A Bit Lighter

My hippocampus is finally getting the message.  The decrease in hyper-vigilance has helped me to relax and not get my undies in a bunch over any whisper of encroachment, exclusion, etc.

I figured out that the fits and starts related to really not wanting to have to go to all the people I've hurt and say I'm sorry.  I've been not getting internal (and housekeeping) work done so I didn't have to move to the next step.  But I've realized that I don't have to move to the next step until I'm ready, so the logjam has broken and I'm making progress.

It is amazing how much more I notice when I'm not waiting for someone to be mean to me.  And how much less "weight" there is to simple occurrences.

Like this past Sunday in church.  During the Passing of the Peace, a person shook the hands of those right next to me and then turned away.  In the past, I would have been deeply wounded.  This time I thought, "He probably didn't see me."  Then he turned around and shook my hand too.

I'm realizing that I make myself suffer often by beating up on myself for not being perfect and for being angry at people for being mean or thoughtless.  Need to work on that.

Fits and Starts

This healing business can be slow going.  Sometimes, motivation is lacking.  There are all these questions swirling around and I just don't know the answers. 

I've always needed to know the answers.  I don't need that so much now but I find myself curiously stuck, for no apparent reason.  Something is going on somewhere inside me and I find it hard to do everyday things.  So I do what I can, until I can do more.

One question asked by my therapist keeps haunting me: am I an extrovert or an introvert?  Somehow, just the permission to possibly not be what I've always been has been both scary and freeing.

I don't have to be anything I'm not.

But how do you stop being what you aren't when that is all you have been?

No answers right now, just questions. 

More Than Flashbacks

When I first had the aha! moment about PTSD, I thought it was simple: the bullying caused the flashback and that was it.  But PTSD causes more than flashbacks; there are many ramifications to the syndrome and to having been bullied.

For me, the PTSD caused constant, low-grade vigilance.  I  wouldn't go so far as to call it paranoia; it was milder than that.  I just always expected people to hurt me, so I tried to watch out and make sure they didn't.

For much of my life, I swung between two extremes:

1. being the super friend that no one could fault until I felt used, and
2. keeping to myself so I didn't get hurt.

The thing that actually drove me to therapy was when I realized that I was re-living that first awful vignette again and again, with me as the protagonist: when things got difficult in a relationship, I would kick that person out of my life.  I finally looked around and realized that there weren't many friends left and if I didn't change, I'd be alone.

Even though no one seems to be reading my stuff, it feels good to write it.  Maybe someday it will help someone.

Moving Forward Slowly

I'm a rather impatient person.  When I get a cold, I often end up with one or two relapses before I'm finally well because I tend to jump back into the fray before I'm over the cold.   I end up being out of commission for lots longer than if I had simply taken a bit longer to recover the FIRST time.  I'm trying hard to keep my journey out of PTSD from falling into the same patter.

I've lived with this PTSD crap for so long that I just want it to be over.  I don't want to expect people to be against me, want to hurt me, treat me badly.  I don't want to travel back to that hall at Vance Elementary and feel the waves of shame, grief, and rejection.   But my hippocampus still doesn't have the whole message yet so back I go.


I don't want to be mad at my dead mother but I am.  I need to forgive a whole host of people and ask another host for forgiveness but those are future tasks.   I don't have the insight, strength or courage that I need for these things.  I'm too weak.  I need to get stronger first.

Right now, I need to learn to do a better job of taking care of myself.  I need some quiet, some fun, some interaction, and a lot of yoga and jogging.  And I need to try to avoid situations that will trigger me.  I need to write, read, think, pray, and move forward SLOWLY.

Facing PTSD

Mark Nepo, the author of one of the books in my Bibliotherapy post, wrote on a recent day about the lies that we tell ourselves.  He encouraged readers to face one of those and then think about what facing that lie would mean.

For me, the lie is that I'm normal because right now, I'm not.  Because I accepted that I have PTSD, I'm now highly aware of how easily I can be triggered into thinking I'm being bullied.  I'm aware that this is caused by past events, but I still shrink at criticism or cry at exclusion.  This is not a pleasant feeling, but it is where I am right now.  The only way out is through.

At least now I can see that maybe there will come a time when I won't assume or fear the worst of everyone and just be able to enjoy life.

What I Wish Had Happened and Helping the Bullied

Before I delve into my own journey out of PTSD, I'd like to take a moment to say what I WISH had happened way back when:

1. I wish my mother had not denied the bad things that happened to me.  To be fair to her, I'm not sure I would have told her even if I hadn't had that early experience of her denying what had happened to me.  I was very ashamed of the girls not wanting me in Brownies and of all the kids doing the mean things to me in 5th and 6th grade.  I may not have said anything.  So that brings me to the second point.
2. I wish I had told ANY adult what was happening but I was too ashamed to do it.
3. I wish an adult had done something CONSTRUCTIVE to help me.  It wasn't as if no one knew.  My fifth grade teacher knew what happened and she yelled at the kids and told me she was sorry, but that only made things worse on the playground and any place away from the teachers.
4. I wish I had even talked to friends about it.  I did have a few.  But once again, I was too ashamed.
5. I wish I had found out about PTSD sooner.  My life might have been different.

So how can a parent or teacher help?  These are just my ideas of what I would have liked from an adult:

1. LISTEN without interrupting to what the child has to say.  Ask quiet, gentle questions.
2. PRAISE the child for having the courage to come talk to you.
3. CONFIRM that no one should be treated that way.
4. ASK if there is something they specifically want you to do or NOT do; negotiate if needed, but don't promise to not do something if you don't intend to honor that promise.
5. ROLE PLAY with them to help them stand up to the bullies.  Practice it until the child can easily handle the situation.  
• Use sentences like "I don't like being treated that like."  Telling bullies they are bad is not a winning solution.  Don't argue with them.
• Encourage the bullied to walk away, if possible.
• If threatened, scream as loud and long as possible.  They may get teased about screaming, but it will stop the bullies in most instances.

I hope this helps someone.  Just writing it has helped me.

What PTSD Feels Like and What Is Happening

When people hear PTSD, many think of soldiers who have returned from war.  Some random loud noise causes them to suddenly act like they are back in the war, fighting for their lives.  They can't distinguish the past from the present, everything is a confusing blur.

For THIS bullied adult, that isn't far from the truth.  When I get into a situation that feels like any one of my bullying experiences, my emotions feel the same way I felt in 4th grade.  There isn't a lot of visual involvement or auditory (your mileage may vary), but the emotions are the same and I cannot convince myself that this is different no matter how hard I try.

There is a really good reason for this: my instincts, those primal fight or flight responses, have mis-fired.  I'm no expert on this by ANY means; I'm just repeating what I learned from the "8 Keys..." book.  When I read about the amygdala and the hippocampus, I knew I had found the reason that I responded the way I did: my brain never got the message that each bullying episode ended.  In brief, the hippocampus stores the facts of an event: who, what, where, why, when.  The amygdala stores what you felt about the event.  In instances of extreme trauma, the hippocampus can malfunction and neglect to store the fact that an event has ended.  I don't want to violate copyright, so go to Amazon, "Look Inside" and search for "amygdala" and read about it on page 30 and following.

To make matters worse, each time the hippocampus informs us that we are back in that situation and we are flooded with the emotions from the amydala, the hippocampus once again fails to record that the even is over because of the high levels of stress.  So those who were severely bullied over a long period of time have a whole train of misery, none of which has been ended.

Is there a way out of this? You betcha.  Go read Kelle Hampton's post on how she handled Lainey's second week of kindergarten.  She didn't minimize her fear, she didn't try to sugar coat it, she told Lainey that she'd get through it and it would probably be hard for a while and she would be there for her.  Her outline is brilliant: Life is Hard.  You have to go through it. You learn.  You grow.

So where is the similarity between kindergarten and PTSD?  Well, how do you think you reprogram the hippocampus to know that the event is over?  You tell yourself that it is over, write that it is over, live that it is over, tell anyone willing to listen that it is over.   Only problem is that the longer it has gone on, the harder it is to reprogram.

But how much nicer to have a loving mother tell you that, to help you through it.  I'd be willing to bet that even if Kelle's daughters are bullied, that PTSD won't have a chance with them because Kelle will be there through the whole thing, comforting, counseling and confirming that it is over.  And anyone who needs to be confronted about the situation will be confronted and it will get RESOLVED.  God bless Kelle and all mothers like her who don't tell their kids not to be sad, but are simply with them in their pain, providing comfort and support instead of denial.

Bibliotherapy

Bibliotherapy is helping yourself through books.  Here are a few of the books that have been helpful in understanding my PTSD and dealing with byproducts of having it.

"8 Keys to Safe Trauma Recovery" by Babette Rothschild
A short book jam-packed with helpful info on little ways you can work on overcoming your PTSD.  Much of the post on "What Happens When Bullied" comes from this book.  The book gives you hope and some actions that you can do alone or in conjunction with therapy.

"The Cow in the Parking Lot" by Leonard Scheff and Susan Edmiston
This humorous, gentle book is a great way to begin to look at anger and ways of overcoming it.  It is non-judgemental, concisely written and useful in becoming a less anger-driven person.

"The Book of Awakening" by Mark Nepo
The subtitle of this book is "Having  the Life You Want by Being Present to the Life You Have."  This is a daily reading book where the author that explores all sorts of topics of the soul, using literature and experience.  It is very well-written and has opened my heart in so many ways.

Please remember that I'm at the beginning of my journey so these are just ones that I THINK will help; I'm still at the beginning.  I'll comment on the usefulness or lack thereof as I move through this healing.  The exception is the last one, which I've read for several years.  This book is a keeper wherever you are on your path.

Some Bullying Details

WARNING: This post may be difficult for those who have been bullied to read.

Note: Cruella was not the bully's real name, but she was cruel.  Beautiful wasn't my informamt's name, but she was beautiful.

It was COLD out.  I don't think it was ever as cold in Alabama as it was in suburban Pittsburgh on that early January morning.  Waiting for the school bus was double torture: I wasn't used to the cold and I knew no one.  Finally, one of the girls came up to me. "Hi, I'm Cruella.  Who are you?"

"Hah, my nayme is Gay-yul.  Ah'm frum Al-uh-bamuh.  Puleesed to meetcha."  I drawled politely.

Everyone giggled; an accent from the deep South was uncommon in Pittsburgh.  The kids started introducing themselves, each imitating my Southern drawl.  I tried not to be anxious, but the hellacious situation I had escaped in Alabama still held me in its grasp.  I desperately wanted things to be different here.  I wanted to fit in, and my accent wasn't helping.

I was twelve and my father had been transferred from Birmingham, the Pittsburgh of the South, to the real deal: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.  Although I was sad to leave all my family in the South, there weren't many friends to pine over.  You see, I had been the class scapegoat in Alabama and had been such since the beginning of fifth grade.  Most people avoided me to keep from getting caught in the net of scorn that enveloped me daily at recess and lunch.

Looking back, I wasn't a very likeable kid.  I was a spoiled brat who had never learned how to make friends with kids my own age.  I knew how to charm an adult, but no one had ever taught me that there was a difference between kids and adults.  I had been virtually born with a best friend who lived across the street from me, but that all changed when we moved to a different neighborhood when I was ten.  Everyone was new and I didn't understand the delicate dance of give and take in friendship.  My idea of making friends was to brag about my family, my brothers, and my possessions.  It didn't help that I was smart and often the teacher's pet.

The downward slope of rejection started in fourth grade, when two little girls informed me that their mothers were the new brownie troupe's den mothers and they didn't want me in the troupe, therefore I couldn't join.  As the sister of three scouts, two of them eagle scouts, this was devastating, but there was worse to come.  I was too ashamed to approach any adult with my problem.  All my brothers were popular, so there had to be something wrong with me.

In fifth grade, while a substitute teacher was in charge, the kids colored the traditional pilgrim and turkey pictures with scars, crooked teeth, warts and snot running down and labeled them all as me.  The unsuspecting sub hung all the pictures up around the room.  I'm not sure which was worse: the kids doing the pictures or the look on my regular teacher's face when she saw them upon her return and sitting me in her glass office while she yelled at them.  Once again, my parents never knew.

The snowball of rejection grew in the fall of sixth grade with hurtful taunts and jibes that followed me daily whenever teachers weren't around.  I was humiliated and ashamed; too ashamed to ask for help.  All this rejection culminated in the kids cheering when I left for Pittsburgh that last day.   Nothing could be worse than that, or so I thought.

The school bus finally arrived and I got on with the other kids.  Everyone was looking at me and talking behind mittened hands.  I looked out the frosty window at the snow and wished I were anywhere else.  I wanted things to be different, but didn't know how to make that happen.

The first day of school was a blur of new faces, strange accents and a teacher who didn't quite know what to do with a child that said "Yes, ma'am" and "No, ma'am" to any question.  Apparently, Pittsburgh was far more casual about manners and no one Ma'am-ed elders.  She decided to deal with her discomfort by teasing me and prohibiting me from using a form of address that was required in the South.  At lunch I sat with the heavy set girl that no one else talked to, Beautiful.  She seemed nice, but my pride wasn't real happy about having the class outcast as a friend.

On the bus ride home, Cruella approached me again.  "Want to get together after school?" she asked.  "Sher!" I enthused.  Maybe it WOULD be okay if the most popular girl in class wanted to get to know me….

Cruella arrived at my house and we went down to the family room with a big container of chips and soda to talk.  We chatted for hours about all sorts of things, including our impending puberty and how our mothers handled it.  We also talked about starting a girls club.  I was in heaven; it looked like I would finally be a part of the IN crowd!

The next day at the bus stop, I approached Cruella eagerly, but she seemed to be very involved in another conversation.  It was okay.  We had had a good time yesterday; everything was going to be fine.  I struck up a conversation with another girl at the bus stop who was several years younger than I.  Eventually the bus came to take us to school.  I sat with the girl who I was chatting with and didn't notice the conference that seemed to be going on around Cruella's seat.

During the day, I started to notice that kids were looking at me in a funny way.  Funny bad, not funny good, like sharing a joke.  I knew funny bad intimately from Alabama, so I could recognize it.  I tried to tell myself it was just my accent, but I knew something was wrong.  At lunch, Beautiful approached me and pulled me off to one side.  "Cruella is telling everyone that you're a whore.  I just thought you'd like to know," she whispered.

I was devastated, humiliated.  I didn't even have BREASTS!  How could I be a whore?!?  On the bus ride home, kids that I happened to bump into inoculated themselves with cootie shots.  Apparently whores have cooties.  I sat low in the seat, as close to the cold metal bus panel as I could get.  Leaning my head against the frosty glass, I stared at the snowy landscape rushing past, trying to hold back the tears.  I didn't fit in -- AGAIN.

"Honey, that COULDN'T have happened!"

That's what my mom said. 

I was five or six.  Something bad had happened to me and I went to her for help and comfort.  And she told me that I was wrong, that it couldn't have happened.  My mom could not handle messy truths any more than she would tolerate a messy house.  Her philosophy was that if you denied it, it went away.

That was the last time I told my mom anything embarrassing/bad because I didn't want her to tell me it wasn't true again.