What we give our attention to - stays with us. What we let go of - will let go of us.
Cat Forsley
The pink snowsuit my father's parents got me for my second Christmas
My mother's youngest sister died Friday. In January, her oldest sister died. Both deaths rocked my world. My aunts were potent symbols of a childhood world where I felt safe and loved. I was the third grandchild in my mother's large family and the first grandchild in my father's smaller family. In my father's family I was spoiled, no doubt about that. At Christmas, I was showered with presents. My mother's parents couldn't afford to be so generous with things, but they more than made up for it with people. Their house overflowed with people and there were no strangers in that small rural community where my mother grew up. Most people knew my name and, if they didn't, all they had to do was ask my mother's name, and then they knew who I was. I loved that sense of belonging.
Me in Kentucky with one of my uncle's dogs, circa 1955 (personal collection)
I felt safe and loved at my grandparents' houses. My own home was sometimes full of fighting. My parents were young and when I was born my father was patrolling the DMZ in Korea. When he got home, adjusting to each other and a new baby created tension and fighting. The fighting frightened me. And that's why I felt safe with my grandparents.
I loved visiting my father's parents where I was the center of attention. I remember Grandma asking me what I'd like for lunch; I always asked for the same thing: Campbell's Cream of Chicken Soup and a peanut butter sandwich made with Skippy's peanut butter. Afterwards, if I'd been good I could go to the cookie drawer and get a cookie. Sometimes, I spent the night and Grandma would tuck me in and tell me, "Nightie, night." Grandma taught me how to play cards and we played game after game of War. When I turned eight, my grandparents got me a record that played, "Happy Birthday to you/Happy Birthday to you/Happy Birthday, dear Angela/Happy Birthday to you." I still have that record. It's bent after all these years and I have no way to play it, but I keep it in a box with other treasures and sometimes I take it out and think about what it was like to be a beloved grandchild. (photo above, me and my father's mother, circa 1955)
My mother's house was a busier place. I rarely had my grandparents full attention and that was just fine because the house was full of uncles: my mother's four youngest brothers. We sometimes played Chinese checkers together and hung out together and sometimes, because they were teens after all, they loved to tease me. Once my Uncle Sam scared me with a devil's darning needle, a kind of walking stick that was actually harmless. Best of all, was when my uncle Clifton, the tallest of my mother's brothers, would lift me up on his shoulders and I felt like I could touch the sky. (photo: Clifton and me, circa 1962)
When we went to Kentucky, we were "going home," or "down home." My mother took me there for the first time when I was only six weeks old because she wanted her family to see me "real bad." The house was full of people, including my ailing great-grandfather.
We went to Kentucky every summer. My grandparents would be waiting in the front yard when we drove up and my grandmother would always say the same thing, "I looked for y'all to come today," and fold us into her arms. My grandfather was quieter, but, in his own way he welcomed us too. My grandfather died when I was 12 and, after that, us girls slept in grandma's room. I loved her room. It had a screen door that opened onto the front porch and lots of windows and even in the Kentucky heat, it was cool and comfortable. Grandma would tell us stories as we were falling asleep and after her voice stopped, I could hear the whip-poor-will calling from the woods across the road.
On the day we left, Grandma would give my mother a jar of her homemade strawberry jam and they would hug and then we would get in the car and my father would back down their red clay driveway to the road and head north.
What's the take-away from all of this? For me, these good memories gave me something powerful to hold onto. The love I found with my grandparents and my mother's family, helped me weather the terrible times after I lost my daughter. Was my childhood happier than other people experiencing similar trauma? Maybe not. What matters, according to an article in Psychology Today, was what I felt about my childhood. Those happy memories gave me resilience. That reminds me of my Kentucky grandmother and her hollyhocks. Every year, my grandmother would plant flowers and every year her chickens would scratch them out. The only flowers that survived were the hollyhocks. Hollyhocks grew at the back of the house and I can picture them now: resilient flowers that were strong, beautiful, and chicken-proof.
In other ways, however, my childhood was no bed of roses. (More on the vulnerabilities and losses of childhood and how they relate to trauma in my next post.) Meanwhile, here is a song that expresses the bittersweet feeling I have about losing my aunts. Bitter because so many of the people I love are now dead. Sweet because when I hear this bluegrass tune, for a few precious moments I'm back at my grandparents in Kentucky with the television tuned to the Nashville station. Maybe the Grand Ole Opry is on and old-timey music is playing and I'm happy. Those memories are talismans I can hold onto as I keep going, living with PTSD.
Home is the place where it feels right to walk around without shoes.
Unknown
Houses, Paul Klee
I'll be going home in ten days. My mother's appointment with the orthopedic doctor went well this morning and, now, there really isn't anything essential I need to do here. I could make my mother's stay more comfortable at the rehab center and I could make sure that my dad doesn't do anything foolish - like his proposed idea to stand on a ladder on the stairs and nail a loose board onto a window. But, really, right now, what I need is to be home.
Hyperarousal
People with PTSD have difficulty feeling safe. That's because we've gone through times when we couldn't keep ourselves safe and terrible things happened. This feeling of not being safe is associated with a PTSD symptom known as hyperarousal. Hyperarousal is when you feel anxious, can't sleep, and are easily startled. Essentially, it means that it is very hard to settle and nearly impossible to feel safe.
My Refuge
Even though I have experienced hyperarounsal at home, I feel safe there because I know that if I truly can't function, I can retreat to the refuge of my bedroom. Having that "escape route" for hard times is reassuring. My husband and son aren't always happy when I take refuge in my bedroom, but they understand because I've explained how important having a safe place is as I continue to heal from trauma. Before I was diagnosed with PTSD, I used to have panic attacks at night. I would wake up and scream and jump out of bed. These panic attacks happened often enough to be frightening and unpleasant. Today, after almost two years of therapy and working with other healing techniques, including singing, walking, and yoga, I have a greater sense of safety both at home and away from home. I rarely have panic attacks and, most days, I lead a normal life. However, when I am experiencing difficult times, due to anniversaries of traumatic events or exposure to triggers, the ONLY place I feel safe is at home.
At my parents, I have a wonderful bedroom that I can retreat to. It is furnished with a bed, dresser, and cedar chest from my beloved grandmother's house. I love everything about this room. However, I can usually only retreat here at the end of the day. A few days ago, I was feeling overwhelmed, so I stayed home and hung out in the bedroom. Neither of my parents understood and explaining PTSD and the concept of refuge to my cognitively-challenged parents seemed impossible; so I didn't try. Since I've been here, I've been able to get up and go out into the world most days and help my parents with the things they need help with. But all that helping, even when I don't feel up to it, takes a toll and I've been feeling exhausted. And that's another reason why I can't wait to get home.
Early on the morning of March 8th, I will board a plane bound for Vancouver. Once I recover from jet lag, I plan to rest a lot and, then, sit at my laptop in our sunny dining room and write. I will be barefoot because I love going barefoot at home. I will probably have music playing and my cat will be nearby - probably begging for food. When I go out to check the mail, I will hear ravens and bald eagles calling from down by the ocean and crows and finches calling from nearby trees. If I'm lucky it won't be raining. Raining or not, daffodils and cherry trees will be blooming and the long, cool, wet Vancouver spring will be on the way. I expect to feel relaxed and, above all, SAFE.
I realize that not everyone with PTSD is so lucky. Many people, particularly women, may still live with abusive partners or alone and their homes may not feel - or be - safe. However, it is possible to create a sense of safety in other ways. Visiting a trusted therapist, keeping a journal, talking with a friend, or practicing yoga can all provide the safety and grounding that trauma survivors need. Lately, yoga has been getting a lot of attention as a wonderful healing method for helping people with PTSD. Some people also "build" a safe place in their mind that they can retreat to whenever they need to. Others meditate. (cat on box, photo: J. Ota, flickr)
How do you create a feeling of safety?
Where do you feel safe? If you don't feel safe in a "real" place, what are some other ways you help yourself to feel safe? Do you have an imaginary place you go to, to feel safe? Do you practice yoga or meditate? Are you ready for the "storm?"
Finally, enjoy the video below of Deanta performing the Dougie MacLean song, "Ready for the Storm." I had the great pleasure of hearing Dougie MacLean perform this song in person.
