Woodsgnome's New Life Journal

[Blackbird]

Hi  Read your previous post for the answer to "when?", you've got it right there. It's when you'll be ready for it, not before.

Anxiety criples me too, but we can work it out.

[woodsgnome]

Traveling off the edge of the known map...

For a lot of this life, I've been searching for answers, then techniques, surely to be followed by peaceful conclusions (the happily ever after syndrome). What I've run into has involved far more questions than answers, techniques that can be stifling rather than liberating, and in looking for peace out there ignoring its residence inside me, right here.

It's said that being open with all of this helps. But what that truly means can seem scarier than the original injury--even calling cptsd an injury runs counter to its definitive clinical label as a disorder. That's useful, as far as it goes; it defines things that perhaps eluded understanding before. But definitions don't heal, they only point some things out.

I'm at a point where okay, none of the standard stuff worked (the happy ever after part never showed). So what's left? Being open. May sound redundant, but it's really all there is, beyond being trapped in endless agony over the usual who, what, why, when questions.

This includes being open to the astonishing notion that all those old enemies (fear, longing, self-hate, etc.) are still with me, even or especially those I've tried so hard to eradicate, send away, demolish. Uh-oh, does that mean I'm giving up? Surrendering? Partially maybe I am--giving up the notion that some grand fix will make it all better, now and forever.

Surrender gets a bad press in this culture. Winning is everything, it's said. But that's about as ephemeral and temporary as any joy can ever be. Where's the fix in that?

This only seems strange. Even in winning one needs to appreciate the enemy first. And maybe in that process one discovers something useful, painful and paradoxical as that sounds. If the enemy had truly been vanquished or eliminated, its secret might never have occurred to you. So even a no-no like self-hate can lead me past mere despair to realizing that I was greater than the sum of the self-hate; that the decisions I thought were wrong and self-deluding not only weren't my fault, they show a strength, a resolve, to mix in the mud that once bid me do myself in, all the way up to ideations of suicide. The latter wasn't a solution, it merely prevented my noticing the trail around the muddy sections. Hard to see it, harder to start, still more difficult to stay on track, but that trail exists. Except I wouldn't have noticed it without the friends disguised as enemies.

I could go on...and on, as I'm fascinated by the idea of befriending my once sworn enemies. It doesn't change the stark gloominess of my past, but it lessens the present tension about it; and the monumental effort to fight them all the time. Most of my enemies come in the form of  thoughts, but that's as important as trying to quash the interpersonal hurts--those are harder to deal with, for sure (at least it's been so for me). Befriending my thought-enemies also doesn't mean dwelling on them; it mostly indicates accepting that I can maneuver around them, even learn from them, in the process earning a victory more precious than mere winning. I can travel through their roadblocks, back to the peace inside, which is my truest friend of all.

One other note here--it seems critical to resist the notion to regard this discovery of a new map as good/bad or assign it a certain quality. I could pat myself on the back and tell myself I'm being socially nice and above all positive, but it wouldn't be true. Wallowing around with those enemies is just what it is--difficult, awful, frightful, but yes full of hope, even optimism. That good/bad up/down feeling isn't the point; what makes for more peace is. So throwing out those definitions and judgements can indeed work, but one needs to know them first.

Knowing them first? Painful. Not knowing them? More painful. And so I travel on, exploring without a map, creating my own. Isn't that what's meant by life's potential? I don't especially care; just sense the new territory seems fresh and inviting. Over there are the old stale places. Key words...they're over there.

I'm only here, exploring life anew, but including the old enemies/friends too. I'll forget to notice, probably. I'll be tempted to figure things out again; in will come sadness, grief, anger, rage. Maybe I'll realize my old enemies are friends, come back only to invite and help me rediscover the one truth I have left--to live from a place of peace where I can even dare to relax, and know I'm okay. And always was.

[radical]

Your honesty is an inspiration, Woodsgnome.

You're right, there is no grand fix.  Wholeness = peace, imo.  We can't leave any part of ourselves behind.  Trying to fix ourselves is part of the paradox.  We didn't need to be better or different to be loved, we don't need to be better or different to accept ourselves.  We need to love and accept all of ourselves to experience peace and wholeness.

Sending you love

[woodsgnome]

I've often wondered what it would be like further down the road to recovery. I'm not sure there's a solid answer; less sure that recovery really exists. What can a person recover when the starting point was so grim anyway? Recover that? Yuk.

Maybe it's more about attitude than anything? That's part of it. Adjusting an attitude isn't like just changing a light bulb, though; it's more akin to building an entire new house. But one that's never truly finished; and is always being retrofitted to meet current needs. So again--no recovery there; just building a new structure. From scratch. I don't want to, but I have to. I'm tired; doesn't matter.

Will the source of all the problems (the abuse/abusers/memories) disappear? How could they--what happened wasn't derived from false memories. But the reality is they're now in the rear-view mirror, and it's time to remove it, or better--smash the mirror and stop staring at it. It's a traffic hazard on recovery road, especially when tears obscure the clarity. The only thing is to pull off the road. And TAKE CARE of myself. Nothing to fix, can't change what happened, but also can't help being angry--I still hold so much within. Symbolically, it's only an old story, and I'm well into the new one already. But I'm also afraid to turn the page after so much disappointment.

The anger is deep and hard to release. I recently was able to attend a group activity which included an anger release, which helped a lot. Can I take the feeling of peace that followed releasing the rage along with me now? This isn't tit-for-tat; I'd never be able to truly express all the boiling rage I feel within. Overcoming shouldn't be a question--1)it's over; 2)there's too much to overcome. But after releasing some, I'm eager for other ways to continue venting out the leftover anguish. It's like freeing up disk space on a computer, "de-fragmenting" or whatever the term is.

I sense I can do more with this gnawing anger. Funny, how so much of the abusers side I don't understand, but fully know where I'm coming from. Good; there's just no way ever to understand any of what they perpetrated on an innocent kid who only wanted to be loved. And really, who would want to know more about the abusers? That they did horrible things is no longer my concern. It's truly odd how much I've tried to understand the old story, but not fully live in the current one. Shouldn't this be easier? Guess not. And I still feel shame just having been around them, to have to refer to them as--gulp--family. Yuk; that hurts. My big prayer--that no one asks.

I have to take care of myself. In that sense alone this is a new journey; taking care of myself seemed an extravagance while in the old attitude, which was basically one of continuous shock and reaction: "It still hurts? I still don't want to face the world? Do I have to? The world consists of relationships; and that still scares me more than anything...I don't want to risk trying...I want to quit". As they say, turning this ship around won't be easy.

Which leaves me...? Suffering--too easy and familiar, though. I get stuck there, it feels. As usual, the sure answers elude my ready grasp, though I continue to reach for them or, more often, dream about them. It's okay to still reach for love; even when it wasn't there so often, the ache of rejection and finally abandonment never erased the love longing. But I need to love myself first, always. No one out there can do it for me. Except--I've tried, desperately tried, and still come up short.

Self-care, self-love, self-compassion; almost sounds brutally narcissistic, like someone obsessed with self. But it isn't that sort of me-me attitude at all--it's called survival. It's the foundation of accepting that even I deserved the experience of love brutally denied me then. Cptsd as an injury is readily apparent in that regard--and injuries do happen, daily. Turns out this one needs  extra bandaging of the self-regard variety. So now I at least recognize the road I'm on. But I'm also sick of roads--I want to find the garden.

Finding the courage to go further is problematic. I tire easily, and am discouraged by the work required. So often in my abuse times I worked to please in hopes of eventual reward, but the reverse was the norm, and sometimes all my effort seemed to make things worse and more futile than ever. I was teased into thinking the abusers might give me a chance--it wasn't in their makeup to do that, I now realize. But I didn't know that then. Unfortunately, it all but quashed my ambition and/or motivation to find that new attitude. It only reinforced the notion of "get me outta here!" I'm still running.

Is this changing? Why worry about it anymore? It will always be sad, I guess. Acceptance, I tell myself. That's when just crying seems the only true response. All the pep talks about improving and recovery seem irrelevant when the tears say it better. I'm hopeless, habitual, or at a crossroads to something truly new. I'm also sick of traveling this way. When does hope for the new attitude become reality? Must it always be a mirage, a glimmer always too distant to find?

[radical]

I want to say YES to every sentence.  It's so valuable to me to read the words of those who find the words to say it.

I suspect everyone's attempt at loving comes up short time and again, and the real key to love, whether for ourselves, for others, or  for the world is the strength of the commitment to keep persisting and learning.  For most of us with developmental trauma persisting with self-love is hard work, it's not automatic - the signal gets lost and we are inclined to give up on ourselves.  We were trained to do that.

Learning self-love feels narcissistic, but learning anything takes deliberate attention, and consistent effort, especially with the amount of unlearning that is required.  Overcoming the shame of feeling satisfaction when that learning means, like a kid learning to ride a bike, we find ourselves 'flying' for short periods, the fear of what we might be becoming in letting go and handing it over to the laws of nature to hold the bike up and to turn the wheels with little conscious deliberation and control. Letting nature provide the momentum. 

[Elphanigh]

That was so perfectly written. It is so amazing to read someone put to words how I have felt time and time again.

woodsgnome, I am so sorry that you understand this feeling. I wish no one had to feel it ever, but thank you so much for sharing that so openly. Your words have trult touched me this morning. You have made it this far, and it is exhausting work I know. You will make it thought, we both will. I am right there with you to take breaks as you need.

If you wan them here is a nice set of warm comforting hugs. You can have as many as you want as long as you want. 

[woodsgnome]

"Tears are words that need to be written."
― Paulo Coelho

Dear Sadness,

Countless times you have stopped by. I've ignored you, avoided seeing you, tried to distract myself, distract you, and even considered the ultimate ending of this life where you can't find me anymore. I didn't want to see you ever again; wanted not just to run, but somehow seal the door to where you'd never be able to enter.

And...you always found a way. I'm tired--what if I stopped running from you? But that's more a question for me, not you. You're only doing what sadness knows how to--and you have no explanation either--you just are. Still...

Still, what? Still I'm bothered that you're doing all you know of--how to be sad. At least you're being fully you. I'm not so sure about me. I guess I've learned that I can't avoid you anymore. Is that so bad?

Here's the deal, Sadness. I've never taken you in before. I've always associated you with the people who used my innocence in sordid ways, slyly treating me like some toy, then just abandoning me when they tired of doing bad things to me.

Come to find out I wasn't alone--you, Sadness, were there, every time. I came to feel that no one wanted me, and yet you came, wanting me anyway. You showed up so often; I blamed myself, as it was explained that I was always the fault of my own misery. You came, I hated you too, yet you persisted.

What if...I just accept you, for a change? It's about all I have left to try. What is it you have to tell me? Your innocence reminds me of my own somehow. You're confused even as I am. And...somehow you've come to...? Have a pal also in pain? Befriend someone also set adrift? These and more, and you keep knocking at my door. Who are you?

Not 'what' are you--maybe you're even a piece of what's called 'me'? You seem too real to be considered as just my imagination. Wondering gets us nowhere; but it happens too. Only playful wonder was chased away too, if not even destroyed. I know a lot of my wonder was drowned in the repeated and insane cruelties that happened. While wonder ceased, you remained, Sadness. And you've stayed, even while I've tried barring that door again, ignoring your repeated knocks to be let in.

Now I see you as a child, much like my own inner child--innocent and worthy of love. I'm not going to fight you any longer. At times you were my only companion. Friend? I didn't see that either, but all I do know is you kept coming around, as if you at least heard my cries, felt for my pain, and were confused by my fear of you. Didn't I have enough to fear already?

All I can say is I was in panic mode--and you were included. You were there...I didn't care why. I just wanted you--all of you--gone from my existence. Now I see it wasn't your fault, either; that you only knew to come with me, be with me; not to harm me, but just be with me, when no one else wanted me. I resisted, you persisted; until I don't see you as different anymore. I've no need to figure you out.

There was this odd twist I've had, to somehow be able to appear as a funny person, a stand-up comic many called me. What many never realized was the painful parts from which that humour sprang. It was a saving grace, I felt; yet without you, Sadness, would it have seemed so? Humour derived from pain?

In all the laughter--there you were too. This doesn't make sense, but I can accept it as one of those ever-present mysteries that also are...just here, just part of being. Tears and laughter are so close. There's a song I like, and the best line: "think I'll just let the mystery be."

Sadness...there was never anything to understand about you. You're not one of those cuddly friends--it's not your forte. You never go away, but you're just there. Here. Now. I can't deny your influence; can only accept your endurance. You can't hurt me, I'm realizing. I have lots of fears and attitudes I'd like changed, but you're not one of them.

Even if you're not one of those cuddly sorts, I know now you're a friend. In a strange way, you may have even steadied my despair, made the pain bearable, and so much more. I never liked you; maybe I should have accepted you better, though. Without you, Sadness, the trail would have likely been even more cruel, and definitely lonelier. What an odd thing to say, but still I thank you for being there. I may not like you, ever, but it's also true you've befriended me when I had no one else.

You gave depth to my being when I had no strength left. I could only be sad--and there you were. At a time when I felt most inhuman, you showed up and begged to differ. In a most human/humane way.

Think I'll just let the mystery be.

[woodsgnome]

It's often noted that it's a long process to get out of these cptsd after-states. That's scary, as it's suggested that all things wrong have a cure. So we set off searching and get so hung up in the search we never come across anything we could feel comfortable calling a cure. And that's scarier still.

Patience is cited as an essential quality in the pursuit of relief. Except the counter to that--pure fatigue--gets overlooked. And then, desperation sets in, the fear that I'll never get out of this crap; why me, why so long, why, why, why.

Wanting answers, and I've barely gotten into the questions as of yet. I'm scared again; I see so much (happiness, contentment, motivation, etc.) out there, but learned early that perhaps I don't deserve those things either--they're strictly for other people. That they were right when they dismissed me as a loser, sinner, irrelevant dreamer.  Just--bad.

Recently I've come to realize how often I've turned to ritual in trying to cope. I'd write letters to my inner child expressing empathy, compassion, and understanding. Or I'd recall a painful incident, individual, or example of past abuse on a piece of paper and then burn it; this is symbolic but also tactile, in that at least in one respect I was able to destroy one source of pain. The crumpled, then destroyed paper is physically destroyed, which at least aids in feeling rid of some of the painful memories.

What I've learned from that process, though, is the need to build a resistance to the many times those painful memories or feelings will attempt their return anyway. No matter what I did or how powerful the symbolism was, there seems to be this secret trap door from where the old stuff bids to reappear; like a haunting presence with a will--to still seek and destroy me.

So besides patience, resilience seems another quality to build on. It's pretty easy to be disappointed when one thought they'd rid themselves of those burdens. Didn't I burn that image once already? Well, then do it again...and again. Commit to at least one thing daily. Eventually the pain will subside, and one will feel free again.

That's what's surprised me the most about cptsd--how persistent it is; how its most awful effects can return and seek to destroy all that I've tried to do in overcoming so much grief. Well, I guess in turn that grief never does wholly escape. But I'm done considering that as a defeat--rather it's just a signal that, even if I need to repeat a ritual, it's worth it and who knows, may be effective this time. At the very least it reminds one to be diligent and not give up.

It does take patience--and grit. May there be strength left to stay with those and cherish the ability to foster the remnant of a shattered life, repairing it to a point where who knows, it might even result in something better than ever seemed possible.

[woodsgnome]

This journal pondering the new seems pointless, given what I've felt lately (which just reflects how I've felt for most of life). So here's the flip side to all my strivings to hope I'll ever be any better or, as that silly slogan has it--in recovery. Except the flip side is more of my ordinary plodding in place.

I'm mad/sad--usual. Feel trapped--usual. Can't sleep most nights--no different. Hopeless--usual.

The only unusual is that I don't know this and would be better off to stop pretending I'll ever find change that matters. Drop the endless pep talks about being open to the new. So? If I'm truly open to changing, then why aren't I as open to accepting what's in place? Maybe I'll just find a new way to mad/sad and the rest of the usual.

In other words, I'm lost. Maybe giving up will be my big change.

[Three Roses]

  don't give up. Take a rest, take a vacation from CPTSD for a few days. We'll be right here to listen when you want to talk more. 

[woodsgnome]

Thanks, 3R's.

My troubles aren't with cptsd and for sure not with this forum. Being here is indeed an oasis in helping me know there's others struggling as well; and that maybe even I can occasionally assist.

My current frustrations are, however indicative of how I'm feeling about recovery at the moment. It's just as Pete Walker pointed out when he wrote that cptsd recovery is really a lifelong project. And that includes these hefty bumps in the unpaved road.

Boy, did I need that hug...thanks again! With seatbelt adjusted and goggles in place, I know it will still be rough but I can stay the course, including these times when the unraveling string holding my inner self together has worn to one very thin strand that needs repair and protection. 

[Blueberry]

...when the unraveling string holding my inner self together has worn to one very thin strand that needs repair and protection. 

Makes two of us atm. At least two. Probably more lurking on here.

It's just as Pete Walker pointed out when he wrote that cptsd recovery is really a lifelong project. And that includes these hefty bumps in the unpaved road.

Good way of putting it. I haven't bought Pete Walker's book yet. Tried to get it via inter-library loan but that didn't work out. I don't like the way it appears online, that puts me off reading it. Atm I also feel really put off that recovery from cptsd is a lifelong project and that I have to take my own steps daily to keep on the right road.

Your emoticon seems hopeful, so is your avatar and I like your writing. It helps me a bit, sometimes. So yeah, you assist. Don't you have a pet too? Who assists you and you him/her?

[woodsgnome]

Blueberry, I guess I do tend to find some way to include hope even in these frequent laments. Thank you for noticing and pointing it out.

It's as if my hope is sometimes more of a desperation practice allowing me to see if there is such a quality as hope that I can find. That probably sounds mysterious, and I think it is. Lots of times the mysteries appeal more than the seeming reality. If I went by the latter, I wouldn't be alive anymore.

Without the mystery of even the thinnest of hopes, I have nothing...for my heart, at least. And that is what I'm seeking to nourish and protect. Although I was often lied to about hope, it still seems valid to regard it as deserving a role in this life. And yes, recently it has seemed in steep decline, yet again.

I do have a lovely cat (once had 3 husky dogs and more cats as well), as you wondered. I live in a circumstance many envy--alone in a self-built cabin built 30 years ago, during my first escape from my hurts. My motto was "meditation as a way of life".

Makes me sound anti-social, but in fact during all that time I performed social service jobs ranging from improv acting gigs to hospice worker to pre-school teacher/mentor, for starters. Even had 4 friends from an acting troupe I was active in. "Had 4 friends"?--they died within months of each other a couple of years ago. Yet another blow to believing hope was meant for me.

I have 3 prospective friends right now, who've somehow found and have supported me emotionally, but my hopes are, as usual, coloured by the many dashed ones of years gone by. My mistrust of all of this is easy to see--when life starts under a cloud of abuse on all sides from FOO, teachers, clergy, all supposed caregivers--why would I risk hope?

I'm hypervigilant even here in what many consider an ideal life--forests all around, daily wildlife sightings, domestic pets (just the cat at present), music, books, all those supposed great things to have.

Great list, eh? But did I forget--I also have my aching heartbreak for a life that started hopeless. Not sure I'll ever catch up to what I couldn't have, was told I'd never have, and didn't deserve to have.

What's wrong with me? There goes my instinctual inner critic's voice again. So if I can somehow hang onto the tiniest shred of hope, I'll go there, even if it seems like I have to pretend. It's definitely mysterious, and intriguing how my heart could have ever returned to regarding hope as still a possibility. Even for me. Even if it's just an emoticon expression.

I see a lot of this in what you've been saying, too, Blueberry (lots of wild bb's around here, btw). There is a hope, or you wouldn't be reading this or the other posts on here, and contributing the meaningful voice of your own heart. So call it what we will, the mystery of hope may yet guide our days.

[Candid]

Can't sleep most nights...

This jumped out at me, because it's my present Big One.  I too am hypervigilant.  There's no threat whatsoever in my life, but my inner world is dangerous, and I know it.  That's what CPTSD does to us. 

The only unusual is that I don't know this and would be better off to stop pretending I'll ever find change that matters. Drop the endless pep talks about being open to the new. So? If I'm truly open to changing, then why aren't I as open to accepting what's in place? Maybe I'll just find a new way to mad/sad and the rest of the usual.

In other words, I'm lost. Maybe giving up will be my big change.

You sound exhausted, to me.  Obviously I have no answers, but I want you to know your posts here are much appreciated.

I want to repeat this:

If I'm truly open to changing, then why aren't I as open to accepting what's in place?

I truly believe it's only in "accepting what's in place" that we can begin to change things. "What's in place" is all the resources currently available to us.  It's all too easy with CPTSD to see pretty much everything in a poor light.  It's as if we're surrounded by no-choice choices. As far as I can tell, accepting What Is and how I feel about it gives me a chance to grope my way.

I've been pushing on a lot of doors in the past few months, some of them doors I'm (to put it mildly) unenthusiastic about.  I keep going until it becomes clear this is Not For Me.  I'm not a woman who trusts easily, but I'm trusting myself more these days (largely thanks to the forum) and that helps.  Well whaddya know, my gut feelings are right! They always were!  My instincts are brilliant -- I just got way too good at over-riding them.

For me it's not as complicated as trying to over-ride the over-ride, it's just about noticing what feels good and what feels bad.  Maybe I've simply got better at accepting what's good and walking away from what's bad.  For way too long it was the other way round.

But seriously, a sleep debt makes everything look bleak.  We both have to find a way to get our zzzzzzzzzz.  A  from me, too. 

[woodsgnome]

What do I connect with these days--the falling apart, habitual stuck pattern, or is there indeed anything I can find in all this cptsd strangeness? Anything that is indeed new, as in positively new; as in a feeling that my core values are being allowed to surface and rise above the pain which has held things in place for so long? More questions than answers, per usual.

The key might be to not be so bothered by the questions, but start balancing the frustration and disappointment of the land from which I'm coming with the promise of really, really, really being able to turn towards the new, embrace it, and live in a fresh mental/emotional/spiritual home. An elegant place that was always there, but was frightened back every time before.

One way to find balance might be to readjust words like wonder and why. As in, endlessly wondering why things happened as they did, why me, why so severe, etc.--endless whys (or whines?). Looking, searching, probing, contemplating, and...failing, falling apart. Finding sensible answers to senseless abuse and abusers is impossible. It's natural to want those answers, but impossible when the starting point is shrouded by an intense fog called bordering on insanity.

Memo to self--so STOP, then.  .  Stop beating yourself up, it only emulates what they did to you before. Stop agonizing yet again over the disappeared landscape. Turn around--see, there's the huge open blue sky, waiting for me. And it's free; just like my heart has always known.

Take from the memories what I can't avoid. Forget the ideal that there would be a way to truly forget. Don't worry about the forgiveness card everyone tells me I have to have. I...just...can't...do...it. Sorry! All I can do is increase the distance as I move away from those storms still rattling behind me. Isn't that actually a form of forgiveness, minus the groveling and mindless "understanding"? The latter I've tried, endlessly, and I still understand only one thing--I want to cry an endless river of tears to float all that pain away.

Instead of lamenting the why unanswerable questions, I can begin to cast my wonder in a different direction--forward. I can wonder if the capacity I have for love and compassion and empathy can truly be my reality; replacing the anger, pain, and grief of the old road. Oh wait--I've my doubts they can be replaced en masse; but I can yet wonder and find ways to incorporate even the painful parts into a present new wholeness.

Maybe pain was my friend--protecting me, in an odd but effective way. But it doesn't know that I don't need it as much anymore. Like a lost child, I can reassure it that it did what it was supposed to do and redirect it, starting by telling it to relax, and (gulp!) thanking it for the times it really did protect. I'll never understand that, either; but will just wonder, not scream out the why question again. But notice a new, for real, part of this life emerging.

New is a word batted around lots in many contexts. I have to embrace it as something I deserve. For starters, I can take the following words of the poet Rainer Maria Rilke in his Letters to a Young Poet, grasp them and let them go again. As he said:  "...the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer."

Maybe I'll even experience this sooner than the 'far in the future' range suggests. Instead of wondering why, I'll just wonder, do my best, and keep traveling. And notice--finally, I will have stopped desperately scanning the rear-view mirror for those monsters who sought to snuff out my promise, even when I was so young. Glancing beside me, I see it--the stub of the emergency candle...finally it's time to reignite the flame. Not so much for escape now, but for guidance on the road ahead.

Traveling on. Into the questions...beyond them...free at last. Still the dreamer they accused me of being. Those taunting angry voices...fading, fading, gone...