Meanwhile, Something DIDN'T Happen...

I told you a while back about Active Release Technique, remember? I started seeing Dr. John Beall at Rise Bodyworks back in November, to my immediate benefit. This is the body work I've been searching for, and my mobility and comfort have improved so much over the past three months, it's been nothing short of life-changing. No exaggeration.

To wit: I can turn over in bed at night without having to wake myself up first. I can lie on my back without having to bend my knees... and I can stand up again after having done it. I can sneeze without crippling myself. I can jog without feeling like my back is going to break in half. I can turn my head more than 45 degrees.

Um, okay, granted, my bar was quite low. But so were my expectations. And boy, have those been exceeded-- from the very first session.

(For reals, you guys: Active Release Technique. Your health insurance might cover it (if it covers chiropractic work it probably does). And if you've ever needed chiropractic work, or deep tissue massage, or physical therapy, or if you've got aches and pains anywhere and aren't sure how to address them, I  can't recommend it strongly enough.)

Once again, here's a resource-finder map that will show you where you can find your nearest practitioner. Non-US citizens, just zoom out-- this baby is international! 

_____

But this post isn't actually about A.R.T. Or not only about that.

A month ago, I also started taking private Pilates sessions from Kiko at Rise Bodyworks, which Dr. Beall  recommended in conjunction with his A.R.T. work. I've never tried Pilates before, but since it was originally designed for soldiers with back injuries, it seemed like the perfect place for me to start.

I need to get into good enough shape that I can start working on... getting into shape.

Yep, it's still a pretty low bar, friends. I've been trapped in a vicious cycle for years: I've had trouble developing a good exercise regimen because my back has been so fragile; my back remains fragile because I haven't had a good exercise regimen. 

Like so many of the internal symptoms of PTSD and depression, the external ones tend to be self-sustaining, too. 

It's no wonder that this shit is overwhelming.

But I digress. 

I've been working with Kiko, who is awesome and hilarious and encouraging, for a few weeks now, and while I feel like a floundering walrus half the time, I've been getting progressively more graceful and accustomed to the Pilates method. And I've already begun to notice a difference.

I feel... stronger. More flexible. Just a bit. More than I expected to feel, this early on. It's hard work but it's allowing me to strengthen my core without injuring my back, and I can already tell that this key is going to unlock a lot of doors. Cool.

_____

So that's what I've been doing.

Guess what I haven't been doing?

Having my regularly-scheduled monthly migraine, that's what.

I should have had it last week. I didn't. I didn't even notice at first, until it dawned on me that it was overdue by a few days, and then it still didn't happen, even though I'd braced myself for it and given every psycho-somatic trigger within me the chance to get things rolling.

Nothing. 

Now, let me put this into perspective for you: I have had a migraine every month, like clockwork, for the past 16 years. Every. Month (I wrote a pretty vivid post about them last year).

And that's just the regular ones. I also get them whenever I'm sick. Sinus trouble in particular seems to bring them about. And I get them when I have massages, when I sleep in a strange bed or in an awkward position, when I travel, when I drink wine (and, for a while, when I drank any alcohol whatsoever), when I'm extra stressed, when I'm extra depressed, when I bump my head, and pretty much any other opportunity my body has had to throw in a little extra misery.

I'd say I average two or three per month, each one lasting from one to five days.

So. A lot of migraines in the past 16 years.

I have had a few reprieves during that time. I didn't get them when I was pregnant. And I have been able to make them stop for two or three months at a time by doing very intense and targeted treatments: rolfing (with Audrey!), trigger point massage (with Mario!), and, believe it or not, ozone colonics** (with Shayla!). 

**(um, that ozone colonic link will lead you to information you might prefer not to have. Ever, ever in your life. So click through with caution. You have been warned.)

Ah, Bay Area living! 

So each of those things held off a few migraines, but it was never sustainable. The migraines always came back.

This time, although I am doing serious bodywork, the cause-effect is less direct. I think the A.R.T. is a major factor, of course, but since it didn't stop the migraines immediately, it doesn't feel like the temporary, band-aid effect that the other treatments have turned out to be. 

I think the Pilates is a factor. I think my continued weight loss is a factor. I think my therapy with Dr. Oz and the writing I'm doing in this blog are factors.

I think my last migraine was about five weeks ago. Since then, I have had  a terrible two-week flu, a sinus infection, and a menstrual cycle, all of which should have brought on more episodes. 

They did not.

It's way too soon to be making any claims, and I'm almost afraid to talk about it for fear of jinxing myself, but it seems like I may finally be addressing many triggers at once instead of just one, and that I've finally managed to accumulate the right combination of tools. 

Don't get me wrong: one missed migraine does not a cure make. I've been hopeful before, only to be disappointed when the headaches ultimately returned. I don't want to have the rug pulled out from under me again.

It's a promising start, though. Especially since it's happened in a way that feels natural, rather than forced. I can't point to a single likely cause. That makes me think that I may have made some changes in my lifestyle that are sustainable, and this is one of the benefits. Which has always been what I hoped to do.

A lot is at stake, here. Not having migraines anymore would impact my life so profoundly, I can't even imagine it. It is hard to think of a better outcome of all this work. I'm not sure if there is one. "No more migraines" might be in the top spot.

So. I'm afraid to be too hopeful, but it's awfully hard not to be. Like I said last week, something is happening. Things are coming together. Pieces are falling into place. It seems an impossible dream that this could be one of them.

So, my fingers are crossed. If you get a chance, cross yours for me too, for a minute, will you?

As has been established, I can use all the help I can get.

All Rivers Flow To The Sea

First a bit of business: 

I want to apologize for the annoying autostart on that video I embedded in last week's post. I've just realized that it's still happening and have found instructions for disabling it, but I need my HTML-expert husband to take a look at the code before I mess with it. So it will be a few more hours before I'm able to make that happen.

Sorry. I hate autostart. Fortunately for us all, I have my very own geek on permanent retainer (an extraordinarily useful thing in this day and age. I highly recommend it. You can't have mine, though-- I'm keeping him. Find your own.). 

So. My geek. He'll fix it. Stay tuned.

Update: FIXED! Thanks, Geek Honey!

_____

I've been thinking a lot this week about last week's post, and how the writing I've been doing lately has seemed divergent but is actually interconnected in very real and interesting ways. I've also been thinking about the fact that the writing itself is a sign of my progress and healing.

It's just so poetic and right that it's all coming together like this. Once again, that feeling of being exactly where I'm supposed to be and heading in the right direction is palpable. 

The fact that the writing part is both the vehicle and the destination for all of this work and healing is almost too synchronous for words. I think that's why it feels like a homecoming more than a departure, even though it is a big departure indeed from the person I've been in recent years. It's the kind of thing that seems like some sort of cosmic plan, if you believe in such things. 

If you don't, like me, you just have to chalk it up to an inner compass that has somehow managed to hold its course, despite all of life's best efforts (as well as your own) to throw it off.

It feels, right now, like it was inevitable that I would end up here; as irresistible as a force of nature. Tides ebb and flow. Apples fall from trees. Rivers find their way to the sea. The pathways of my life were always meant to lead me here, writing my story, weaving the threads together into a whole somehow greater than the sum of its parts.

At least, it feels like that in my best moments. A lot of those happen right here on this screen as I write this blog-- a source of pleasure and connection I never thought I'd achieve. This is where I find sense in the chaos. This is where the fog lifts and I see the road ahead and the ground I've gained and I feel, for real, like I'm doing something.

It had always felt like I was doing something important for myself, writing this blog. But these past few weeks have made me realize that I'm not just imagining it or hoping for it or making it up out of whole cloth-- my words have had an impact on people far beyond my scope.

I've been hearing from people from all over the world; the most amazing, generous, validating things. Regardless of the form it's taken, the message has been clear: You're on the right path. Keep writing.

That was unexpected. It's hard to take that in. I'm trying to take that in. What a gift.

I realize how much of what's happened with the writing so far has been accidental. Or serendipitous, at least. I'm at a point now where some things need to happen that are more deliberate than most of what I've done so far.

I've reached some sort of turning point, I think. Is this the crest of the hill? Is my head above water? Am I emerging from the dark valley I found myself in a year or more ago, when I felt like I'd finally been given a flashlight for the journey, only to discover that I'd been sitting in a closet for years?

As usual, I continue to see it before I feel it. I'm not yet operating on that level of engagement with my environment. But that matters less as I notice more about what's happening around me, felt or not. 

And something is happening. Something is definitely happening here.

So I'm paying attention. It still feels more like it comes from without than within, like it's happening to someone else instead of me, like it's being held at arm's length. But every once in a while, I get a little zing of recognition: I did that. I wrote that. I made that happen.

It's not perfect, but it's better than it was. Like I said, I'm trying hard to take it in. In the meantime, I'll just keep walking. I'll just keep writing. I'll just keep trusting that if the path is the right one-- and I feel certain that it is-- then the destination is indeed inevitable.

If you just keep moving, you will get there. Step by step by step.

Climbing the Ladder

I don't know if you heard, but I went viral last week.

That essay I wrote back in September got picked up by a bunch of Patch sites around the country and got, as of this writing, 135,000 159,000 163,000 Facebook shares, which makes it "the most socially viral article in Patch history." 

Knock me over with a feather!

(To put this in perspective: the editor told me she once wrote a post that got 6000 Facebook shares, and they couldn't believe it. They've rarely seen that kind of action. So their response to my post's popularity is... enthusiastic, let's say.)

It's been surreal and exciting and terrifying and validating. All of those things at once. And perhaps most surprising of all, I find myself a lot more comfortable with the combination than I would ever have been a year or two ago. I'm a lot more comfortable with it than I was even a few months ago, when I nearly ended up in the emergency room with a panic attack over the (relatively mild, in retrospect) attention that piece got when it was first published.

I've developed a thicker skin since then-- something one does, in such situations, if one wants to remain sane. But to me, this feels bigger than that. "Thicker skin" doesn't quite cover it.

I feel, to my surprise and delight, less afraid of fear.

If you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you'll understand the significance of that statement. Here is something scary, something the Ministry of Vigilance™ quite literally lives to spot and trigger a major freak-out over, and yet here I am, not freaking out. Not triggered. Channeling the fear into exhilaration and purpose. Feeling pretty damn sure of myself and my point of view.

ME!  Imagine!

Nowhere was this made more clear to me than in the interview I did with one of the Patch editors:

It's weird, watching this video of myself. For one thing, I look and sound really different than I thought I would-- this is much more like watching a stranger than like watching myself. And then there's the usual voice in my head saying, Wow, are you really that dorky? Is that a speech impediment? Can that scar in the middle of your forehead and your weird head-tilt be any more obvious? Seriously, you allowed someone to film you on that bad of a hair day? Could you not muster anything more snazzy than your ubiquitous black t-shirt?

But here's something new: right along side that voice is another voice, speaking just as loudly, saying, Wow. Look at YOU! You sound... confident! Well-spoken! Like you know what you're doing! Like you've got it all under control!

You sound... like a grown-up!

And as luck (or maybe all this goddamn therapy) will have it, that second voice was the one in my head before the interview. She refused to allow me to get too nervous or filled with self-doubt. She kept the butterflies in my stomach on the "excited, not terrified" end of the spectrum. And she sat on my shoulder and got me through that interview with shocking ease, black t-shirt and Harry Potter scar notwithstanding.

So even before I saw the tape, I barely recognized myself. That is a "me" I would like very much to get used to. She knows what time it is, that one. She is comfortable and confident, just as she is.

_____

So the connection between the content of that essay (letting your children learn by trying and failing and trying again, so that they gain resilience and coping skills and confidence in their abilities, rather than doing everything for them to somehow prevent them from the slightest discomfort in life) and my own PTSR was probably inevitable, right?

I've read hundreds of comments from parents around the country, most expressing support and agreement, but a still-sizable number expressing shock, outrage, and less-than-charitable opinions of me and my choices. 

One theme that my husband noticed in the more critical comments is that many people seem to believe that it's wrong to let their kids feel frustration or disappointment, and that if they're not intimately involved in every breathing second of their kids' lives and fully engaged with them at all times, their kids will feel abandoned, unloved, and resentful, and they will learn that the world is a cold, unfeeling place where no one can be trusted and no one will help you if you need it.

I wish I were exaggerating that. I'm practically quoting some commenters verbatim.

My husband's response to this was that people seem to feel compelled to parent in a way that prevents themselves from having to feel uncomfortable feelings.

I think that's true for most of us, at least some of the time. We feel guilty when we have to say "no" to our kids. We feel heartbroken when we see them disappointed. We feel fear that something could happen to them, or that they will be afraid themselves. 

It can be very tempting to give in to those fears and do too much for your kids as a result. To prevent them from feeling bad, you tell yourself, conveniently ignoring the fact that it's allowed you to avoid feeling bad, yourself.

I know I've done it. I suspect most people do at some point, even if they, like me, know it's not doing anyone any favors in the long run.

But then I stop and ask myself: what's so bad about feeling bad?

This is the question of the moment, for me. It's the central question of my own work. What's so bad about feeling bad? Why is it the end of the world to feel fear or nervousness or disappointment or a lack of control?

Here is the answer: It's NOT. It's NOT the end of the world. As a matter of fact, facing those emotions, as well as their counterparts-- confidence, joy, excitement, exhilaration-- that IS the world. It's LIFE, is what it is. 

The ability to cope with all of those things, to take them in process them and feel them and let them push you forward, that's living. That's what it's all about.

And as you know: I WANT TO LIVE.

So I find myself in the position of trying to create for my children something that I am only now learning to create for myself: the ability to live a life that isn't shaped by fears, both real and imagined.

I've spent the last 20 years trying to avoid facing difficult feelings, and I can tell you first-hand that this is a limiting, self-defeating, suffocating way to live.

Despite the insistence of the Ministry of Vigilance™, there are not nightmares around every corner. Every step is not moving me closer to swiftly impending death. Every scenario is not worst-case scenario. The headlights are not still coming around that corner on my side of the road.

It's over. I survived.

I lived. I am alive. And everything is okay.

I want my kids to feel that. Everything is okay. Falling isn't dying. Or failing. It's just an opportunity to pick yourself up and try again, armed with a bit more knowledge and experience than you had the last time around. It's a chance to do it over, a newly-earned step ahead of your former self.

It's life. It's living. It's learning. It's being where you are and feeling what you feel, and not being afraid of whatever that might be, because no matter what it is, you can use it to your advantage.

I don't want to teach my kids that the world is scary and every move could be their last. I don't want them to think that I don't trust them to learn from their own mistakes and achieve without someone having to do everything for them. I want them to trust and believe in themselves.

And despite what some of my detractors seem to think, I do realize that the best way to teach them this isn't actually by making them climb the ladder to the slide without my assistance.

It's by refusing to let the fear of uncomfortable feelings limit my own life any longer.

I want to live. I want my kids to live. And nothing, not PTSR, not a challenge on the playground, nothing is going to get in our way.

Welcome, New Readers!

A lot of folks are stopping by this blog for the first time, after reading my essay on Alameda Patch, which has gone viral!

Welcome to all of you. I hope you find a good read here. If I may recommend: this blog is best read from the beginning, because it's a linear story about a major, terrible event in my life and everything that has happened since.

If you start with the first post and move forward, it will make a LOT more sense.

I also invite you to join this blog as a follower (no spam or emails of any kind; just easier access to new posts from your very own Blogger dashboard). You can do this by clicking the link in the right side bar.

I'm grateful to all of you who have come by to check out the blog and stayed to read. And, of course, to my regular readers, without whom I'd simply be yelling into the wind.

Come on in, and make yourselves at home!


PS: We've all had an absolutely horrendous week with the flu over here, so I missed posting on Saturday. Everyone is now on the mend, so I'll get a new post up as soon as possible. As you may have guessed, there are exciting things to report!

Lydia, Oh Lydia

I am thinking of getting a tattoo.

I do not currently have any tattoos. I have never considered getting a tattoo before. I've always placed tattoos rather firmly in the "not at all my thing" camp.

It's not an aesthetic choice, per se. I admire cool tattoos and have a secret, very un-serious  quarter-sleeve fantasy. It's my indecision, really, that has prevented me from considering any actual ink. I can't decide what I want for lunch. How can I possibly settle on something as permanent and enduring as a tattoo?

But I've been thinking lately that I might want to do that. I feel like I'm coming back to myself in so many ways-- I'm writing, I'm learning, I'm moving forward in my therapy, I've dropped 34 pounds and counting, I just started Pilates this week and am seeing a path toward better physical shape. Good stuff is happening. And I'm finding myself with a lot of enticingly blank slates to fill.

Example: I have just about shrunk out of all of my clothes. None of the stuff from the regular rotation of the past couple of years fits at all anymore, and even the few things I've bought since I started losing weight are beginning to sag. My first two pairs of skinny jeans are officially too baggy to wear. 

(Side note: skinny jeans! The sweet reward for the apple-shaped woman! I'll continue to keep my midsection shrouded in mystery, thank you, but down below, my legs are... well, sort of bangin', as the kids say. Skinny jeans were made for me, as it turns out. Who knew?! 

Lovely pear-shaped women, enjoy your a-line skirts and tiny-waisted torsos. I no longer begrudge you your excellent good fortune. Because I have my skinny legs tucked into some killer boots and I'm willing to walk proudly amongst you once again. (Not that I shouldn't have been all along, I realize, but I wasn't. Leaving aside the obvious rants about conforming to societal beauty norms for a moment: I look better, I feel better, and I am more healthy as a result of the inner and outer work I've been doing. I'm okay with that.))

Anyway. I'm holding off on a full wardrobe replacement until I'm closer to my goal weight, and that's far enough away that I expect to drop another couple of sizes before I get there. But I do need some interim stuff. And I am realizing how dull and boring my wardrobe has been for the past... decade or more.

I am not, by nature, a conservative dresser. Not that you'd know this, looking in my closet. There are a lot of black t-shirts and boring jeans in there. A lot of fade-into-the-background stuff. A lot of I'm-sorry-you-have-to-look-at-me-in-this-condition-so-I'll-try-to-minimize-the-horror stuff. That right there was an unspoken organizing principle for my recent wardrobe.

Oh, the things we do to ourselves!

So I'm looking around and thinking, I used to be sort of rock-and-roll. I used to be daring, with a definite edge. I used to be cool, in fact. And I'd like to be cool again. I'd like a little more pizzazz. And how the hell do I go about finding it?

I find that I don't know how to shop anymore. I don't know how to develop a signature style (other than my ubiquitous jeans and black shirts). I've got a lot more options than I did before, and I will even admit that I look young for my age and can get away with more than one might expect for a 41-year old woman. And the spirit is willing and the flesh is tired of being shrouded in baggy boredom.

So: blank slate. Mama needs some new clothes. My youngest sister, Liz, is on standby, more than willing to come Shopping (capital S) with me when the time comes. Exciting. Intimidating. Rejuvenating!

_____

And that brings me back to the other idea that's been whispering itself to me: a tattoo. I think I want one. And I have no idea what I want it to look like.

I want something small and simple. I am drawn to words, of course, and also to delicate line drawings. An image seems less likely to resonate deeply with me than a word or words, but I'm open to either or to both. 

I also really like white tattoos and think I might do that if I can be convinced it won't look too much like scar tissue on my extremely fair skin, so we're talking about something pretty subtle, here. As for placement, I am --surprisingly-- drawn to my inner left forearm, up near my elbow. No idea why. But I'm going with it-- there's a certain intuitive click to that spot, so I'm not going to question it. I suspect all of my decisions about this tattoo will confirm themselves that way.

The transformation that I've been discussing in this blog is the driving force behind this, of course, and I want the tattoo to represent it in some way. I've considered the lightning bolt avatar I use here, but I like the idea of that more than I like the thought of an actual lightning bolt tattoo. Unless I can find a really, really cool image. And maybe a word or two to go with?

"The Girl Who Lived" is interesting, although, again, I think I like the theory more than the fact of it. It's a bit cumbersome.

I don't know, you guys. This is hard. So I am officially asking you for help.

What tattoo should I get?

The Ministry of Vigilance™

Hello! I trust your holiday was fun-filled and festive? Hopefully with booze and good food and friends and family (not necessarily in that order, but if that's the way you need it, you're certainly not alone in this world).

My holiday was lovely, although we were on the road for a long time and that began to take its toll on the small fries among us, after a while. But we got to hang out with my family and see the girls' first snowfall and help my youngest sister find her wedding gown and have an epic beer-and-cheese tasting extravaganza and watch my gloriously awesome husband play a gig at the House of Blues in Hollywood and spend a wild night sans-kids with my favorite cousin and his fantastic fiance in an amazing house in Laurel Canyon, just off the Sunset Strip.

So. All told, it more than compensated for the tricky back from sleeping in strange beds for two weeks.

Anyway, happy 2013 to you and yours. May it lead you exactly where you need to go.

_____

I did have some interesting insights on my trip that I've been anxious to write about here. I found myself highly triggered a lot of the time from all the driving I did, which, surprisingly, is not something I'm usually conscious of.

I think I've written about it here before: I have definitely become more aware of of the fact that I DO get triggered by driving, although I manage very effectively to ignore it most of the time. It has only recently occurred to me that it's probably not normal to constantly expect the cars in front of you to explode or fly into the air or suddenly flip over without provocation or come to a sudden, screeching halt in the middle of the freeway.

Is it?

I am not actively panicked behind the wheel, but I've realized in the past 18 months that there is a whole department in my brain devoted to the business of constant horizon-scanning, freak-accident-anticipating, and defensive-maneuver-and/or-escape-route-planning whenever I am driving anywhere.

And I mean that: Whenever. I am driving. Anywhere. 

It has somehow escaped my notice (for, um, 20 years) that my hands actually ache from gripping the steering wheel so hard if I'm driving for more than a few minutes. My neck and back get stiff with tension from holding myself so anxiously in my seat.

That part of my brain that's always on the lookout (let's call it the Ministry of Vigilance™, shall we?) sends a constant barrage of messages through my nervous system: 

RED ALERT! RED ALERT! 

DISASTER IS IMMINENT!

IT WILL HAPPEN ANY SECOND NOW! 

YOU ARE ABOUT TO DIIIIIEEEEE!!!

To give you some idea of how deeply buried the Ministry of Vigilance™ has been, in the whole first year of my therapy I thought that I had somehow escaped one of the biggest symptoms and indicators of PTSR: hyper-vigilance.

Not me, I thought. I'm not paranoid.

Well. Well.

I had noticed-- and remarked upon in this very blog-- that my neck has the classic hyper-vigilant backwards bend, thrusting my head permanently forward (as well as off-kilter from my accident-related optical nerve damage-- it's a miracle I don't just fall over). I had noticed that. And so have quite a few chiropractors and x-ray technicians and other experts in fields that know such things.

But still! No paranoid, me! Not this girl! Not my bag, baby!

Ahem. So. It may, by now, come as no surprise to you that the discovery of the Ministry of Vigilance™ came as a big surprise to me. 

This is a testament to my--if I may say so myself-- fairly fucking extraordinary ability to avoid, deny, and ignore all things PTSR-related that go in inside my mind and body. I am so good at it, I can avoid noticing it while I am actually doing it. I can ignore it while I am suffering the physical effects of it. I can deny it even with radiographic evidence that I have seen with my own eyes. 

So on our extended trip over the holidays, I drove a LOT. First of all, the trip to my parents' house is around 400 miles each way, and we took a few extra side trips that added another 300 or so, and I drove everyone around the day we went wedding dress shopping and put on about 300 miles that day alone. My husband drove some of the time, of course, but I probably drove over 800 of those miles myself.

Lots of time to face the music, then. 

Becoming aware of my white-knuckle driving has not made it go away. It has, if anything, made it worse, because now that I'm aware I'm doing it, I am also intercepting some of those messages from the Ministry of Vigilance™. They are broadcasting loud and clear, those guys. They don't stop for anything.

So I'm now aware, uncomfortably so, of the undercurrent of panic sparking along my nerves and synapses. The nightmare scenarios that fuel my paranoia are no longer unconscious. I now engage with them a bit, which makes them a lot more vivid, let me tell you. I now get sudden waves of panic just thinking about driving, sometimes. No wheels required.

You'd think this would make me afraid to drive. And I guess it does, in a way. But this is one of those times where my compartmentalizing works in my favor-- I am still able to refuse it complete mastery over my mind and will. I am still able to get behind the wheel. I'm from Southern California, god damn it. That is what we do: Drive. Cars. Everywhere.

But I noticed it. I noticed it more on this trip than ever before. Remember, my parents live in the mountains, where my accident occurred. The highway to get to their mountaintop town is 12 miles long and rises about 4000 feet in elevation. There are places along the way where the outside lane is separated from a 1000-foot drop by a 3-foot high guardrail and a puff of fog.

My palms are sweating as I type this.

Remember also: I grew up there. I learned to drive on that highway-- it was literally the first real road I ever drove on as a 15-year old with a learner's permit. I raced up and down it thousands of times, before AND after the accident, with nary a thought of the cliffs and chasms. 

So it's notable, this panic, these sweating palms. It's Something New. It's an uncomfortable awareness that I don't like at all.

And yet. it's also an undeniable (even for me! Take that!) sign of Progress, capital-P, and that's not a bad thing. It even feels like more-than-adequate compensation.

After all, if I've learned nothing else, I know for certain that the road out of here goes through, not around, the difficult stuff. It skirts the cliffs. It braves the rapids. It takes the bridges and tunnels without regard for the wind or the dark.

And so, it is written, shall I.

_____

One other thing I noticed on this trip, the thing that actually gives me a handle for managing this new, uncomfortable awareness of panic, is that while all of this chaos is going on in my brain and body, nobody in the car has any idea.

This is not about the people in the car, all of whom are brilliant and insightful and empathic (not to mention extremely good-looking), but about my insistence on Keeping A Lid On It™, which I am also really, really good at doing (see "avoid, ignore, deny," above). (See also "pulled self out of a panic attack by sheer force of will simply because calling an ambulance would have been a huge pain in the ass.") I am the master of the Calm Facade. So much so that I fall for the facade myself and believe my every, normal-normal-not-panicking word.

It's because of the Control thing, that internal part that Dr. Oz pointed out to me a few weeks back. The rational-sounding, authoritative-seeming voice that has, yes, enabled me to Keep A Lid On It™ so well, for better as well as for worse, all these years.

The voice I thought was my inner Wise Adult. But which is not. Sooooo not.

Controlly Kate™ (okay, I'll calm down with the ™ thing. I just find it hilarious. This is nerd humor, people) doesn't want anyone to know about the white knuckles or the panic because she... well, I'm not sure exactly. A combination of things:

1. Doesn't want to appear insane

2. Doesn't want to appear dangerous

3. (okay, fine) Doesn't want to appear vulnerable

4. Doesn't want to make anyone feel guilty for not driving

5. Doesn't want anyone else to actually drive**

6. Doesn't want to have to think too hard about the white knuckles and therefore deal with the panic so uses the above to avoid doing so

**This is an important and illogical truth. Controlly Kate wants to drive, although panicking all the while. I am not a panicky passenger. Well. I am a far less-panicky passenger than I am a driver. When I am a passenger, I am not longing to drive, nor am I freaking out about the driving of whoever is behind the wheel. But once I get behind the wheel, Controlly Kate informs me that there will be no relinquishing of the keys today. That's it. I'm in. Period.

I don't really understand that little quirk, except that it seems like a bit of misfired control freaking. But getting a good look at it has been useful to me this week for two reasons.

First: when I told Dr. Oz about it, she reminded me that my new awareness of the Control part-- and the Panic part-- means I can use those opportunities to let the Wise Adult step in and talk them off the ledge. 

Which would be easier if I were better at locating the Wise Adult in those moments. But Dr. Oz gave me a little trick: when I find myself in panic or control mode, pretend it's my daughter in that situation. What would I say to her?

"I know you're afraid right now, but I'm here with you. I will help you through this. I wasn't there before, but I'm here now and I know what to do. If it gets too scary, we can pull over. I know how to drive and I won't let anything happen to us."

"Make the Wise Adult bigger than the Control part for that moment," said Dr. Oz. "It's difficult to do, at first. It takes practice. But keep trying. Make her voice bigger. Let the other parts step back and let the Wise Adult take over. Eventually, the Wise Adult will be bigger, and the Control and the Panic can fade away. They were there for a reason, to help you through a difficult time so you could survive, but they're not needed anymore. It's time to let them go. Little by little. The Wise Adult is here now, and she knows what to do. Let them go."

It sounds silly, writing it out like this, but it actually works to calm that irrational part of my brain like nothing else ever has. When the Wise Adult talks, the Ministry of Vigilance listens.

Second: thinking about all of this, and how I snap automatically into Calm Facade mode when I get triggered, made me realize how essential not talking about it has been to the development and power of my PTSR. Not talking about it has allowed it to fester and thrive and poison my life. Not talking about it has been its strongest weapon against me.

And it's cut me off from other people. And it's cut me off from myself. And it's kept me under its control. And it's changed the way I think and feel and breathe and move and dream and grow and connect.

But no more. I began the cure before I'd even diagnosed that particular disease. This blog marks the end of that voiceless reign of terror. This connection I'm building with myself, with you, with the rest of the world means I'm slowly learning how to talk about it. Little by little, I've already started to let those other parts go.

And that is how I win.

I want to LIVE!

New post... soon

Hi all,

My husband has been out of town all week and I'm on my own with my 3-year old twins, deep in the weeds of double potty-training.

Needless to say, I am busy. I spent yesterday walking around downtown San Francisco hauling my own portable toilet seat.

This is... not a direction I expected my life to turn. :/

To make up for forcing me to be their own personal latrine Sherpa,  my daughters decided to entertain a crowd of 300+ people at the cable car turnaround at Powell and Market in SF. We were heading to the BART station to go home, and we stopped to watch the tap-dancing guys who have been putting on street shows there for years.

My girls were like, "Hey, I can do that!"

So they started imitating the tap dancing, which was awesome enough. And then they joined forces with a break dancer. I managed to capture some of it on my phone. What you can't see are the few hundred people standing to the left and behind us, cheering on my kids:

These two have done some pretty cute things in their time, but this just might take the cake.

And now, in addition to being the woman who carries her own crapper everywhere, I am also the woman who forces people to watch videos of her kids.

Well. Trust me: you have nothing better to do. This is prime stuff!

I'll be back with a new post as soon as I get a few hours to myself. Posting is likely to be sporadic this month, as some of those hours to myself will need to be spent on Christmas shopping, and we'll be traveling for 10 or 12 days as well.

Happy holidays, everybody!