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. 

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.