Life after Trauma

Hurt & Healing - a celebration of imperfection

There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.

Leonard Cohen

Kitsugi (theladyandthesailor.com)

The Japanese have a beautiful term for mending broken pottery. Kintsukuroi or Kintsugi literally means "to repair with gold." It refers to the practice of repairing beloved pots with gold or silver lacquer. The thing I like best about the definition of Kintsugi is that the repair is done with the "understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken." The gold or silver honors that breakage, one might even say it celebrates it. 

 

A few days ago, this process came to my mind. I couldn't remember the Japanese word, but, with some persistence, I tracked it down. The reason why kitsugi was on my mind was because two days ago the new glass turntable that I'd ordered for our microwave arrived. I was delighted. The original turntable had been broken for several years. It still turned though and  I hadn't bothered to try to replace it. Then, while I was away in Michigan someone - either my son or my husband - broke it again. This time, it was so broken that it wouldn't turn anymore and everytime I microwaved something, or thought about microwaving something, I was annoyed to see the sad broken turntable. It was a bit like having a pebble in your shoe. Not big enough to hurt, but big enough to be annoying. So, one day about two weeks ago, I got on the phone and after making four or five calls, I tracked down the company that makes the turntables - thankfully located in North America - and gave the person I spoke to the microwave's model number and brand and she took my Visa information and my new turntable was on the way. It took longer than I thought it would to arrive, but when it did I was delighted to see that it was packaged very carefully, tenderly one might even say. I took off the layers of paper in the large cardboard box and discovered a smaller box inside the larger box and inside that box - wrapped in bubble wrap - was the new turntable. I carefully cleaned the microwave, installed the turntable - which fit perfectly - and stepped back with satisfaction to survey a job well done.

So, you might be wondering what does this have to do with kintsugi or PTSD. It has to do with valuing damaged things, whether they be microwaves or people. I could have just as easily thrown the old microwave away and bought another one cheaply or even got one for free on craigslist. But I didn't want to. I hate to throw anything usable away or give up on people. Repairing the microwave resonated for me because, in a way, that's what my husband has done. He's discarded me - for lack of a better word - because, in his own words, "he couldn't deal with my PTSD anymore." That's the trouble with North American culture. We worship perfection and can't be bothered to see the beauty in imperfect things. That's what the Zen concept of wabi-sabi, which is related to kintsugi, is all about: celebrating the ephemeral and the imperfect. Wabi-sabi is a wise philosophy. It recognizes that all of life is ephemeral and also imperfect, yet beautiful in its imperfection. I like to think of myself as a wabi-sabi person. I allow myself to see, and celebrate, my imperfections and the signs of healing trauma. I'm getting better at it anyway. That's not to say that my husband leaving doesn't hurt. It hurts a lot. Some days more than other days. Still, I'm getting better at realizing that I've spent too much of my life trying to be "good enough" for him and not letting myself just be who I am. The truth is that I'm good enough and I always have been. Even if my husband can't love me, I can love myself. I don't mean to sound too smug here. It's taken long, long years of pounding on the door of my husband's heart before I finally gave up. Here's a great fragment of a Spanish folk song translated by W.S. Merwin.

 

door knocker (Wikimedia Commons)

 

Heart, I told you before,

and twice, and three times,

don't knock at that door.

No one will answer.

 

Some truths are hard but necessary to see. Now, I am trying to get my life back on track - heartbreak, PTSD, and all. 

Return to sender - of birthdays, silence & sorrow

They say everything can be replaced/Yet every distance is not near

Bob Dylan

Return to sender (Donovan Beeson, flickr creative commons)

 

When I got back from a recent trip, I didn't check the mail for a few days. When I did, I found the card that I'd sent to my daughter - the one who I relinquished for adoption and who I'm estranged from - in the mailbox. There was a yellow sticker on the bottom right hand corner of the card that read, "Return to Sender. Not Deliverable as Addressed. Unable to Forward." I was so upset that I barely touched the card and threw it, unopened,  on the table with the other mail. I was upset because a previous letter that I'd sent came back with a slightly different message: "No mail receptacle." That was a message I'd never seen, so I phoned my daughter's local post office, located in a small town near her rural home. They told me that my daughter was having her mail held or forwarded for a year - I don't remember which - and, then, assured me that if I sent the card  back in a new envelope, addressed as the first one was, they - i.e. the post mistress - would make sure it was forwarded. I believed her and did what she said, only to discover upon my return home, that it had NOT been forwarded. 

 

Angel of sorrow (ekletik2xs, flickr creative commons)

 

I was sad when I made the discovery, but even sadder a few days later when I realized that for the first time since my daughter and I were reunited thirteen years ago, I couldn't send her a birthday card. It didn't matter that I haven't spoken to my daughter in three years. (As of yesterday, July 25.) Somehow it didn't seem so final if I could send her a birthday card, as I've faithfully done on the previous two birthdays since we've been estranged. See more about the story of our estrangement by clicking on the link: Estrangement - telling our stories. Yesterday - July 25th - was the 42nd anniversary of the first time I lost my daughter and the third anniversary of our estrangement. I guess that means that I've only been in touch with my daughter for about ten years of her life. Not for lack of trying or lack of hoping. No, that's the way adoption was done back in the 60s and 70s and, today, both my daughter and I are still living with the aftershocks of the day we parted. We both left the hospital alive on that long ago day, but something died: the normal relationship between mother and daughter was lost forever. Does that make me sad? Yes, yes, yes! More than I can find a way to convey. However, the deepness of the sorrow and frustration I felt yesterday, frightened me. It's appropriate to grieve, but I know that I have to let go of the hope that someday my daughter and I can be a mother and daughter again. 

 

bouquet, flickr creative commons

 

 Letting go of that hope feels so painful that it's hard to think of a metaphor. The best one I can come up with is imagining that the roots of a tree called sorrow are growing around my heart.  Pulling this sorrow tree out feels like it would kill me, but I have to try. "Don't let your grief hold you hostage," my therapist said today, when we talked. Amongst other things we talked about what letting go might look like and we also discussed suggestions for a personal ritual of closure. Letting something go into the ocean - which I live near - was one of the things we discussed. I immediately thought of a small creek in a nearby botanical garden. The woods are deep there, a small wooden bridge crosses the creek, and it's a quiet spot, perfect for such a ritual. Right now, it's too dry for there to be any water in the creek, but come fall and the rains, I can plan a ritual that involves a close friend or, if he'll participate, my son. After all, my first daughter is his half-sister. I can picture the flowers and how they will twist and turn in the current before heading along their journey to the sea. I like the ideal; it's a place to start.

Meanwhile, I still have the card sitting here on the table in front of me. It was a beautiful card, carefully chosen, telling my daughter that I would be in Michigan for a few weeks where I thought she was - indeed, may be - living and suggesting we get together for coffee. Of course, she never saw the card. I'll probably put it in the box with the mementoes I've collected over our decade of reunion. Only time will tell whether someday in the indefinite future we'll be back in touch again. For now, though, I have to get on with my life, and set at least part of this heavy burden down. It's time. 

In the years that my daughter and I led separate lives and neither knew where the other was, I often kept the words of one of my favorite Motown songs in my mind.  "There ain't no mountain high enough/Ain't no valley low enough, ain't no river wide enough/To keep me from getting to you." I never imagined that my daughter would be the mountain or the river - that she would be the one who wouldn't let me get to her. More on why adoption reunions fail and how to cope in a future post.

  

A time to remember: PTSD & Anniversaries

There is a time for everything/a time to be born and a time to die/a time to plant and a time to uproot/a time to mourn and a time to dance/a time to keep and a time to throw away/a time to be silent and a time to speak.

from Ecclesiastes 3

Three candles, Wikimedia Commons

 Anniversaries have a way of creeping up on you. Yesterday would have been our 37th anniversary, if my husband hadn't moved out in January. To be honest, I suppose it still is our anniversary, since we aren't technically divorced. However, neither of us remembered it yesterday and it's doubtful that we would have "celebrated" it if we had. My husband came by around noon today to help out with our son, who had surgery on his knee for a torn ACL a week ago. He was wearing a baseball cap and a dark blue-green shirt I like and was so distracted by things at work that he started to take the ice machine our son is using on his knee upstairs, even though our son was downstairs on the couch. Brendan and I both laughed and he came back and set the ice machine down by the couch and left. Altogether, he was here about 15 minutes, about the norm for visits since Brendan's surgery. So, even if I'd remembered the date, I doubt he would have wanted to take time to talk about it. 

I hadn't remembered yet what today - or yesterday - was. I had too many things on my mind: my ailing mother, plans for a trip back to Michigan, caring for my recovering son, and a dozen more. I had talked to my therapist yesterday, the day of our anniversary, and didn't think of the date then, either. I did tell her that I'd been feeling like I had an itch under my skin. I attributed the edginess to worries about my trip home.  Now, I realize that it was probably about the anniversaries all the time. Anniversaries are potent triggers for PTSD. Sometimes, we're aware of the date and sometimes, like today, feelings ambush us. I still don't know what caused me to remember the significance of today and yesterday's dates. One moment I wasn't consciously thinking about it, the next it hit me what day it was - what day it REALLY was, and a wave of sadness and regret washed over me. And I couldn't think of anything to do to commemorate the sadness of the losses. My husband and I had agreed, as part of the collaborative divorce process we're involved in, about how we would communicate. Emails for "routine" communications, phone calls for emergencies. Grief and loss doesn't seem to fall into either category. I sent an email to my husband because I didn't feel safe enough to phone. That was only a few hours ago and I haven't checked my email because I'm writing this post. I don't have high hopes, however, about a comforting response. 

The Pelly River, near Ross River, photo by Gord McKenna via flickr

The compression of the two dates - the date of our wedding and the date of my second miscarriage - caused us both anguish at the time. We were living in Ross River, Yukon in those days: a tiny community nestled along the Pelly River. Because we were in the North, the days were long and sunny. In some ways, that made it worse. Grieving people aren't usually cheered up by nice weather, especially not when the grief is fresh and raw. 

I was already spotting on the day of our anniversary and I saw the visiting doctor, since Ross River wasn't large enough for a resident doctor. He examined me, which I later learned was a mistake, and then we went out to eat because it was our anniversary at the only restaurant in town. It was a gloomy dinner. All I can remember was that I was determined not to lose the baby on our anniversary. The next morning I got out of bed and had a miscarriage. I was about eight weeks pregnant, but, to me, what I lost was a baby. 

I think this year is worse because now there is no wedding anniversary to celebrate to take the edge off the anniversary of the pregnancy loss. Now, both dates are associated with grief. In both cases: the death of my unborn child and the death of my marriage, there isn't a body, nothing to bury, no funeral or other ritual event to commemorate the loss. There should be. Because we humans need rituals to help us heal. It's that old saying: funerals are for the living. And the lack of such rituals means that grieving for a lost marriage and the death of an unborn child are both hard. 

Next time, I'll write about possibilities for healing rituals around such ambiguous losses. I hope I find one that fits for me. 

Meanwhile, I'll leave you with a sad song.

 

 

Separation Distress - coping with PTSD and a crumbling marriage

Somehow we survive and tenderness, frustrated, does not wither.

Dennis Brutus

fly away (Billie Hara, flickr)

Two weeks and two days ago, my husband moved out. We're trying a "trial" separation, which is supposed to last for three months. Despite the fact that we're in couples counseling, I'm not terribly hopeful. Partly because this is the third time we've separated - all for similar reasons. Essentially, my husband can't "handle" my emotions or my PTSD. Even though I realize that this is a problem that many people with PTSD face, that isn't much consolation. At least not now. 

 

Meanwhile, our son and cat and I are living in our townhouse. My husband is living in a one bedroom apartment about two miles away. So far, we're seeing each other about once a week. But I feel like I need a break from that. It's too painful and, in order to get stronger, I need space. Seeing someone who "can't handle me," hurts. When I see my husband, I feel wrong and vulnerable and angry. All that being said, I realize that this is an opportunity of sorts to make progress in my own life. Not an opportunity I wanted, but there it is. So, for now, I can't promise that I'll be doing much writing here.

 

Why should trauma survivors speak out - thoughts from Elie Wiesel

Even if you remember a spark of the flame, that's enough. Even if you remember one face, it would be enough.

Elie Wiesel

Elie Wiesel (nobelpeaceportraits.com)

In Conversations With Elie Wiesel, by Elie Wiesel and Richard Heffner, Wiesel talks about why trauma survivors should tell their stories. Elie Wiesel, a world-famous author and peace activist who survived the concentration camps of Auschwitz and Buchenwald, gives several reasons. The first, not surprisingly, is to prevent genocide. Sadly, as we are only too aware after Rwanda and Darfur, this hasn't happened. Still, it is a large part of the reason why Wiesel began to write about the Holocaust. 

"We tell the tale of our nightmare and of our darkness in order to prevent other people from entering that nightmare," Wiesel told journalist Heffner. Speaking out, however, is never easy, even for someone who later became a prize-winning author. Immediately after the war, Wiesel found that people were not interested in hearing his story and few other Holocaust survivors were speaking out. Wiesel explains the impact that this response had. 

"The question is really not how we survived the war," Wiesel told Heffner, "but how we survived mentally afterwards, when we came out and we saw that life was business as usual and how few people cared." (Wiesel and Heffner, p. 151) My own experiences with trauma have been similar. Not that my personal traumas can compare to the Holocaust. Of course not. However, my experience has been that people don't want to hear about what has happened to me. 

an early edition of Night (Wikimedia Commons)

Encouraging other survivors to speak out was, perhaps, the main reason that Wiesel chose to write about his experiences. Despite his efforts, however, it wasn't until 1960 that his acclaimed memoir Night was first published in English. Sadly, the debut of this book was anything but spectacular. The initial printing was 3,000 and it took three years to sell the books. 

"When I wrote my first book," Wiesel remembers, "my goal, really, was to reach the survivors, my peers. Why? Because in the beginning they didn't talk. They didn't talk because nobody wanted to hear them. And I wanted to show them, 'Look it's possible to talk, and even if it isn't, we must talk.'" He also remembers that it took "years and years and years" of work to convince Holocaust survivors that they could share their stories. Wiesel persisted, however, and he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1986 and was termed a "messenger to mankind," for speaking out about the atrocities of the Holocaust. 

Moving as this recognition was, Wiesel still works tirelessly to encourage Holocaust survivors to speak out about their experiences and to share his own stories. 

 

Buchenwald, Wiesel is in the 2nd row from the bottom, 7th from left (Wikimedia Commons)

 Wiesel acknowledges, however, that - in the end - there is truly no way to make the incomprehensible, comprehensible. "What I try to do is to bring you closer to the gate, and I will tell you you cannot go beyond that - that only those who were there know what it was being there. But come closer . . . and the only way to come closer is to come closer to my memory, meaning the memory of those who survived." (Ibid., p. 115). Wiesel is outspoken about the role of the listener. He suggests that turning away is not a morally or ethically acceptable position. (I agree - more on that in a future post.) 

"To forget the victims means to kill them a second time. We couldn't prevent the first killing," Wiesel said, "but we are responsible for the second one if it takes place." (p. 166) Dr. Kathleen Young also covers the topic of speaking out on her blog. (It's worth reading, particularly the beautiful quote by e.e. cummings.) I've also written about this topic on my blog. See, for example Why Is It Important for Trauma Survivors to Speak Out?

Finally, I love what Danish writer Isak Dinesen (of Out of Africa fame) has to say on the subject. "All sorrows can be borne," she said, "if you tell a story about them." She would know; within the span of several years she lost her lover in a plane crash, had a miscarriage, and lost her farm in Africa and had to return to Denmark. And, she survived.

Next time, more on how - and why - others silence trauma survivors and what we can do about that. 

What experiences have you had about sharing your experiences of trauma? I'd love to hear from you. 

 

A Glimmer of Hope - advice from my therapist

Be not afraid of growing slowly. Be afraid of only standing still.

Chinese proverb

Sunrise (alternatangle, flickr)

 

Two visits to my therapist

Last week my husband and I both went to see my therapist - on separate occasions. Partly, she doesn't do couples counselling, partly we wanted to talk to her separately anyway. My husband went first and two days later, I followed. My husband gave permission for my therapist to share whatever she thought was useful for me to know and she did. We talked for an hour about what my husband was feeling and then she gave me some advice. Now, my therapist is anything but directive, so when she talks, it's usually brief and to the point. "Why not," she suggested, "try and focus on the first part of what your husband's saying? Why not focus on the 'I was overwhelmed and stressed and I'm burned out,' part, not the 'and I might leave,' part?" Great advice. Easy to do?  Absolutely not!

I don't know about you, but for me, fear of abandonment is one of my HUGE triggers. It  hinges on so many other fears and is based not on things I think might happen, but on things that DID happen. I am afraid that I cannot keep myself safe because for many years, I couldn't. Bad things happened and I was powerless to stop them. From a rational/chronological point of view that was a long time ago. From the point of view of the part of my brain that stores trauma, it's still a present danger. "If you're alone," that part of my brain tells me, "you won't be safe."  Only it's more like that part of my brain, let's call it the non-verbal part of the brain, has flash-frozen the memories of my earlier traumas and since it is non-verbal, that part of my brain doesn't understand time and I can't "talk" to it rationally, so it doesn't realize that I'm safe now. That is one way to think about how trauma is stored in the brain. And looking at the process in this simple way, helps to explain why "just" focusing on the first part of my husband's message without paying attention to the abandonment part of the message, is about as easy as not noticing the grizzly bear sitting on your couch.  How am I doing? Even though it's been hard, I've taken my therapist's advice. The alternative was being so stressed out about the second half of the message: the "I might leave" part that I couldn't sleep, could barely eat, and was ready to leave myself, just to get away from the fear of abandonment.  

 

together but apart (.craig, flickr)

 

 So how are my husband and I doing? Well, we're still in the same house and we don't spend nearly as much time arguing. Maybe we aren't under the same umbrella yet, but at least we're on the same balcony. It's a start. Time will tell what the results will be. I'm proud of myself for being able to back off, give my husband more space, and - mostly - not bring up anything about the future. At times, I feel afraid and lonely and frustrated. However, as my therapist suggested, we can work on the fear together - she and I. A better idea than trying to work on it with my husband because fear of abandonment can quickly turn into anger - even rage - at the thought of being abandoned. 

I still have a lot to learn about fear and PTSD. Fear is one of the most persistent aspects of PTSD, particularly complex PTSD, which I have. I searched in vain for an article online that had what I was looking for on this topic. I did find one, however, that does a pretty good job of discussing fear and PTSD. Meanwhile, I see my therapist again next week and we'll talk more about fear and what I can do to learn better coping strategies. And, hopefully, I'll have more to share with all of you. In the meantime, I will definitely get to that series on silencing trauma survivors that I've been promising. 

 

Keeping vigil

A divorce is an amputation; you survive it, but there's less of you.

Margaret Atwood

Keeping vigil (flickr)

I've decided that I'm not going to bed tonight because earlier this evening my husband told me something devastating. I'd suspected much of what he was feeling, but he hadn't been able to say it- until tonight. 

Tonight, at about 7:30 p.m. I asked my husband if he thought he could talk more about what he's been feeling and thinking the past two months, when he's had little explanation for his stated decision to leave me. Okay, he said and I listened. I found it hard to believe that he was being so honest or actually felt this way and so I asked him to repeat it so that I could write it down and he did. In a nutshell, he said that "I am limiting my compassion [for you] to protect myself and to keep from being taken over by frightening, overwhelming, and unpleasant emotions. I want to distance myself and, in fact, I feel like you've been abusing me with your feelings." I was floored. Upon further, discussion, he also admitted that he "just didn't care" [about me] and that he had to protect himself. What could I say? I've spent time before urging him to go to counselling - which he is - and so far, there are few results that I like. Part of me realizes that, if he simply can't handle my PTSD, he has a right to leave. And part of me hurts like hell.

distress (AndreaLeev, flickr)

We have been married for 36 years and have an 18-year-old son who is still at home. My husband pulled away similarly before and blamed me for his own feelings of distress. I was weaker then and hadn't done the work that I've done now, so I fell for it and blamed myself too. I can't do that now. I cannot buy into his story of what's going on because it doesn't ring true for me. Right now, I think I'm in a blessed state of shock. Or, I think, it might even be a step in the right direction, as painful as it is, that he told me exactly what he's feeling and I didn't scream or cry or hit him or tell him to shut up. Meanwhile, he still insists that he's going to meet with my therapist on Wednesday. I can't imagine what can come from that. 

 Is my husband emotionally abusive? Probably in some ways. He's certainly an emotional phobic. Is there hope for change? Who knows. (I thought I would stay up all night, but this makes me so exhausted and sad, that I think I'll go to bed after all. I have sat here for about an hour with a candle lit and drinking some wine. It seemed like the occasion called for it.) I will try to write here as I can, not necessarily on what is happening with my husband and I. I was hoping to start a series on the importance of speaking out because I'm still editing that manuscript on Aushwitz which reminds me that things could be even worse - much, much worse. And we need people with the courage to speak out. I will be reviewing some books and sharing interviews and songs on that theme. And, when I am able, I will have updates on my own situation. 

I wanted to include the Lhasa de Sela song my husband's been listening to lately. Instead, I'll try to include on of hers that I love. Doesn't appear to be there, but I'll leave it anyway. 

 

 

 

 

Compassion fatigue, vicarious trauma, or burnout?

In dealing with those who are undergoing great suffering, if you feel "burnout" setting in . . . it is best for the sake of everyone, to withdraw and restore yourself. The point is to have a long-term perspective.

The Dalai Lama

 

fly away (Anders Adermark, flickr)

Caring for someone with PTSD can be exhausting and frustrating work. Even if the loved one who is caring for you during difficult times has good intentions, they're human. That means that they're vulnerable to compassion fatigue and burnout. That's what's happened to my husband. Sadly, the person with PTSD (aka me or you) may not realize how hard things are for our partner because we are fighting a tough battle ourselves. It may not be our job to care for the caregiver ourselves - indeed many times we are simply unable to. However, I wish now that I had pushed harder for my husband to find out more about PTSD and for us to go to counselling together, while he was still motivated. 

Effects of PTSD on Family

So what's going on? Does your partner have PTSD caregiver burnout or compassion fatigue? It makes a difference because someone with serious burnout may be at risk of leaving the relationship or behaving inappropriately with their loved one. Someone with compassion fatigue - depending upon whose definition you read - may just need a break or go into therapy to deal with these issues. (You'll also notice if you follow the links that these terms are used fairly interchangeably. Whatever term you use the real message is clear: GET SOME HELP!) Joining a support group would be great. Unfortunately, men may be less willing (at least my husband is) to talk to friends and others about how he's feeling. (On the very bright side, he is seeing a therapist.) As with most things, however, the first step is to get someone to recognize what's going on. Because of the anger that can be associated with compassion fatigue/vicarious trauma it may seem to make more sense to blame the person with PTSD and see the solution as "getting away" from them. In some cases, that may seem like the only choice, particularly if there is violence involved. Everyone has a right to keep themselves safe. However, for my husband and I separating would not only be very expensive (we live in Vancouver one of the world's most expensive cities), but ultimately might not solve the problem or, if it does, it would "solve" my husband's problem at the expense of myself and our family. I think that would be very sad for all of us.

What can you do about Compassion Fatigue (CF)?

The answer isn't easy and there's probably no quick fix. The start, as this article on Compassion Fatigue points out, is to recognize that you are experiencing CF or burnout or whatever term you choose to use. The next step, hopefully, would be to get help before it's too late. When I say you here, I mean the caregiver and not the person with PTSD. They are the top priority when it comes to burnout and compassion fatigue. However, couples counselling around the issue of PTSD can be a great choice that helps both partners at the same time. 

Here's an upbeat video about a serious topic.

 

Dr. Frank Ocberg talks about how he sees the difference between compassion fatigue and burnout. He thinks that someone with compassion fatigue is just exhausted. Someone with burnout, in his opinion, needs to either find another profession or take a break. Easier said than done, when your partner is the issue. Time will tell with my husband. I remain as hopeful as I can, but some days it's pretty tough and also difficult not to be angry. All I can do, however, is try each day. I plan to read Susan Johnson's book, Emotionally Focused Couples Therapy with Trauma Survivors, if I can get my hands on a copy. 

Resilience (eatswords, flickr)

 

Flowers well take root in the tiniest amount of soil. I've seen it in the mountains and in the North. Sometimes, they seem to be growing right out of the rock. So, right now, there doesn't seem very much in my marriage to grow hope in, but I haven't given up yet. 

Some final words:

Some things can only happen through time. They only happen - time carries them.

(M.C. Richards) 

PTSD and relationships - when your significant other can't live with your PTSD

More marriages might survive if the partners realized that sometimes the better comes after the worse.

Doug Larson 

Newly weds (m.a.x., flickr)

I've been missing for a while because I've been going through a major crisis. My husband told me in August, and has since stuck to his position, that he wants to leave me mostly because of my PTSD and partly for other reasons that he, so far, hasn't been able to articulate in a way I can (or want to hear). I didn't see this coming - but who does. I had been doing progressively better during the past year. It's not just me who says that, my therapist and doctor had both been telling me the same thing. Then, what I thought was a successful trip to visit my parents turned into a nightmare (at least for me).  My husband seemed to be taking things in stride at my parents, even when there was tension or grumpy/confused parents. He and our son spent time with his relatives for a few days and that seemed to go well too. We'd been home for about two weeks when my husband dropped the D-bomb.

 

peach pie (annieseats, flickr)

 

It all started innocently enough - as many things do - with a piece of peach pie. I had planned a mini "staycation" for us in Vancouver at a fancy downtown hotel. I thought we should get away together, since we hadn't done that during the summer. We stopped at our favorite bookstore on the way and then I suggested that we have some pie at Aphrodite's (ah, the irony) the organic restaurant across the street from the bookstore. The plan was to share a piece of pumpkin pie; however when we got there, I discovered that they had fresh peach pie. It was peach season and I love peach pie, but only when it's made from fresh, local peaches. So, I decided to order an entire piece of pie for myself and my husband wouldn't order anything. He had been cutting back on his eating - a clue that I missed, I realize now. (A clue of his plans to be single again.) I got annoyed, then angry because we were spending one night on our "mini-vacation" and that didn't seem to be the time to be so inflexible about eating. Besides, he seemed like he was annoyed himself, even pouting, that I'd dared to change my plan over the pumpkin pie.

Things were no better at the fancy hotel. I'd booked us into a boutique hotel in downtown Vancouver, on a quiet sidestreet. Since we live here, I knew the neighborhood and was looking forward to a luxurious night alone. I'd even bought a new nightgown for the occasion and wore my favorite purple top with some linen pants. (My version of dressing up.) At the hotel, I was still mad about the pie, not so much that the pie itself was such a huge thing, but because my husband was hardly behaving as if he was looking forward to spending time alone. Which, under the circumstances, he undoubtedly wasn't. Sadly, I had no idea what was on his mind, so as he continued to be withdrawn and disagreeable, I said, "I really don't know why we stay together." I didn't mean it literally and it was probably a foolish thing to say. He rose to the bait, however, and told me that he agreed and he'd been thinking about that lately. I was shocked. My husband is one of those people keeps things to himself and rarely tells people what he's thinking, until his mind is made up. I was shocked. For the third time in our marriage, my husband had unilaterally decided he wanted to leave without talking to me about it. PTSD, and other factors, were involved in each decision. 

We spent a dreadful and expensive night at that lovely boutique hotel. I didn't want to eat for a long time, then we ordered room service and watched the rest of a pretty good movie and my husband seemed to back away some from the divorce scenario. Or at least, I convinced myself of that. A sort of tentative peace was made - for another week or two. Then we went into counseling and all hell broke loose. (more on that later.) 

For now, I'll leave you with a few thoughts on PTSD and relationships and a small glimmer of hope for myself and my husband.

Below, are links to several articles I found on that ring true for me and my husband.

 Effect of PTSD on a person's life

PTSD and relationships

 

clinging to hope (flickr creative commons)

 

Somedays I have no hope; somedays I cling to the smallest sliver of hope, just like a butterfly or bee clings to a flower. In about 9 days, my husband has agreed to see my therapist who is willing to answer any questions he has about PTSD and her professional opinion about my prognosis. It may help - or it may not. But it's a start.

Meanwhile, I'll try to keep writing here. It's very painful and personal and I'm not sure how often I can do it, but I can't let my husband silence me through his threats to leave and his disapproval of a condition that I neither chose nor caused. 

Silence and Trauma Survivors: Lessons from Holocaust Survivors

I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation.

Elie Wiesel

 

Silence (Ciudadano Poeta)

 I'm shifting gears here a bit to talk about silence and the Holocaust for two reasons:

a) I'm working on an editing project with a woman whose father survived the Holocaust, yet never spoke about it.

b) How my husband and I communicate (or don't) about my own trauma is a big issue for us.

 

Alice Herz-Sommer (photo: kultura.gricni.com)

Typically, trauma survivors respond by either remaining silent or by speaking out. My son asked me if there's any in between. I'm sure there are. We're human and some people, such as Elie Weisel, have the eloquence and gifts to write and speak at length and convincingly of their experiences. Others, may not have such gifts and may speak out privately, to a therapist or trusted friend. Those who maintain silence, however, tend to do so more consistently. At least, the stories I've heard and read suggest that that is the case. A recent memoir, for example, A Century of Wisdom: Lessons from the Life of Alice Herz-Sommer, the World's Oldest Living Holocaust Survivor, had few lessons for me and the ones I did glean were not ones I would want to emulate. After the war, Alice emigrated to Israel and held informal musical concerts in her home. Anyone was welcome with the rule that "her visitors must never ask her questions about or speak of the Holocaust in  her home. The years from the time they were deported by the Nazis until they arrived in Israel were not topics for conversations." (p. 32) When no less of a figure than Golda Meir asked Alice about her Holocaust experiences, she replied that, "I never talk about that time . . . I do not want my son to remember. I want his childhood to be happy." (p. 34)

You might think I am being mean-spirited about Alice and, perhaps, I am. However, research shows that silence can be destructive for the children of Holocaust survivors and other trauma survivors. See the article below for more thoughts on this. On the other hand, as Judith Herman (the author of Trauma and Recovery) says, "Because reliving a traumatic experience provokes such emotional distress, traumatized people go to great lengths to avoid it." To speak about something, makes it real. This may be much too painful for some people to bear and, as someone who lost a lot but not as much as Alice Herz-Sommer, I understand that "making it real," by speaking can be tremendously difficult. So whether Alice was protecting herself or her son isn't clear. Whatever the case, she clearly led a long and happy life after surviving, which is a sort of miracle. I don't begrudge her that long, happy life. I do wonder, however,  how she could go forward as though her past were a blank. See the article below for more thoughts on how silence can be harmful: 

 Why Silence Doesn't Work

 

UK Prime Minister David Cameron meets with Holocaust survivor Trude Levi, 2011 (The Prime Minister's Office)

 

Australia has the second highest number of aging Holocaust survivors in the world. Many nursing homes and old-age facilities are helping aging survivors cope with the painful memories of the past and honor them through special programs and protocols. 

Last thoughts: people will try to silence you if you are a trauma survivor, so why silence yourself? The truth is that few people can face the hard truths of such events and, in the case of the woman whom I'm helping with her manuscript, her husband and sons no longer want to hear about what they call her "obsession."  In some ways, I understand this. In other ways, since I have myself survived trauma, I have trouble understanding how a non-trauma survivor feels when hearing about trauma and how I can communicate with them so that they can hear. Maybe I can't. If so, that, too, will be very sad. Tomorrow, my husband and I have our first couples counselling session and I'm sure this issue of trauma and silence will be one of the topics for discussion. (More on our session in a few days.)

What do you think? Should trauma survivors speak out or not? Why is it so hard for people to "hear" them?