Grateful for so much discussion on the importance of narrative, but, in particular, the philosophical focus on what a narrative even is and whether it is or should be "consistent" and what this has to do with trauma. Grateful for any text dealing with trauma that addresses the messiness of living a life that has been touched so intensely by trauma, the messiness of "healing," the trickiness of "hope" and despair. Towards the end she writes more about periods of overwhelming and joyful days/ months/ even years, in and out of wellness, and after a good streak, hearing that her brother had killed himself. She writes about rethinking his old high school yearbook quote "I am the master of my fate; / I am the captain of my soul." --
"My brother's death also made me rethink the importance of regaining control in recovering from trauma. Maybe the point is to learn how to relinquish control, to learn by going where we need to go, the replace the clenched, repetitive acting out with the generativity of working through. The former, although uncontrollable, is, paradoxically, obsessed with control, with the soothing, numbing safety of the familiar. The latter is inventive, open to surprise, alive to improvisation.
Recovery no longer seems to consist of picking up the pieces of a shattered self (or fractured narrative). It's facing the fact that there was never a coherent self (or story) there to begin with. No wonder I can't seem to manage to put myself together again. I'd have to put myself, as the old gag goes, "together again for the first time."
Maybe recovery is reestablishing the illusory sense of the permanence of hope, learning how to be, once again, "crazy-human with hope." As irrational as it is, I want to believe that, just as there is such a thing as irreparable damage, there might be such a thing as irreversible repair. Hope, like despair, can feel permanent. But more likely, the entropy of emotional life--governed by some inexorable law of psychodynamics--makes this impossible. Of course, the belief that things can, once and for all, be made right, makes no more sense than the belief (which takes hold of me, on average, once every few months), that everything is totally, irreparably, ruined. But does it make any less sense? For me, anyway, the illusion that hope with perch permanently in my heart is psychologically untenable--I just can't hold that happy thought for more than a day or two. But objectively--whatever that means--it's just as plausible, just as rational, as my more obdurate belief in psychic entropic doom.
Perhaps the goal of recovery is, simply, to go on. But--go one with what? With the series of my days, the pattern of my life? What pattern? The pattern to which it would have conformed without the assault? Who knows what that would have been? The pattern before the assault? Who know what that was? Some days there seems to be no pattern--just the odd refrain, a reprise, a recurring motif. My life and its old jingles. No meaning but the melody, the major or minor mode, the tune that carries me through until the lyrics come back . . . The truth is, I'm not luck or unlucky. I'm just alive. Breathing in and out. "