Alexis Rose's Blog, page 30

Hope from a Children’s Book

I am a first generation American. Both my father and mother immigrated after World War II and brought with them, layer upon layer of secrets from their past.

My mother emigrated from Germany to Boston; my father emigrated from Hungary by way of Calgary, to Boston. Both came from complicated upbringings and the horrors of war. My mother’s strong European bloodline and my father’s tragic life story helped me eventually understand, but not excuse, their willingness to betray their own daughter for the good of a country.

By the time I was five years old, I already had hopes and dreams of being able to live alone. I had a book called Miss Suzy, about a squirrel who lived alone high atop an oak tree. Miss Suzy cooked, cleaned, and sang all day. At night, she was lulled to sleep by the gentle wind and the stars. One day a band of red squirrels sneaked into her house, broke all her things, ate up all her food and chased her away. Homeless and rain-soaked, she climbed a tree and found another home in the attic of an old house.  She lived in a doll house where she found a box of toy soldiers who came to life. When Miss Suzy told them about what happened to her in the oak tree, the soldiers marched up the tree, kicked out the red squirrels and Miss Suzy moved back home.

In my five-year-old mind, this tale had many relatable metaphors. I compared myself to the story’s heroine. It gave me hope that I could also live alone in a tree, and I began dreaming up ways to escape my family. But I knew, even then, that unlike Miss Suzy I wasn’t going to be rescued by a group of chivalrous soldiers.  I knew that all the adults in my life were the same. They kept secrets.

Like most abuse victims I ached for someone to rescue me, but I also knew that I wasn’t living in anything like a storybook. I loved the Miss Suzy book because she was so happy living on her own after the toy soldiers saved her home. She didn’t need anyone else in her life, she was safe and happy.

By a very early age, I had stopped hoping that my family would be vanquished by a company of toy soldiers. I knew the only way out of my situation was if I left and found my own place to live. Instead of an oak tree, I began to fantasize about living beside a deep blue lake surrounded by soft sand and white cliffs.  As I look back, that fantasy of taking control, leaving my family and finding a peaceful existence, nourished my amazing ability to survive.

An excerpt  from my memoir,  Untangled, A Story of Resilience, Courage, and Triumph 

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Feeling Relevant While Living With a Disability

My spouse, my kids, most of my friends and acquaintances go off to work each day. I don’t go off to work. I’m unable to work more than a couple of hours a day (most days) because of my PTSD. 

One of the ways this disorder manifested, is that it has taken away my ability to concentrate without becoming overwhelmed and my brain shutting down. Certain times of year are worse than others, but I’ve had to come to terms that vocationally this is where I’m at right now. 

Lack of concentration is one of my most frustrating symptoms of living with my PTSD. I want to feel relevant and that I’m contributing to society. I have an intense work ethic and gained a lot of my self-esteem from working. I didn’t care about job titles, I cared that I worked. I went to college, chose a career path and contributed to our household income. I chose that lifestyle and It was important to me. 

I kept thinking that after I was finished processing my trauma and graduated from therapy that my illness would vanish and I would step back into the world of work. The fluidity of acceptance has me revisiting, once again that some wounds are extremely slow to heal, but they will heal.

I’m fortunate to have a very flexible, part time job doing some marketing for two wellness centers. It’s very part-time and I find myself craving more. I crave more because I don’t feel relevant. I don’t feel like a contributing member of society. That feeling can start me down the dark spiral and press the very-old low self-esteem tapes telling myself that I’m lazy. 

My husband, kids, and close friends keep reassuring that I’m doing the best I can, and I have noticed that each time I’ve pushed the parameters of my capabilities it has affected me for days afterward. I imagine this is all part of accepting and re-accepting the severity of my PTSD. 

So how do I change feeling like Im okay and doing the best I can? That even though Im not going to work 8 hours a day, I’m still a contributing member of society? 

I try to focus on what I can do. 

I can continue to market my book. I still swell with excitement and gratitude each time someone buys a copy of Untangled. I can continue to pitch the screenplay I just spent a year collaborating on. I can continue to submit articles I write about living with PTSD to publications and take pride and satisfaction when I receive an email that I have been published. And I can continue to feel immense gratitude that I’m given the opportunity to work even a couple of hours a week for amazing people. 

I would like to expand the reach of my voice and do more interviews, but I’m not sure how to do that yet. I believe I have another book inside of me that wants to be published, and I want to continue to give presentations to groups. 

So is it the paycheck that makes me feel like I’m not contributing? Yes, mostly, I believe it is! When I see my husband leaving for work at 4 am each morning, and see my kids and friends working hard in their chosen fields, I bristle at my inability to do the same. But then I try to listen to my wise-self that says, as long I’m doing the best I can within my abilities than I, too, am my definition of relevant. 

A battle with identity, a constant re-acceptance of an illness, a defining of how I want to show up in the world, a trust that living mindfully with gratitude, love, and respect is what matters, is living my version of a well-lived life and helping me feel relevant even though I live with a disability. 

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 Thank you for reading my memoir, Untangled, A Story of Resilience, Courage, and Triumph

Reflections Of Those We Love – For Terry

Reflections of those we love

shimmer upon the water

bringing comfort and strength

even as they soar beyond this moment.

For our beautiful and dear friend Terry, of spearfruit.com. Terry was a bright light in our blogging world bringing thoughtful posts, short stories, videos of himself encouraging us to boogie with him on his lawn, at the carwash, in the gym, and on a cruise. We love you and will miss you dearly my friend and will keep Gary nestled closely in our hearts. 

[image error]©Alexis Rose,  image source: Pixabay

 

Foreword

On a cool Colorado morning in June, I guided Alexis and her daughter up the switchbacks leading to the summit of a 14,000 foot peak. With the tree line below us, I watched the two extraordinary women in front of me scramble up the rocks and obstacles that stood in their way. The air was thin, especially for us flatlanders, requiring frequent rests and breaks. Near the apex, we sat and reflected upon the remarkable journey that Alexis had been on. On that day, she showed the same courage and tenacity that she had shown through our years of therapy together. She made it evident that nothing would deter her from summiting. It was the literal realization of the metaphorical journey that we had been on.

Climbing a mountain. This was the early metaphor that we adopted to describe the healing process. My role was that of Sherpa; I was there to guide the way, keep her safe, and help carry some of her burdens. Her job was to keep putting one foot in front of the other, to trust the process, and to honor my requests for her to slow down and rest along the way.

Over the course of our time together, Alexis has taught me a great deal about the human capacity for growth and change. That tenacity helped mediate the incredible sadness, sorrow, and horror that came with my bearing witness to the abuse and torture she endured during the first half of her life.

As serendipity would have it, we share some common beliefs. We have a mutual respect for one another, a shared love for all the ways the F-word can be used in the English language, similar humor, and spiritual beliefs. All of these things have been a gift as we worked to untangle the extraordinary mess that trauma left behind.

I am indebted to her in so many ways. She has been a steadfast example of the parent I aspire to be. She has broadened my awareness of world politics and the unfortunate path the intelligence community has at times followed. She is the embodiment of courage, and I have stolen many of her mantras along the way. She has made me a better psychologist and a better human being, and for this, I am eternally grateful.

~Kevin

Foreword from Untangled, A Story of Resilience, Courage, and Triumph

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Adventures of Yesterday

As we wave goodbye to summer

let’s remember that

Adventures of yesterday

are the shadows that promise

there is light just beyond

the curve. [image error]

©Alexis Rose, photo: Shelley Bauer from the collaboration Of Earth and Sky

 

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Thank you for reading my memoir, Untangled, A Story of Resilience, Courage, and Triumph

 

 

With a Smile and a Wink

Sometimes the climb to the top

of the mountain

is rigorous and uneven.

Rest and gather strength

on the summit.

Look to the person next to you

who never strayed from your side.

Then with a smile and a wink

set off together

for the next adventure.

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©Alexis Rose, image source: Pixabay

Thank you for reading my memoir, Untangled, A Story of Resilience, Courage, and Triumph

 

 

 

 

A Reservoir of Left-Over Feelings

I once felt I was an object walking around, keenly disguised as a human. A thin veneer of skin covering the hurt, pain, and sorrow that lay underneath. Now I know that I am a whole person who was objectified.

I love this feeling, this knowledge, this acceptance. It took me nine long years to get to this point and I make sure I acknowledge my hard work.  It’s a hard-earned, middle finger to my perpetrators that they couldn’t take my humanity, my person-ness from me.  Where I once had no memory of a past, I now have a congruent, truthful timeline and, even though it’s an awful truth,  it’s mine, it’s my past, and for me, it’s much better than living with blinders on. 

However, learning to live with my past has left me with a large reservoir of left-over feelings. It’s been very gratifying to have worked through all the memories and the feeling/emotions associated with the memories, but I found that there are feelings associated with living with the truth of my trauma. The feelings that can occasionally bubble up at different times are anxiety, depression, desperation, fear, numb, violated, insignificant, grief, alone, unloved, neglected, shock, pain, confusion, anger, afraid, dirty, sadness, rejected, confusion, disgust, small, loneliness, ugly, abandoned, disappointed, hopeless, betrayed.

The feelings can be more prevalent some days, especially when I get triggered and have flashbacks or the anniversary times of the year. They are there, even though I have dealt with and processed the memories. I have dealt with the traumas but these feeling are byproducts of the abuse. The feelings don’t just leave because I have talked about them, written, used art, or emoted over them. It’s okay, I have learned that feelings are time-limited and are like sets of waves, and I have learned to ride them like an expert surfer.

I  also feel lots of love, hope, happiness, contentment, support, and trust, and for that, I am grateful. It makes me smile.

I used to tell myself that if I could take a strainer and scoop out the byproduct of my past I would.  I thought scooping them away meant more room happiness, contentment, hope, and love.  Those feelings are what drives my desire to live. But then I realized that it’s important to have and feel those left over feelings. I wasn’t able to experience them the first four decades of my life. They were repressed, never to be taken out. Now I know that it is a very important part of my healing process, and they cannot be talked, or drawn away. They have to be felt.

I no longer expect that I won’t have feelings about what happened in my life. I’m much more whole, living without the denial of my past. I continue to accept that sometimes the reservoir will get stirred up and wavy, while also remembering to rest and enjoy the calm waters when the waves are still, and peaceful. I will let the byproduct of my past continue to come to the surface, knowing that eventually that feeling will spill over and float away, taken by the currents. Yet I stay firmly grounded, living with blinders off, owning my past, my truth, flying free of the silence that held me hostage. 

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image source: Pixabay

Thank you for reading my memoir, Untangled, A Story of Resilience, Courage, and Triumph

 

Surfing the Waves of Emotions

So much emotion!

I feel thankful, I feel happy, I feel stunned.

I feel tired, I feel confused, I feel scared and sometimes terrified.

I feel a sense of peace and connectedness to the world around me.

I feel hope, I feel calm.

I’m full of anxiety, fear, doubt, restlessness.

I am up, I am down, I am happy and I am sad. I feel fear, I am content. 

I feel so many emotions that sometimes I’m not sure how to deal with any of them. So instead of trying to deal with them, I let each one pass through me as they come.

Emotions; We all have them, and they come and go like waves. Some of them are little sets of gentle ripples and some are as intense as a tsunami. Waves come and waves go, each breaking on the shore and each is time-limited. 

I have learned to sit with the emotion, to understand that even the most intense feelings will soon ebb, even though it sometimes feels like they take up all the space in my body, mind, and soul. There is even room to feel more than one thing!

When I feel the intense emotions begin to rise, I sometimes try for control. I want to balance perfectly and ride them to the shore with ease. That’s not life, even the most eloquent and prophetic surfer wipes out. It’s okay, another set of emotional waves will come soon enough.  Sometimes gentle, sometimes stormy, sometimes hardly noticing the fleeting feelings. That’s normal, natural, human nature. 

I feel grateful.

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image source: pixabay

Thank you for reading my memoir, Untangled, A Story of Resilience, Courage, and Triumph

Beautiful in Life’s Garden

Take a moment, rest, be proud

of who you are.

You are beautiful, as perfect

as the flower growing in the earth.

You are part of nature’s bounty of vast colors.

Possessing the beauty of secret strength

that at times is only visible to you

but who is equal in life’s garden.

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©Alexis Rose, image source: Pixabay

Thank you for reading my memoir, Untangled, A Story of Resilience, Courage, and Triumph

 

Mindfulness and My PTSD

I titled this post, Mindfulness practice, and My PTSD because I think both a mindfulness practice and an illness can look different for each individual. While the list of symptoms may be similar when it comes to being diagnosed, I have come to find out that the severity of the symptoms, the severity of the trauma, and how each person experiences living with their PTSD can vary greatly. My therapist taught me that, the wonderful group of survivors I have contact with taught me that, and the sometimes unrelenting choke-hold of some of my symptoms have taught me that. I imagine it’s the same for most chronic illness’s but I can only speak to the one that I deal with on a daily basis.

I have had a very steady and intentional mindfulness practice for the last twenty years. I started it years ago when I needed to change the way I was dealing with tremendous stress and hopelessness. I had two very young children at the time and needed to find a way to stay present when all I wanted to do was run away physically, emotionally, and mentally. Twenty years ago, mindfulness was not mainstream, but that didn’t matter to me. I quietly sought out teachers, read books, and practiced what I learned. It became a way of life for me and I found in the silence of my struggle it kept me steady and fairly calm.

Eight years ago, when my brain/mind/body/soul could not hold in my repressed past any longer and I was diagnosed with complex PTSD my mindfulness practice went to hell. I could no longer sit for more than one or two minutes without my memories, distress, fear, and shame, kicking in and sending me into a panic. It seemed the more I told myself, breathe in-breathe out, I would follow that up with a panic attack that lasted much longer than a short meditation practice would have lasted. So I gave up the idea of meditating. I also had a strong yoga practice but felt a surge of anger course through me every time I tried to settle into a resting or restorative pose. I was fortunate to have a wonderful teacher at the time. He pulled me aside one day and told me that sometimes in life yoga tells you to take a break. It’s about listening to what your mind and body are telling you. He assured me that one day, I would be able to come back to it and that I hadn’t failed. He was correct, I did come back to a yoga practice.

My task right now is to learn to live with my flashbacks, becoming overwhelmed, triggers, and sense of fear that still are very much part of my day. But, I also want to live mindfully and intentionally. This seems so incongruent and at odds sometimes, a paradox. I wonder if the desire of how I want to live will always be shadowed by how I have to cope day to day with my PTSD. Can the two of them find a middle ground?

I try to honor being awake. The connectedness we have to all things, the impermanence of the moments both perfect and non-perfect, the beauty and wonder and power of being present. Except that my symptoms bring me back to the past. It’s what PTSD does, it’s the nature of the illness. So trying to live in the present and being flashbacked to the past is quite uncomfortable and very frustrating.

Many people have said to me, let it go, it’s in the past, you are safe now, etc.  I get it, I understand what they are saying, I understand the place from where those words of encouragement come from and still that isn’t what this is about.  The nature of PTSD, the nature of how the illness affects me, is that it won’t let me forget the past. In my mindfulness practice, my mind doesn’t just acknowledge it and let it go. Although I can let it go after I have experienced the symptom, that’s after it causes quite a stir in mind.

When I try to ignore my symptoms, I often end up in a state of mind I would rather not participate in any longer. It brings me to the brink of crisis, which is a place I have worked hard and developed many skills and tools to avert. I’m trying to come to terms with working with my symptoms instead of fighting them and also living the mindful and intentional life I choose.

I feel that I’m finding my way, I’m working diligently to have both. I’m learning to acknowledge that this is not an either/or situation. I have relentless symptoms that I deal with on a daily basis, but that doesn’t mean I can’t live in the present. Even if my present is uncomfortable, I’m not in a situation where I am physically in harm’s way any longer. My mind and body forget that sometimes, but if I continue to practice staying present and being mindful of my thoughts when I’m not being triggered I find it’s easier to come out of that out-of-control feeling when I do get triggered.

I will continue the practice of mindfulness and pay attention to the present. I will continue to learn and grow, but I’m also going to acknowledge that sometimes it’s a struggle to stay present when my illness catapults me to the past. Perhaps that’s part of being mindful.

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image source: Ashley Batz on Upsplash

 

Thank you for reading my memoir, Untangled, A Story of Resilience, Courage, and Triumph