Tag Archives: healing from PTSD

SHIFT HAPPENS

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Just the title alone is enough to land this book on my favorites list!  And by the way, the order in which I ‘review’ and/or list these books is not an indication of anything other than it is a book that has meant something to me and my journey towards healing.  This book was published in 2000, but I didn’t become aware of it until about 2 years ago.  I have listened to it several times and read the actual book, too, a couple of times.  Clearly, it speaks to me.  And each time I’ve listened to or read it, I’ve gotten something different, whatever it was I needed at that particular moment.

The introduction of the book:

“Two caterpillars were crawling along a tree branch one day when a butterfly flew overhead.  One caterpillar said to the other, ‘You will never get me up in one of those things.’  Shift Happens! is about personal alchemy and inner transformation.  Some people “go” through life; and other people “grow” through life.  Shift Happens! celebrates your unlimited potential to grow, blossom and evolve–in spite of everything.  It is a book of hope.  The term personal alchemy describes the ability to take a piece of dirt, roll it around a few times and fashion it into a pearl.  This is what an oyster does.  Personal alchemy is what your grandmother called turning lemons into lemonade.  It is what old wizards describe as turning straw into gold.  Shift Happens! is about staying open all hours for miracles.  Success, love and happiness are only ever one thought away at most.  One new perception, one fresh thought, one act of surrender, one change of heart, one leap of faith can change your life forever.”

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From the back cover of the book:  “Robert Holden, Ph.D., shares a powerful mix of principles and exercises–from his private coaching practice–that can create real breakthroughs in your life.  Writing in a short essay-style, Robert shows you how to tap into the inner gold of your true nature, unblock yourself, release fears, drop the struggle, transform relationships and live a happier life.”

If you go to his web sites, either robertholden.org or behappy.net you will find that he has other more recent books, including one called Holy Shift!  (I just love the titles he chooses!)

A CREATIVE LIFE

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When I was 5 or 6 years old,  I wanted doll clothes for my Barbie dolls, but my mother wouldn’t buy them for me.  She said,”They are too expensive, and they are not made very well.”  So if I didn’t want naked dolls, I had to learn how to sew.  If you ask her, she’ll tell you that she taught me to sew.   This isn’t true, although I am certain she helped me to the best of her ability.   My grandmother, her mother, was the one who really taught me.  Since my entire reason for learning how to sew was to make doll clothes, this was pretty much all I made for the first couple of years.  By hand.  I cannot remember exactly when I graduated to a sewing machine, but I do remember the first dress I made for myself when I was 8 years old.  It had 3 arm holes (on purpose) and was a wrap-around dress.  It had only the side and shoulder seams, and the whole dress was banded on the raw edges, so really easy.  I chose a yellow (we are talking school bus yellow) kettle cloth, which I do not even think is made anymore, and orange binding.  Yikes!  What I wouldn’t give to still have that dress, though.   As far as I know, there isn’t even a picture of it.  Bummer!  By nine, I could install a zipper, and I do have a picture of that dress:

old family pictures

I continued sewing, mainly because my mother would buy me fabric whenever I wanted it.  Unlike today, fabric used to be inexpensive, and it was far cheaper to sew your own clothes.  I never had to worry about anyone wearing the same thing as I had on.  I never took Home Economics because by that time I was too far advanced.  The truth is, I could have taught the class.  I did make money sewing while in high school.  I was on the swim team and every Friday before a meet, we had outfits that we had to wear.  The skirts were some kind of purple cotton, and  I ended up making the skirts for all the girls on the team.  Apparently, no one’s mother sewed.  I probably got $10 a skirt.  I also made and sold Holly Hobbie dolls for $15.  Those things were a lot of work, but, I guess for the time, that was pretty good.  Also, these were not dolls to be played with; they were to be sat on a shelf and admired.  If someone wanted to buy one for their daughter to actually play with, I wouldn’t sell it to them.

I took my sewing machine to college with me and used to get up super early to sew before my first class.   I always had new clothes, and would make my outfits for special occasions, usually the night before.  I was always aware of just how long something would take for me to make and I would always wait until the very last-minute to do it.  Some things never change!

I always sewed.  Except, that is, when I went off to Europe to model.  I could not take my sewing machine with me then.  Whenever I was back in the States for even a week, I would drag out the machine and whip up something to take back with me.  When I moved back to the States for good in September of 1990, I continued to model, but started sewing on the side.  I made vests, teddy bears, all kinds of things.  I retired from modeling sometime in 1992 or 1993, and then realized I had to get a ‘regular’ job.  I got one at Loomcraft (a Calico Corners-type store) in the Wrigleyville neighborhood of Chicago.  The store did custom labor for the home, and though I had never done much of that kind of sewing, other than simple curtains or pillows, I decided that was what I would do.  I worked at Loomcraft for 2 years, until I had enough business to quit and sew full-time.  I am proud to say that I never once poached a customer from the store.  It would have been easy to do that, but it was against the rules.  I built my business back then the same way I do today – word of mouth.  And as anyone who is self-employed knows, you work many more hours a week than 40, but at least you are working for yourself.

Today I am happy that my mother forced me to learn to sew.  It has allowed me to have my own business for the last 23 years.  I have the best clients and each one of them comes to me just as my very first one did.  My business has gone through several name changes through the years until several years ago when I changed it to A Little of This That and the Other.  Even though I only make things for the home, I don’t want to limit myself.  You never know when I might decide it’s time to start a line of t-shirts or bathing suits or yoga clothes.  This way, I’m covered.

I have always lived a creative life and cannot imagine living any other way.  Creating beautiful things for people’s homes gives me great joy.  I get to go into all kinds of houses that I would normally never go into.  I’ve been in 14 different magazines over the years, although this has never gotten me work.  Still, I love to see my work in a magazine.  As of right now, I am awaiting a home in Carlsbad, CA that was shot for Coastal Living and another home on Saint Simons Island, GA in Country Living.  I never know until it comes out exactly which of things I did will end up in the magazine, which is really hard.  But when it finally does come out, I am excited and happy to see my work in print.

My other creative outlet is writing and this web site.  It is a completely different kind of creativity and something I have done for most of my life, as well.  Telling my story, at times, is hard.  I think it is important, if for no other reason than to help me make sense of my life.  And in the process, if I help others, then so much the better.  It’s all a part of the healing process.

RUNNING AWAY FROM HOME – 1976

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For my 16th birthday, I thought I was going to see The Eagles and Fleetwood Mac perform; instead, I got a trip to a diving camp at De Anza College in Cupertino, CA.  What you have to understand is from as far back as I can remember, I always told my mother I was moving to California.  I just knew I was meant to be here.  I was to be gone for 2 or three weeks (can’t remember now) and would stay with my grandmother in Palo Alto on the weekends and my aunt and uncle in Sunnyvale during the week, so my aunt could take me to diving practice.  I flew into San Jose in the evening, with temperatures in the 80s.  That didn’t bother me in the least, as I lived in Atlanta and we had no air conditioner in the house.  No one did back then.  This was, though, a heat wave and when the temperatures went back to normal, I about froze to death.  I could not wear shorts past 3p.  Seriously!  Anyway, in between my all day diving practice during the week, I still managed to meet a boy, and for the life of me, I cannot remember his name anymore.  He was the son of a friend of my aunt and uncle.  Well, I thought I was in serious love and, unbelievably, he even asked me to marry him!  At 16!  Of course I said yes!  I was 16 and when a boy asks you to marry him at 16, what else would you say?  The fact that we lived clear across the country from each other didn’t seem to be a problem for either of us.  Nor that we were still in high school!  What can I say?  Needless to say, when my time in California was over, I went back to Georgia.  We wrote letters full of, I’m sure, declarations of undying love.

I am sure I’ve mentioned that I grew up with a bunch of monkeys, make that brothers, and to say that we mostly did not get along would be an understatement.  (I so wanted to be an only child.)  My brothers were mean and teased me non-stop.  My mother was not a lot of help.  She would simply say,’ ignore them, they’ll go away.’  Ah, no, not only did they not go away, they continued to make me miserable.  I very much loved my time in California when I was free of them.  So that fall, my junior year of high school, which by the way, I also hated, but that’s another story, I had had enough of them and their juvenile ways.  I decided I needed to get back to where I was the happiest I had ever been, which was California.  I came up with a plan to make that happen.  The only problem was airplane tickets were expensive, and I had no money to speak of.  It wasn’t ideal, but I settled on taking the bus, a 4 day trip.    The ticket, if I remember correctly, was only about $50 compared with about $200 for a one-way flight.  I did not tell anyone, least of all my best friend, Cathy.  It seemed smarter that the less people who knew, the greater my chance of successfully making it across the country would be.

The morning of my departure I took the bus to school as normal, but I packed a bag and hid it in the bushes outside the school.  Part of my plan meant taking MARTA, the public bus system in Atlanta, which I had never done before.  There was a stop across from my high school, and after home room, so that I would not be counted as absent, I walked out the front door, retrieved my suitcase/bag, and crossed the street to the bus stop and boarded the MARTA bus going downtown Atlanta where the Greyhound Bus Terminal was.  I somehow managed to get to the station and purchase my one-way, ’cause I sure wasn’t planning on coming back, ticket and got on the west-bound bus.  I was a little scared, but mostly I was excited to be going back to California.  What I did not understand about buses was they do not take the shortest route to wherever it is they are going.  The bus left around 10a, and we went through Alabama and Mississippi to get to Memphis, Tennessee.  I remember wanting to go and ask the driver if he knew where he was going, but I didn’t want to bring any unnecessary attention to myself.  We finally pulled into the station in Memphis around 6p.  I had a bad feeling that I wasn’t going to make it.  I thought if I could get through Memphis without getting caught, I’d probably make it all the way to San Jose.  No such luck.

As soon as I stepped off the bus the authorities were waiting for me.  They asked if my name was Tamerie Shriver.  I refused to answer and went into the ladies room.  I stayed in there until one of the (men) agents stuck his head and told me I couldn’t stay in there forever.  I shot back, ‘Why not?’  I eventually left the bathroom and they took me to the juvenile detention facility.  They had called my mother as soon as I got off the bus, so she was on her way to get me.  She flew in, and because it was late by that time, we stayed overnight in a Holiday Inn by the airport.  I was fingerprinted and photographed as a runaway, even though I was 16.  Turns out in Georgia and Tennessee you had to be 17 to not be considered a juvenile.  Details, details.

I cried and cried. I cried that entire night.  I cried for the entire flight back to Atlanta.  I was so sad.  Sad to not be going to California, sad to have to go back to my house full of brothers I hated, back to a school I couldn’t stand, back to the life I wanted desperately not to be in.  As it turned out, I never did get in trouble for running away, with my mother or with the authorities.  In order to not have a juvenile record, though, we had to attend family therapy for 12 weeks.   My actions finally got through to my mother, and she agreed to make changes at home so it was more bearable for me.  My brothers were basically forbidden to even talk to me, let alone anything else.  I was sad about my aborted trip for a long time.  And I never stopped wanting to move to California.

I did leave a note that my mother was supposed to get that night when she got home from work.  In it I used the words to Cat Steven’s song Father and Son (I substituted Mother and Daughter, I also did not include all the lyrics, just those that made sense for what I was telling her) to help me express what I had not been able to make her understand:

 

“Father
It’s not time to make a change,
Just relax, take it easy.
You’re still young, that’s your fault,
There’s so much you have to know.

Son
How can I try to explain, when I do he turns away again.
It’s always been the same, same old story.
From the moment I could talk I was ordered to listen.
Now there’s a way and I know that I have to go away.
I know I have to go.

Father
It’s not time to make a change,
Just sit down, take it slowly.
You’re still young, that’s your fault,
There’s so much you have to go through.
Son

All the times that I cried, keeping all the things I knew inside,

It’s hard, but it’s harder to ignore it.

If they were right, I’d agree, but it’s them you know not me.

Now there’s a way and I know that I have to go away.
I know I have to go.”

 

Let’s just say, it made sense to me at the time, and bottom-line, it did get my point across and everything seem to change after that.

 

 

FINALLY, THE LAST PIECE FALLS INTO PLACE

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I have been trying, for over 2 years, since the D.A. showed it to me at one of the court dates, before we ever got to the sentencing, to get a copy of the letter that DCD wrote to me, at the urging of the police, after he was in custody.  When I first read it, I did not believe a word of what he had written.  When I read again last week, I still do not believe a word he wrote.  And I’ll get to that in a moment.  Getting a copy of it proved to be far worse than pulling teeth.  At least with that, you go to the dentist, tell him to pull your tooth and he does it.  At the time, March or April or May of 2012 (who can remember?) I was told that I could not have a copy because it was not mine to have.  Well, that wasn’t exactly correct, but, then again, so much of what the D.A. told me wasn’t exactly correct.  So, I waited.

When I was told by the Probation Department that I was entitled to the file pertaining to DCD, I requested a copy.  I thought for sure the letter would be included.  Nope.  So, I waited some more.  After the sentencing hearing, I waited a few days before going to the Coronado Police Department to request a copy of the file.  That’s when I found out that he (his attorney) had filed an appeal, and because of that, the case was considered ongoing and could not be released.  Okay, eventually, his appeal was settled and I went again to request a copy of it.  Again, I was put off.  I was, however, told that technically the letter was mine as it had been written to me, and I wanted that letter.

More months went by, and I’d go again to the Police Station, and, again, no one could seem to make it happen.  There was always some excuse about why it could not be released to me.  I’d go away for a while, but I never gave up wanting it or biding my time until I’d try again.  Then a few weeks ago I thought it was time to make my seemingly pointless trip to the Police Department.  The day I went the Sergeant was out of the building because of an incident on the bridge, which is code for a jumper.  That was fine, I didn’t need to talk to her, I just wanted a copy of my letter.  I had been asking for a copy of the file, but the truth was I already had that.  I only lacked the letter.  So, I once again filled out a request for MY letter.  I left, expecting I’d hear back that afternoon or the next day.  Well, that didn’t happen.  It took about a week,and honestly, I had kind of forgotten about it.  Again.

I was uptown and my cell phone rang.  I did not recognize the number, but knew it was a Coronado number, so I answered it.  “This is the Coronado Police Department.  We have a copy of the letter you requested.  Do you want to pick it up?  Or do you want me to email it to you?”  I told her I’d pick it up on my way home, thank you very much!

It was in a sealed envelope.  I did not want to open it until I was at home, glasses on my face so I could actually see to read it.  When I finally did open and read it, luckily, I felt nothing.  In this case, nothing is good.  Then I read it again, and thought, he is such a liar.  I don’t believe a word he wrote.  This is what he wrote:

 

“I would like to tell you that I’m deeply sorry for the way I treated you.  I had no intention of assaulting you.  I knew you were terrified.  It also hurt me inside, I was doing something to you that I’ve never wanted to do to anybody.  After the incident I ran over to the police department because I knew what I did was wrong.  Please find it in your heart to forgive me.

Sincerely,

DCD”

 

Okay, let’s take this line by line — ‘I would like to tell you that I’m deeply sorry for the way that I treated you.’  Well, you may be sorry, but I’m guessing only because you got caught and you didn’t get to do what you actually intended to do, which was rape me.  And the ‘way you treated’ me was you slammed me to the pavement, ripped my clothes off and were preparing to beat the shit out of me when my guardian angel arrived.  ‘I had no intention of assaulting you.’  Ah, yeah, you did.  You were out trolling, and when you saw me and I fit the ‘type’ you were hoping to find, my fate was sealed.  You turned around and followed me, getting up your nerve to attack me, and when you decided the time was right, you ran at me as fast as you could, hitting me, taking me down, where you had every intention of raping me.  ‘It also hurt me inside…’  Oh, please!  You never wanted to do something like this to anyone?  Of course you did.  You planned it and I fit very nicely into your plan.  What you didn’t count on was me fighting back.  And you sure did not count on someone coming along and saving my life.  ‘After the incident I ran over to the police department…’  Another big, fat lie.  While it is true that the police picked you up in the 700 block of Orange Avenue and the Police Department happens to be in the 700 block of Orange Avenue, they picked you up 12 1/2 hours after you claim to have run over there.  You expect me to believe you sat there for 12 1/2 hours just waiting for them to notice you?  Hardly.  ‘…because I knew what I did was wrong.’  No shit!  Of course you knew what you did was wrong.  As for me finding it in my heart to forgive you, well, I am still working on that, though I have to say that I am pretty close.  This feels like the last piece of the entire puzzle and because it is now in place, I can finally put it all behind me.  Well, as far as I can while still talking and writing about it in the larger context of my life.

 

MY LIFE STORY IN 100 WORDS

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I got this idea from Jennifer Pastiloff’s post yesterday.  She featured a guest post by Elissa Wald,  who had been asked on an application for freelance copywriting work, to tell her personal story in 100 words.  (To read Elissa’s 100 word story, go to Jen’s web site, http://themanifeststation.net)

It got me thinking of what I would say in 100 words that could truly encapsulate and/or describe my life in so few words.  I mean, I’ve lived 54 years and been through an awful lot.  But I like a good challenge, so I gave it a shot.  I am calling it my life story as opposed to my personal story.  Here’s what I came up with:

My Life Story In 100 Words:

A happy, healthy, loving, kind, silly, adventure-seeking, funny, mostly intelligent, sometimes wildly irreverent, forward-looking spirit having a very human experience. Have faced many life challenges with grace, and survived. Have fought hard to stick around to see what happens next. Looking to make a difference in my life so that I am able, by example, to encourage others to do the same. Believe that one person CAN make a difference, and if we all live with this uppermost in our minds, think of the awesome transformation the world would see. Am ready for blessings that are no longer in disguise.

What do you think?  Did I do it?  Can you do it?  I’d love to see what you come up with.  Please leave a comment with your 100 word story.

 

 

 

 

A FINE LINE

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I started writing this post last night on my phone.  I only wrote a portion of it because it is a bit of a pain doing it that way.  I need to be able to see the entirety of what I’ve written and that just isn’t possible on a tiny screen.  Reading over what I wrote, though, I think I’ll go in a different direction.  I was going to eventually tie what I wrote last night into what I really want to say, and it would have been a far longer, more complicated essay, so, I’ll leave that for another day.

What I really want to say today is there is a very fine line between teasing and being rude and disrespectful.  I grew up being teased, and though I am not always crazy about it now, I do understand it, and it is familiar.  And, to a point, I am truly okay with it.  However, it simply does not work for me in the ways it used to.  Was it my attack that has made me more sensitive to this?  Is it evolving and changing to a kinder, more loving person in general?  Or is it not being willing to put up with any crap and rudeness of any kind anymore?  It’s probably a combination of all of those things.  And, really, it doesn’t matter what the reason…if I perceive it as something I do not want in my life, I have every right to feel the way that I do, and to do whatever I need to so that it stops.

At the risk of being called overly sensitive and/or ridiculous, I had an incident occur on the 4th of July that upset me.  A LOT.  A little background…I drive an old car.  Her name is Grazelda.  She is a ’96 Volkswagen Golf, the Harlequin edition, which is a multi-colored car.  It is one of the rarest Volkswagens ever made. There are only 70 of my version.  Most people love my car and think it is really cool.  Okay, so she is faded and has some rust on her hatchback.  So what?  The thing is, you do not have to like my car, and, frankly, I don’t give a damn whether you do or not.  What I have an issue with is you telling me that I drive a piece of shit car or that no one wants to be seen riding in it, etc.  Yes, these comments and others like this were made to me on Friday.  The sad thing is they were made by someone I’ve known since I was 18 years old (36 freaking years!) and not for the first time.  And as if that wasn’t bad enough, I have two family members that jumped on the let’s-bash-Tamerie’s-car bandwagon.  The seem to think it is cute.  I do not.  Not even a little bit.  And these relatives are not young teenagers or even twenty-somethings; no, they are in their sixties!  Of course, this behavior is nothing new and something I have put up with for as long as I can remember.  I do know they care about me and are just teasing me, and in spite of that, and in spite of my asking that they not do it, they continue to do so.  It makes me not want to go to family functions.

Am I being a big, fat baby about this?  I don’t think so, and even if I am, their behavior lands on me as disrespect.  And that I should not have to tolerate, especially from people in my family.  As for my friend from college, that’s an entirely different story.  And why, would someone please explain to me, are there people who think it’s okay to give me their opinion about my car, especially when it has happened numerous other times, and I have made clear that I do not appreciate nor want to be subjected to it?  To me, this is extremely rude and so uncalled for.   It has been suggested that this is his way of letting me know that he likes me.  Really?  Really?  Grow up.

I have always been a person who stands up for myself.  I have never cared if others like me or not, nor have I cared what they think about me.  If you don’t like me, okay.  I see it as your loss more than anything else.  I would never tell anyone, ANYONE, the things that certain friends and family members feel they have the right to say.  I learned a long time ago that words can never be taken back.  Oh sure, you can apologize for saying something hurtful or mean or down right cruel, BUT you can never take it back.  It can’t be unheard.  Because of this, I am very careful what I say to others, and even more so if I am angry or upset.  I am not sure why others are not as careful.  It seems like such an easy and kind thing to do.

A PAIN IN THE NECK

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Make that a pain in my neck.  Literally.  In this ongoing, seemingly never-ending process of healing from my attack, when most everything has been dealt with and is, if not totally better, pretty dang close, the one thing that is still hanging on is the pain in my neck.  And, for the most part, it’s okay.  But not healed, and this is an issue for me.  As my soon-to-be-gone (moving out-of-state – boo hoo) acupuncturist, Matt Truhan, said a couple of weeks ago, my neck was the first thing injured and it is the last thing my body is hanging onto.  Immediately following my attack, I could not move my head at all.  I had to turn my entire body to look at something behind me.  In time, I was able to move it again.  Two or three months?  I do not remember exactly, but, eventually I was able to move my head without turning my whole body.  And because I was so focused on healing the emotional trauma, my neck was kind of forgotten about.  Or, rather, I just learned to live with the constant pain, and after a while, even though it was, and is, still there, I ceased noticing it. Kind of like the headaches I used to suffer from.  In my daily life, for the most part, I am not aware of it.  In yoga, though, I am very aware.  There are certain postures I simply am unable to do because my neck will not bend or turn.  Even when my teacher says, as we are on our stomachs, ‘turn to your favorite cheek,’ I have to keep my head straight, there is no turning to either side more than just a couple of inches.  Or when we are in a twist and he or she says to bring the head back to center, and mine has been there all along.

So, as a last-ditch effort before he and his wife move to Oregon, Matt has been concentrating on my neck.  It has helped, but I’m not sure it will be all better before he leaves.  Because I do not like massage, he never insisted on working on it before.  Oh, he put needles in it and in other points that correspond to the neck, but the pain and lack of mobility is as much muscle memory as it is real, physical pain, and that makes it much harder to deal with.  The massage, though very painful, has helped some.  This last Tuesday, though, I was exceptionally sore because I had played tennis for the first time in 6 years, and he did insist on a short, Chinese-style massage.  The reason I do not like massage is because I always feel awful afterwards, like for several days.  I agreed because he is so good at his job and I thought, maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad.  Wrong.  Not only did it hurt, I felt like crap the rest of the day on Tuesday and still felt yucky yesterday.  I even took an epsom salt bath, which I dislike almost as much as massage.  Today, I feel almost normal, whatever that is.  And when I say I feel almost normal, I mean from the ill-effects of the massage, not my neck.

The dictionary on my computer defines whiplash as:
whiplash |ˈ(h)wipˌlaSH|
noun
1 [ usu. in sing. ] the lashing action of a whip: figurative : he cringed before the icy whiplash of Curtis’s tongue.
• the flexible part of a whip or something resembling it.
2 injury caused by a severe jerk to the head, typically in a motor-vehicle accident.
verb [ with obj. ]
jerk or jolt (someone or something) suddenly, typically so as to cause injury: the force of impact had whiplashed the man’s head.
• [ no obj. ] move suddenly and forcefully, like a whip being cracked: he rammed the yacht, sending its necklace of lights whiplashing from the bridge.

In my case,  it was both a noun and a verb.  I sustained injury ’caused by a severe jerk to the head’ though mine was from being violently slammed to the pavement, and not by a car accident.  And the action of DCD in slamming me to the pavement caused the injury.  Even now I get a twinge of pain and sadness when picturing the scene that morning.  I know it could have been so much worse.  Had I not been in such great physical shape and been so angry that someone would even think of attacking me, the outcome may have been far different.  And yet 33+ months later I am still dealing with the pain that his actions caused me that September morning.  That pisses me off.  And makes me even more determined to get myself completely healed, however long it takes.

YOGA AND HEALING

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I started doing yoga in September of 2011.  While it is true that I had taken a few classes here and there, I never ‘got into it.’  However, when I took my first class at Coronado Yoga and Wellness, something clicked.  I will admit that during the first class, I thought, ‘this is so slow, I’m not sure I can do this.’  Then I admonished myself to relax and take it for what it was, that I didn’t have to go 100 miles an hour to benefit from something.  That did it for me.  I had had only 2, maybe 3 classes, when I was attacked.  I kept going back, though, even as my body and mind were in shock, and I had to be around people, and at that point, I was afraid of all people, I kept going.  I remember lying on the floor, wanting to cry and not being able to, going over and over in my mind what had happened and still not believing it had actually happened to me.  And even though my body was hurting, I continued to show up.  There is not a doubt in my mind that doing yoga was instrumental in my healing process.

I came upon this wonderful essay about just that and I emailed the author, Molly Boeder Harris, to ask if it was okay for me to reprint it here.  She graciously agreed.  She also has a web site that deals with sexual assault, www.thebreathenetwork.org.

 

Transcending the Trauma of Sexual Violence With Yoga
By Molly Boeder Harris
Photos by Michael Rioux

“Sexual violence can impact every facet of a survivor’s life, including her physical, mental, and spiritual health. Philosopher Ann Cahill captures the pervasive nature of the crime of rape in her book Rethinking Rape (2001), explaining, “As a traumatic, violent, embodied experience, rape…does not merely attack the victim’s sexuality, or her sense of safety, or her physical being. It does all of this, and more. It cannot be assumed that there is one aspect of that person’s being that is untouched by the experience of rape. There is no pristine, untouched corner to which to retreat…the extent of the rapist’s influence is broad, but not infinite…the self that emerges from the process of healing will always be qualitatively and profoundly different from the self that existed prior to the assault. To know oneself.as raped, is to become a different self.”
Healing after sexual assault requires intentionality, consistency, and patience. The challenge of swimming against unexpected waves of physical, emotional, or spiritual disturbance and depression, combined with a cultural expectation that time heals all wounds, can leave survivors feeling disconnected from themselves and others and unable to trust their ability to manage their inner experience. The nonlinear and often lifelong process that begets healing can cause survivors to question their capacity for resilience.
Yoga provides an accessible, personalized practice that can engage survivors in safely processing sensation and sustain them through multiple stages of healing. Like healing, yoga is a lifelong practice , with ebbs and flows, breakthroughs and setbacks–all equally valuable and necessary. For a sexual assault survivor, an intentional yoga practice provides a safe, accessible, and self-directed space that serves to reintegrate body, mind, and spirit. As survivors explore layers of their being and allow sensation to emerge, pain and suffering are alleviated, and more space is created for encountering the awesome experience of being alive. Yoga allows survivors to regain a sense of comfort and ease within their own shape, to process nonverbally feelings that transcend language, and to experientially cultivate gratitude towards the body, which serve as a reminder of one’s resilience.

In practicing yoga, we link movement with breath and a presence of mind, offering a welcome inner quieting and release of tension that foster expansion. Yoga creates a unique environment where survivors can explore inside with kindness and inquisitiveness and develop attitudes that allow for compassionate responses. Honoring the body as a sacred space after surviving the violation of rape demands tremendous, consistent effort, but the integrated healing it provides remains unparalleled.
The belief that humans (and animals) contain an innate healing capacity–accessed through the body–is a guiding methodology in contemporary trauma treatment. Dr. Peter Levine, creator of a “body-awareness approach to trauma” called Somatic Experiencing ® , describes how our “instinct to heal [and] self-regulate [are] engaged through the awareness of body sensations that contradict those of paralysis and helplessness, and which restore resilience, equilibrium and wholeness.” Levine’s body-based method ” returns a sense of aliveness, relaxation and wholeness to traumatized individuals who have had these precious gifts taken away.” Pat Ogden, another trauma expert, describes the value of mindfulness, an integral part of her body-based psychotherapy practice, as a “state of consciousness in which one’s awareness is directed toward here-and-now internal experience, with the intention of simply observing rather than changing [the] experience.” Ogden eventually encourages the individual to “come out of a dissociated state and future or past-centered ideation and experience the present moment through the body.” This holistic system brings ” the body experience into the foreground” and offers the possibility for profound healing. The essential threads within these innovative techniques, such as body awareness, examining internal movement of feeling and sensation, staying present in the “here and now,” and bearing witness to one’s experience without judgment are qualities that rape victims can weave into a balanced, intentional yoga practice.
Since sexual violence often damages the connection with the body, body-based therapeutic practices are invaluable. Discussing the layered impact of trauma, which can heighten negative sensation and hinder positive sensation, Ogden describes how ” fully experiencing sensations may be disconcerting or.frightening, as intense physical experience may evoke feelings of being out of control or.weak and helpless. On the other hand, traumatized individuals are often dissociated from body sensation, experiencing the body as numb or anesthetized.”
Yoga postures, breathing exercises, and meditation techniques can effectively reduce the symptoms of rape trauma syndrome (RTS), a form of post traumatic stress disorder that was identified by Ann Wolbert Burgess and Lynda Lytle Holmstrom in 1974. RTS includes symptoms and reactions experienced by most survivors during, immediately following, and for months or years after the assault. RTS can involve psychological, physical, behavioral, cognitive, and interpersonal disruptions including headaches, anxiety, inability to concentrate/focus, sleeplessness, lethargy, anger, depression, mood irregularity, spiritual disconnection, hopelessness, fear/avoidance of intimacy and sexuality, eating disorders, self-injury, and substance abuse. Survivors navigate amidst hyperarousal, numbness, and vivid nightmares, causing a host of energetic imbalances and concerns.
Survivors may experience flashbacks upon some sort of sensory trigger, in which they feel as if the assault is happening all over again–and the physical and emotional responses can be quite visceral, if not debilitating. The embodied practice of yoga allows survivors to develop healthy coping and grounding techniques that can disrupt a flashback and reestablish stability. Since flashbacks may also happen due to perceived or real threats, this ability to track body sensation, which helps survivors experience present reality rather than reacting as if the trauma were still occurring is an essential tool to self-care, independence, and personal safety.

Given the challenges that individuals must brave after surviving sexual assault, it is clear that a comprehensive yoga practice involving organic movement, exploring sensation, intentional breathing, and deep rest can aid healing. A survivor benefits from the internal cleansing and freeing feeling of a vigorous vinyasa practice, as well as the profound comfort and spaciousness that accompanies a restorative sequence. The yoga practice can be tailored to support and enhance a survivor’s sense of embodiment, integration, and inner peace.
When the poet Adrienne Rich describes the healing power of poetry, it reminds me of the mysterious and boundless gifts that yoga can bring into a survivor’s life: “[I]t has al ways been true that poetry can break isolation, show us to ourselves when we are outlawed or made invisible, remind us of beauty where no beauty seems possible, remind us of kinship where all is represented as separation” (“Defy the Space That Separates,” The Nation , October 7, 1996). W e are all essentially survivors, carrying the stories and scars of our Life’s path. Some of those scars still hurt us deeply, yet others have transformed us and informed new and beautiful journeys. As we trek along our paths of healing and growth, let us offer gratitude for the exquisite opportunity to discover embodiment, breath by breath, this precious and simple offering that the practice of yoga returns to us.”

 

I continue to do yoga 3-4 days a week, mostly yoga on the beach here in Coronado or outside on the grass in Pacific Beach.  It has made me stronger in all ways and I will have a yoga practice for the rest of my life.  I wish I had found it earlier in my life, but am incredibly grateful it came when it did.  It contributed greatly to the healing of my mind, body and spirit.

24 JUNE 2001

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When I started this blog on the one year anniversary of my attack, it was to help me deal with and understand what I had been through as a result of my encounter with DCD.  I also wanted to help other women who had gone through, or were still going through, a similar event.  I thought that others would eventually want to share their stories.  So far, though, I seem to be the only one telling my story, and that’s okay.   As I’ve shared my story and continue to have issues come up, as a direct or indirect result of being sexually assaulted, I can see that my entire story, not just the approximately 2-minute or 5-minute, or however long my assault actually took, is just as important.  Everything we go through in our lives gets us to where we are right now, in this very moment, and all of it matters.  Of course, some things or events matter more than others, but it all does impact us in some way.

When I was thinking about what to write in this week’s post, I went to my garage and got into my box of old journals.  After some skimming of about 10 or 12, I settled on the one that runs from 4 April 2001 -11 November 2001.  I brought it in the house and into my bed to read until the ‘right’ entry jumped out at me.  This period of my life was just ager my divorce from J and I had moved from Chicago to West Hollywood.  What follows is what I wrote on 24 June 2001…

 

“Once again, I am drinking wine and shortly, no doubt, I’ll start feeling melancholy, as I usually do when drinking, especially when I am alone.  And, of course, I am alone.  I am hardly anything else.  But since I like being alone, this should be a good thing.  I’m beginning to wonder though.  As I was sitting here reading (looking, though, is probably more accurate) Cooking Light, I suddenly had the inspiration that I should, once again, write down what it is I want in my life.  So here is my updated list:  I want someone to share with.  The day-to-day stuff that is usually such a pain is sorely lacking in my life.  I want and need someone here. (Elaina was right about this.)  I want someone to talk to, and I mean really talk, not just silly, it-doesn’t-really-matter stuff.  I want someone to go to the Hollywood Farmer’s Market (or whichever) with.  I want to cook dinner with someone.  I want someone in my bed every night, and I don’t mean Emily.  I want physical contact.  I need it.  I want to go to the Hollywood Bowl and listen to jazz (even though I don’t care for jazz.)  I want to be building a life with someone (besides myself.)  I still want to have a baby.  I want to get a dog.  I want to, once and for all time, STOP BEING AFRAID.  I want to have more patience.  I want to love unconditionally and be loved in return the  same way.  I want to live for today, and for myself, instead of waiting until that certain someone comes along and is here in my life.  I want to honestly enjoy everything.  I want to stop saying I don’t like things, and just do them anyway.  I want to teach.  I want to write my book about my life so that I can help thousands, maybe even millions, of people.  I want to write children’s books, so kids can understand that they are important, that what they think and feel is the most important thing in the world, no matter what anybody says.  I want to see DPS again.  I want to create beautiful things.  I want to live according to what I believe. I want to tell my truth, always.  I want to travel and see the world.  I want to learn to sail and buy that sail boat so that I can sail around the world.  I want to stop being stuck.  I want to do what I feel is right.  I want to see SG.  I want to stop being afraid of what he’s going to say or do or not do.  I want to stop putting my life on hold because of him.  I want to truly believe that all is happening for the best, that my life is exactly where it should be.  I want passion.  I WANT SEX.  I am so tired of being lonely.  I want to stop being afraid.  I want to know why I am so afraid.  I want to talk to M, I mean really talk to him, on Friday.  I want to spend time with him.  I want to kiss him.  Boy, do I want to kiss him.  I would love to be able to tell him that.  Better yet, I would like to just do it.  I want to understand why I’m here (in L.A. specifically, but in the world generally.)  I want to understand why I seem to attract and be attracted to those men who are ‘unavailable’ for one reason or another.  Why?  I want to understand why it is that every Tom, Dick and Harry that I pass by on the street tells me I am beautiful, but the very people I want to tell me never do, even though they may think it.  Why?  I want to know why it is I am so weepy lately (even without the wine.)  I want to know why I keep losing my faith in the very things I am so sure about.  I’m not going to say that I want to be happy, because, in reality, I am happier than I’ve ever been in my life even though I am the most confused.  I know in my heart that I am doing, and have been doing, the right things for the last 9 or so months.  Still, it feels so not right at times.  Perhaps one of the reasons it feels bad at times is that no one really wants to hear the truth.  Change is scary and no one knows that as well as I.  But I did it anyway.  In spite of what I was hearing from most people (my family,) I did it anyway, and I continue to do it.  Most don’t understand.  And as much as I don’t want that to matter, it somehow seems to anyway.  I’m working on it.  I guess for my whole life I have instinctively known what I had to do, and for the most part, have done it.  I just wish I had the outside support I seem to crave.  I’m on my own, though.  Except, I am never truly alone because I’ve always got God and the Universe and my guides and angels and spirits with me.  What more could I ever really ask for?

Alcohol is such a depressant, and yet, I’d love to drink even more.  Why?  I’d say I just want to be numb.  I know it won’t do me any good though, and I’ll just feel like dog doo tomorrow, so I’ll be a relatively good girl and not have any more to drink tonight.  Not to mention, it will only make me feel worse.”

 

Some things never change.  Although the above journal entry was written more than 13 years ago, a lot of what I was ‘wanting’ in my life is still what I want today.  I hope, though, that I have a better understanding of where I am and my place in the world.  What is most interesting to me is I forgot about a lot of things that I wanted back then.  Sail around the world?  Really?

FORGIVING DOES NOT MEAN FORGETTING

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Still working on forgiving – my attacker, of course, and even more importantly, myself. I know it seems strange that I would in any way need to forgive myself for something I did not do, for something I never would have wished upon my worst enemy; not that I really have any enemies, but if I did, I wouldn’t wish a sexual assault on them.

In April, right before I left for a trip to Atlanta, to visit my parents, to go to the Masters and  to Saint Simons Island to visit my friend Kim, I was on my way to the outlet mall down by the border and passed a sign for the exit for Donovan. I have never noticed this exit before on any previous trip. When I saw it, the thought that popped into my head was, “I should go and visit DCD.” (A friend wrote me to tell me that I need to stop calling my attacker ‘cockroach boy’ and start using his name. While I agree that CRB isn’t very nice, what he did to me wasn’t very nice and the best I can do right now is call him by his initials.) And then I thought, ‘Whoa, where did that come from?’ I completely forgot about it until my last Hoffman gathering. Well, after doing some research, I found out that DCD is not, in fact, housed at Donovan, but at Kern Valley, which is about a 4 hour drive from here. And in order to visit a prisoner, you have to be on the approved visitor list and the person to approve me is DCD. You actually have to apply to be visitor, and even if DCD said it was okay, the prison system has to okay it, as well. I think my real reason for wanting to go visit him is to ask him WHY? I’m not sure I’d even get an answer and even if I did, it may not be one I want. I’ve thought about it a lot and come to the conclusion that going up to Kern Valley State Prison is not something I am prepared to do. A compromise may be to write him a letter. Again, I am not sure what I hope to really accomplish with this. I may end up writing him and not sending it.

At acupuncture last week, I was lamenting about how long the healing process is taking. Matt said to me, ‘You ARE through it. Right now. You are done.’ Okay, cool! Maybe it really is as easy as that. Yes, I am still dealing with some physical issues that have occurred as a result of the attack. Each day, though, I feel like I am one step closer to being completely healed. Will I ever forget about it? Doubtful, especially since I write about it. Will there always be certain things that are either very difficult or impossible for me to do? I have no idea. Only time will tell.

Whatever the case is for me, however it plays out for me in the future, forgiveness has been on my mind a lot in the last 2 1/2+ years. So as for forgiving myself, just as with DCD, I am much closer than ever to being able to say honestly that I have done it. I am not sure why I blame myself on some level, and I may never understand that. Don’t get me wrong here, I am very clear that I did nothing wrong, that the way I was dressed had nothing to do with it, that I was in the wrong place at the right time, because, to my way of thinking, if it had been the wrong time, it never would have happened. As I have said before, too, I do believe that it happened for a reason and though I did not specifically ask to be sexually assaulted, I had been asking for changes in my life. I am really okay with all of that, which is why it baffles me that I would in any way blame myself. Yet, it is still there to a degree. Clearly, I will be done when I am done. There doesn’t seem to be a way to make it go faster. It will take as long as it takes.

Because forgiveness has been so much on my mind, when the topic for the 7 March 2014 daily reading in my Science of Mind magazine, written by Joanne McFadden, was FORGIVE, this was just another validation that I am on the right path. I loved the essay so I am going to copy it in its entirety:

“After Olympic runner Louis Zamperini’s plane went down in the Pacific in World War II, he and the pilot floated for forty-seven days on a life raft. They survived a strafing attack by a Japanese pilot, numerous shark attacks and a lack of food, only to be captured by the enemy. They were brutally beaten, subjected to medical experiments, starved and worked to near death as prisoners of war. One guard, nicknamed “The Bird” by prisoners was determined to break Zamperini. Maintaining humanity and dignity was a daily struggle.

Zamperini survived. However, nightmares of his ordeal kept him emotionally imprisoned for years after the war, plunging him into alcoholism and despair. At first, Zamperini was convinced that vengeance was the only way to reclaim his life, and he became obsessed with it, making plans to hunt down The Bird. Grace intervened. Under protest Zamperini attended a Billy Graham meeting. He was about to get up and leave when he remembered a bargain he made when his raft floated in a dead calm. If God would save his life, Zamperini would serve.

That recollection changed his life dramatically. Zamperini forgave The Bird and went on to create camps for troubled boys, sharing his experiences and showing them a different way of life.

When I have allowed myself to have something to forgive, I like to remember extreme examples like Zamperini’s. If he could do it, so can I.”

Exactly. If Louis Zamperini can do it after the unimaginable things he endured, then so can I.

“It’s a healing, actually, it’s a real healing…forgiveness.” ~Louis Zamperini