercise horse, and I'm losing those 25 pounds again.

And the other 35 I'd wanted to lose right behind them.

But at the moment, sitting down on the floor and stretching sends me into my frozen cave, because it somehow feels too big and scary for my schedule.

What. The FUCK.

You know, it helps to write it down like this because I can see how ridiculous that is.

Okay, Journaliing for today, part II, done.

____

Moving. I wanted to talk about this because it made me think of my favorite Mark Strand poem:

  

Keeping Things Whole

           In a field
           I am the absence
           of field.

This is
always the case.

Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole. 

Mark Strand 

This poem has always been so striking to me, maybe because he starts out with something I can maybe relate to-- "wherever I am, I am what is missing" -- but then he takes it in the complete opposite direction I do.

He walks through the world like a ghost, moving past to let the air fill in the space behind him to make itself whole again, and I...

I've somehow convinced myself that I can keep things whole and undisturbed by wrapping myself into a tight little ball and sitting very, very still. 

I'm hearing Dr. Phil's voice in my head right now: HOW'S THAT WORKIN' FOR YA'?

I think we all know the answer to that.

So. Time to move.

Don't wanna move.

Gotta move.

Don't wanna move.

Probably know how to move.

Don't wanna move.

Have help moving.

Don't wanna move.

Even Sherlock understands the logic of moving.

Don't wanna move.

Gotta move.

Gotta keep things whole.

One step at a time. One thought. One word. One breath.

Move.

Your life is that way.

Ready?

GO...

kate/kite

In my last post, I was feeling really muddled and scattered and like I was just hanging on by a thread: the result of being on the wrong medication and struggling to control the automatic response of my PTSR brain to flee the scene when faced with triggering thoughts.

I kept having the image of myself-- my essential, conscious, "self" self-- as a kite, trailing along behind my robot body, unable to get back in and just be there and think stuff. There were moments where the thought-avoidance would get so bad that I couldn't focus on anything at all, not even the most mundane of things.

It's incredibly annoying and frightening when that happens. I know you'll understand just how annoying and frightening it eventually became when I tell you that it actually... drove me... to try...

mindfulness.

I know.

I mean, just a little. Just for a minute. Here and there. Just to get the goddamn self back into the goddamn body.

I'd think, Okay, okay, this is ridiculous, stop, I am right here, I am waaa---

Gone.

Ahem. I am RIGHT HERE. I AM WAAA--

Nope.

Motherfucker. I AM RIGHT HERE! I AM WAAAAALKING ALONG THE SIDEWALK. FEET ON THE GROUND. STEP. STEP. STEP.

What else? What were the other tricks? Oh, right:

I AM MAKING A POOL OF SALIVA IN MY MOUTH! TAKE THAT, LIZARD BRAIN! YOU ARE OFFICIALLY OFF DUTY NOW! IF I CAN MAKE SPIT, IT MEANS I'M NOT IN FIGHT-OR-FLIGHT!

(That last thing is actually really weird-but-true. It helps more quickly and viscerally than just about anything else. I think I've mentioned it here before, but I'll plug it again as a great technique for bringing yourself out of a triggered state. 

Why it works: when the brain goes into fight-or-flight mode, it shuts down all unnecessary bodily functions in order to mobilize to escape threat. Blood rushes from the areas of the brain that record time and memories and into the limbs for more efficient movement--and really crappy conversation-tracking-- and the saliva center shuts down completely, because who needs saliva when there's running to be done?

So if you start making a pool of saliva in your mouth-- for reals, no joke-- it shocks your lizard brain into retreat. It helps, somehow, to flip the switch and bring the other systems back online again. For those of you who get triggered out there, I give you this simple, DIY gift. Try it. You'll like it.)

So... yeah. I did that. A lot. And tried to hang on once I got back in. But it was exhausting and annoying and mostly I was just tired and irritated and sick of being both.

As far as full-time jobs go, this one blows.

I much prefer my other full-time jobs: raising my two glorious daughters and the creative work that results in the writing for this blog and other projects and the visual and architectural art and work and restoration that is slowly (very slowly) transforming our house and garden into an awesome place to live.

Which brings me back to the first thing I said in last week's post, about my medication still being off.

I went to see Psychopharm (I just love saying it, I can't help it), and told her the amitripltyline just wasn't cutting it, and that I was somehow feeling worse on 50mg than I had on 25mg, even though 25mg still hadn't been enough of what I needed.

I've LOVED the extra migraine prophylaxis effects of the amitriptyline-- I've been having 2-4 very mild migraine attempts each month since I started with it, as opposed to the 10-12 pretty solid migraine days per month on just the topomax alone, and the 25 horrible days per month I was having before I started taking preventative meds last september.

But Psychopharm said she wanted to switch me away from amitriptyline to Effexor, which functions more like Cymbalta, which, as you might remember, I had a bit of trouble disengaging with a few months ago, but which, aside from the ugly withdrawal thing at the end and some unfortunate... um... ph imbalance trouble in the ladyparts area that caused me chronic urinary tract infections (because, you know, that's a totally reasonable side effect to expect from an antidepressant, am I right? O.o)... it was actually pretty good at what it was supposed to be doing for me.

So she had me cut back to 25mg of amitriptyline. And then my husband suggested that I wait to do this next Big Med Switch until my sister and her husband, who are staying with us for a few months, get back from their honeymoon in Paris next week (swoon), since he has to travel a lot for business over the next few weeks and we never know how difficult the switch is going to be for me and it would be nice to do it with some support if I can.

Good idea.

So I stuck with the 25mg past the three days I was supposed to and I didn't make the switch.

It's been almost two weeks now, and I have to say... I feel pretty damn good.

It still doesn't do much for the anxiety-- I think there's still something missing from the cocktail-- but I like this 25mg of amitriptyline so much that when I go in for my checkup with Psychopharm on Tuesday, I'm going to tell her that rather than throwing out the baby with the bath water, I'd like to try adding something to this mix instead.

The Effexor can't be taken with this. But maybe there's something that can that will provide the promising features of Effexor; most notably the "lift" of energy that I am sorely missing, and the anxiety relief as well.

Anyway, wish me luck. While I'm still on the merry-go-round, this is the first time I've felt like I've had a sense of where I was and what I wanted. I've felt at the mercy of Psychopharm and her whims until now. Now I'd like to have a say in the matter. 

So I'm going to give a bit of pushback: I've found something that works in ways that are very important to me. Now find me something to fill in the gaps. It may not be possible, but let's at least try that first.

Huh. Would you look at me, standing my ground and demanding stuff. It's like Invasion of the Body Snatchers around here! These drugs might be working better than I thought! ;)

What It's Like In Here

Things have been difficult lately.

The medication problem still hasn't been sorted out-- I've got a doctor appointment on Tuesday to discuss a new approach. Ugh.

But I've also been working on being more engaged-- with people, with the present, with the moment-- and it's leaving me triggered and scattered and struggling to focus.

The opposite of engaged, really.

This is something that's going to take a lot of practice. It is not something I'm used to doing. But as I push myself to do it, I'm getting a glimpse of the gymnastics my brain is willing to do to keep me from doing it.

I was struggling to describe what it feels like to Dr. Oz the other night, and she seemed to know what I meant and was able to give me the language to use to describe it to you. I hope this makes sense:

It's as if my brain is refusing me access. It won't allow me to think about certain things-- why I disengage, how I do it, how to slow my automatic responses down and stay with the moment. I can't even hold these thoughts in my head for a moment, let alone put in any time thinking about them. I try, and my brain skips right off the surface like a stone on the surface of a pond.

It won't let me go there.

That sounds crazy, doesn't it? Not being allowed to think certain types of thoughts, or have certain types of inner dialogue, because your own brain refuses to let you get a grip on the idea for more than a second?

I can describe it to you like this, but I can't actually do it. It's like I try to reach for the thought and it disappears before I can wrap my hand around it. 

What's more, I've learned this week, if I try to push the matter and keep bringing myself back to it, my brain starts to go into "don't go there" overdrive, and I get pushed further and further from what feels like my intellectual center and more to the outer surface of my consciousness. 

Meaning: I become unable to concentrate on anything. 

It's the strangest feeling, to feel locked out of my own brain. I feel like I can't think about anything for more than a few seconds, like my thoughts are so scattered that I can't gather them back together again.

Disengage, my brain seems to be telling me. DISENGAGE!

And it's true: the only way to stop this scattering process is to find something innocuous to distract me from what I'm trying to do and lull me into complacency. 

Facebook. Fan fiction. Stupid TV.

Instantly calming, soothing, and clear in a way that my thoughts refuse to be.

Escapism at its finest.

_____

"You're being triggered," said Dr. Oz, "and you're going into the fight-or-flight response. Your brain is switching off the processes it deems unnecessary, and throwing you into flight mode. You feel like you can't focus because your lizard brain has taken over and is pushing you away from what it sees as the source of the threat."

Well.

That makes sense. I mean, it works as an explanation for what this is. It feels true, to the extent that I can hold the damn concept in my head for a moment and judge its validity.

It sounds true. Let's say it that way. It sounds true.

What I don't get is why I can't stop it from happening. This is MY BRAIN we're talking about. It's not like I'm trying to have a conversation with someone else and can't express my thoughts coherently. 

I'm only trying to hold a thought in my own fucking brain for a few minutes and have a dialogue with myself,  and it's still impossible.

To feel out of control of your own brain, not just on an unconscious level (which, lord knows, I am quite used to by now), but on a fully conscious one?

That feels... crazy.

Words disappearing before my eyes. Disappearing from my own mouth. Disappearing from the theater of the brain. The inner lizard (as I've begun to see the amygdala-- a green, sleeping dragon within) throwing up obstacle after obstacle, force field after force field, until I sound my own retreat and give up the fight.

I step back from the work-- because that's what this is, it's the work that I need to do in order to get to the next phase of recovery-- and I look for what is soothing instead.

Don't push, I decide. Just float.

It so much easier just to float.

_____

All of this, as you might imagine, makes me feel farther than ever from getting to the bottom of this thing.

I've torn down plenty of walls along this journey, but right now I'm bashing my head against a big one and I see no way in.

Is awareness enough? If I'm aware of this phenomenon and keep chipping away at it, will I gain access at some point?

Will the right medication help? Will I find a drug that will help me to hold my focus and actually have these conversations with myself, so I can get some of this work done?

Is it the medication that is causing this disconnect in the first place?

I don't trust my brain chemistry. I don't know what's working and what's not, in there. I don't know which reactions are true and which are affected by too much of this chemical or too little of that.

IT'S NOT RIGHT IN HERE, is what I'm saying.

I'm sort of afraid to post this one, because I don't know if what I've said makes any sense.

This makes sense, though: the things I usually choose to to to distract myself from the discomfort and exhaustion of trying to find a way in-- the mindless, soothing things that make me disengage further from the moment or the person or the presence of mind I seek-- aren't helping to reduce my anxiety or strengthen me for the next battle.

Mindless reading, Facebooking, TV-watching... those things aren't fortifying. They're not recharging my batteries, the way I've let myself believe they were. 

In fact, they tend to make everything worse, because then not only do I still have the original problem, but now I've managed to create new ones by insulating myself from reality and letting everything else slide, too.

The truth of the matter is that my brain gets recharged by creativity, thought, and action, just like everyone else's, and if I'm not engaging in others, I'm not engaging in any of those things, either.

So I end up taxed, unfulfilled, exhausted, and no closer to a refueled tank than I was before.

I've been thinking, all this time, that disengaging was the only way I could recharge.

Turns out, disengaging is just as much a drain on my resources as fighting. 

What I thought was a refuge from the battle has been a battle in its own right, and I never understood that until now.

_____

I used to have a post-it note on my computer screen, years ago, that said, "THE OPPOSITE OF "STRESS" IS NOT "NOTHING."

Because that was my counter-weight for the stresses in my life: come home, shut down, disengage, retreat.

It didn't help me. I couldn't figure out why.

And then I noticed that there were times when I felt recharged. After I'd engaged creatively with something. Written something, made something, done something productive and satisfying. I began to push myself to choose those things, rather than continue my trajectory of permanent retreat.

It's time to choose that again.

The opposite of stress is not nothing. Stop turning off completely in response to threat. Turn instead to creative work, and come back stronger than before.

Hard to do in the moment, when things are as they are right now, but worth the challenge, in the end.

Does this all come down to breaking a habit? Instead of choosing the easy path to the couch, choosing the more difficult path to the creative spark?

It might. It might just be habit. And breaking the habit might just be as simple as repeatedly forcing myself to choose a new reaction.

_____

Has this made sense to anyone? I'm not sure I can rewrite it any more clearly than this, right now. Does anybody else have stuff like this happen, where you can't get close to an idea in your head without being forced into distraction mode?

Well. Incoherent as this post may be, I guess it's a faithful representation of where I am in my head: locked out of the part that knows how to make sense of things.

I've done my best. I'd love to hear your comments if you think you can tackle what I'm trying to say here and shed some light on it for the rest of us.

_____

Apropos of nothing, I thought I'd let you know that I just applied for the Amtrak Residency for Writers program, which grants up to 24 writers a 2-5 day round-trip "residency" with their own private sleeping car, desk, and inspiration from the changing scenery out the window. Just because.

Cool idea. Wish me luck!