trauma

hope frequency art

Healing The Emotional Body – Umbilical Trauma

http://rebeccaelizabethanne.com/healing-the-umbilical-trauma/

“I did a healing of the emotional body/integration process a couple of hours ago. I have been sitting in reflection for awhile. I am feeling very energetically, ‘wiped’. I am sure I will sleep solidly this evening…
I started by purposely sinking into the emotion I had been feeling this afternoon. It was a combination of worry, anxiety and self-doubt. I sat with this feeling. I enhanced it. I said to this part of my being, “I am completely here with you now.” I felt it…”

“…I waited but nothing more came from that after a minute or so. So, then I asked myself, “When was the first time I experienced this exact feeling?” as directed in Teal’s process…

All of a sudden I was taken back to the scene of my birth. I was in the delivery room. I had just come out of the
caesarean birth. My point of perspective was…” [click to read more]

Featured Image: Hope by Teal Swan

On Self Harm – It’s Always Darkest before the Dawn

 

I cut my wrists and the top of my knees when I was 19. It was just a tiny bit. I used nail scissors to snip/stab at my skin. It seemed easier/less scary, I guess, than getting a huge knife. I also thought I wouldn’t be able to accidentally kill myself (was not suicidal that night) with just some scissors, so that was good too.

I was living at Campus East which is a big university/college student residence in Wollongong. I was studying at the college attached to the University of Wollongong. But it wasn’t really studying, it was more like, “have to do something this year, okay I’ll do this thing. Wow, this is shit. Okay, time to not really work that hard (*meanwhile hashtag#bipolar troubles).”
I had just come back from a big dinner at a Mexican Restaurant where we did lots of tequila shots. I would say I was somewhere between tipsy and a little bit drunk. I went into my room at the end of the hall. I don’t remember what initially triggered me into crying and the sadness that night. Probably just coming back from a social event and comparing myself to others as per usual at that time in my life, concluding that I was no good to anyone and just a bit of a crap person. So, when you have depression/bipolar that sort of self-talk is enough to trigger you into a full blown emotional crisis…Ended up with all these massive feelings of self hate, loathing and loneliness. They’re swimming under the surface already you see, then just one negative thought can get that spiral up and running really quickly and before you know it you’re hurtling down the slope at full speed, then you’re crashing onto the rocks at the bottom.

Anyway, so I’m back from that social event and sitting at my desk in my room listening to sad music (Jimmy Eat World, I think) and writing/scrawling poetry drunkenly (I used to write A LOT of poetry, the more depressed I am, the more poetry I create, which is a bit crap now because I am a damn good poet, but I’m happy (most of the time) now so it disappeared!) with my head leaning on the desk.

And, I don’t know. I just get the scissors. Apparently it was a good idea. And I’m just sitting there thinking I’m not worth shit and maybe I should just die, but I’m too scared to do anything that drastic, so I just sit here and ‘be lame and only cut’ instead. Like, shaming myself for ‘not having the guts’ to kill myself. Haha, now I’m like, “Wow, so glad I did indeed, not ‘have the guts’.” But yea. So I did that. By this stage I was feeling very emotionally numb. I wasn’t crying and sobbing any more. I was just feeling very out of it, distanced, kind of just ….. dot dot dot #silence, sort of feeling.

Then I did something really desperate, which I try really hard not to shame myself for now. It was a terrible prison and I was reaching out, and, I was drunk…

I went out to the living area where the guy I was seeing (who happened to be one of my roommates) was sitting, watching TV.
My wrists and top of my thighs were bleeding. Not heaps, as I said, just snips with the scissors, but enough to take awhile for the blood to stop. Probably about 3-5 little cuts on each limb. I was wearing a short, summer dress, by the way. Yea, so I drunkenly walked out like that and sat down next to him and pretended like there was nothing weird happening. I was just like, “Hey, how are you? What are you up to?” and leant my head on his shoulder.

At first he didn’t notice because we were sitting side by side and he was looking at the TV, he was like, “Oh hey, how was your thing? Wha- …Becc…? What? Oh my god, what the fuck?” And I was just nonchalantly like, “Oh, yea…” And he grabbed me and his eyes were filled with tears and was like, “Wha? Why did you do this?” and started leading me down the hall back to my room, I was just like, drunk and actually pretty emotionally numb at that stage so just didn’t answer and walked with him.

We sat in my room, on the end of my bed, with tissues and he handed them to me and was like, “clean it up and tell me what happened” and I used the tissues and dabbed at my wrists a bit, but not really. Then I noticed I was getting blood on the sheets from my leg cuts, I sort of glanced at it like, “oh…” and he was like, “sit on the edge more” and started dabbing my knees more as I moved forward to the end of the bed.

I don’t really remember what happened after that. I think I just started crying for an hour then fell asleep together in my bed.
The next day he left in the morning for Uni, kissed me goodbye as I sleepy-eyed, watched him starting to get up. He said, “Don’t…don’t do that again” and left.

Later in the day, I was lying in bed listening to music after not really getting up all day, he came back from Uni and sat down on the desk chair opposite me. He said, “I don’t think we should keep…doing what we’re doing any more…after last night…I don’t want to make things worse. I feel like you’re too attached and it will be really hard for you when I leave.” He was, of course, referring to the fact that he was a Swedish student on exchange for only 6 months or a year (I can’t remember which) and would be leaving in a couple of months. He seemed to think that was the reason that I was cutting.

I started crying and wearily explained that no, no that was not why I was so sad, and that I wanted him to stay with me because he made me happy and we had fun together, and I clearly needed happy and fun…and whilst I knew it would be hard, I needed the joy he brings me now and reiterated how he was definitely not responsible for these dramatic feelings. I explained how I had been feeling horrible for ages and last night was the culmination of it all…He was hesitant as he listened, but believed me and changed his mind about it.

Later in the day, my best friend on Campus came up to see me. She said that S (Swedish ‘boyfriend-of-sorts’) had gone to see her and told her what happened. She said he was really freaked out and felt like he should tell her. She was really ‘meh’ about it. She said, “So, was it just cause you’re sad or?” I replied, “Yea…it’s just been…really…hard…” and she was like, “Oh okay.” Don’t remember what happened after that very well. But I know that was the end of the discussion and she was not very sympathetic or empathetic or anything at all really. At that point I just wanted her to leave and go away because that just made me want to cry again. Really poor form, as far as ‘friends’ go.

Anyway, so yea, that’s how that all happened for me. I didn’t do it again. I have on occasion, thought about doing it since then. But only once or twice since going on medication (later that year I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder (Type 2) and Generalised Anxiety Disorder). Even when I did think about it, it was just like, a really quick thought, then me pushing it away instantly, thinking more clearly than when one is in a deeper, more out of control, depressive state, thanks to medication.

So, regarding Teal’s video.

I definitely relate to everything she has said about the reasons why. For me, it was ‘*demonstrative’ cutting. And it did only happen the once, so it doesn’t so much apply to me any more, and the addiction part doesn’t apply much either but – the feelings associated with cutting and the reasons why one feels compelled to self harm, they were a very real experience for me at that time.
I definitely did feel trapped. I felt stuck in my brain that just hated me. I remember walking around in the supermarket, dry eyed, but actually crying in my head (it was really weird), not knowing why (that’s depression for you).

Regarding what Teal says about the role childhood experiences have in the feelings associated with cutting, I’m not sure which childhood experiences would have attributed…perhaps the vague memories I have of being told to stop crying at various points which equals being emotionally rejected.

I definitely know that I felt disapproval from others, like something was inherently wrong with me.
“When you are seen by others in this light (whether it’s during childhood or older) you then learn to see yourself in that light. Ask: who should have loved you?”
The only answer I have to that at this stage is my mum the couple of times she told me to stop crying. It is her in those few memories that I remember clearly.

At the time of the cutting, I definitely wanted to “sedate emotion then gain control by exerting that control over the emotion” as Teal states.

*Demonstrative = “Demonstrative cutters are looking for some way to feel a sensation of relief  instead of a sensation of control (which is what secretive, ritualistic cutters tend to be after), but looking for that sedation feeling to come through other people”.
“Society shames them, saying they just want attention, so they can’t admit to anyone or even themselves that what they want is for someone to notice.”
They want someone to save them from the hell they’re living in. Unfortunately people shame and reject the cutter instead of helping.
One can find it is too shameful to admit that you want help, that you just wanted someone to recognise the pain you’re in.

A deeper look at cutting = cutting is done to avoid and escape the way we feel.

We need to use the energy behind this compulsion, this urge to help us to integrate the emotion/s we’re avoiding.
These are rooted deeply in childhood trauma

…For me, I still can’t admit to any childhood trauma I experienced/may have experienced.
I feel like nothing I experienced was ‘big enough’ to call it trauma. But, the evidence is clearly there.
I find myself looking away and half-purposely zoning out as Teal says her kind message to those who are cutters (which, even though I don’t cut now, still applies to me) at the end of the video. I suppose I don’t feel ‘worthy enough’ to hear what she is saying, to be spoken to in that kind way. I don’t feel like I’m deserving of being addressed like that… Which further proves the point, I suppose – childhood trauma remains.

I know I need to integrate my childhood self/ves and do more emotional shadow work but I just can’t seem to do it. I have been thinking about this for so long. I have such a hard time getting myself to do shadow work. I want to do it, because I know it will benefit me, yet I just. don’t. What the hell, me?! Why am I putting it off even though it would help?!
This is the one thing I would ask Teal for help with if I get chosen to go on stage at her Sydney workshop.
This rut is very stuck and very deep.
Post. Script.

I am alright now, if you’re wondering. I’m more than alright. But, it’s important to know that we are all not alright sometimes, and that is alright too.

Very soon after the aforementioned cutting experience, I went to The Black Dog Institute and was officially diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder (Type 2) and Generalised Anxiety Disorder. I got on medication, too.
This whole experience was the start of my spiritual experience.
My known identity (as a depressed, pretty useless poet) was swept away with the sadness once I began to heal. I found I had to get to know myself, find myself, for the very first time.

When the layers of depression and emotional distress began to dissolve, I didn’t recognise myself any more. That sense of confusion and identity inspired me to look into myself, which inspired me to look into spirituality and philosophy, which eventually resulted in who I am today.

I would not change my experience for any thing. I am so grateful to have ‘hit rock bottom’, so I could rise up once again, out of the darkness, so that I could bloom into the sun. And, I’m still blooming. And I’ll never stop.

forest quote photo

 

It’s always darkest before the dawn : )

On my new, Doctor Who blog. And…growth.

I got too obsessed with Doctor Who so I had to start another blog for it.

http://thedoctoralways.tumblr.com

I’ve found that Doctor Who has stirred something in me, something I’ve been missing for a long time and for a shorter, more recent time have come to notice and wished to get back…that something is my creativity. My creativity was long lost in the depths of a stifled sacral chakra – the energetic portal of creation, of the myth and legend and the truth that is me…with the colours of a cloud shrouded sunset…it was tired and covered in dust. But now, now I’m brushing off the dust and I’m blinking in the light.

Something…something is happening to me. Doctor Who happened/is happening/will always be happening to me.
Because Doctor Who has awakened this creative energy, this blog may also feature a little bit of music and photographs and magic – the sounds and the images of life, whatever sparks and flares in my eyes…anything and everything that reminds us that life is beautiful.

I also think that my recent Shadow Work (‘shadow work’: identification of detrimental core beliefs, with the intention of changing them into something positive, or at the very least, neutral – also related to working with and healing trauma…whatever the individual needs to integrate the fragmented self, the art of healing emotional pain to be more exact (in my opinion, at least)…) that I’ve done >here< regarding my childhood has stirred this awakening. I’ve had a blocked sacral chakra (which has resulted in creativity blocks) for a long, long time. Note: Blocks related to childhood are usually held in the sacral chakra area.

Discovering this wonderful artist, Sleeping at Last has also, definitely helped. I was almost crying to his music last night…

 

This blog will continue to be an ongoing culmination of my joy, sorrow, insight, spirituality and everything that I love in life 🙂

The Urge to Write, to Love and to Heal.

For some reason I just feel like writing.

There are whole sentences and chapters of true tales and made up stories flowing through my head but they’re just not tangible yet.

I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately…and I am realising, in this very moment, often when I do that, I start to tell a story to myself in my head about some kind of magical, dizzying love that I…want? remember? am copying from a movie? Like I said, it’s intangible. But I can feel it.

Ah! – (I’m realising now) – that’s why! – someone in my family just got engaged. That’s when it bcrazy loveegan. The tales and the words.

I still believe that the true, true love story of my life has not yet arrived. Though I have been in love multiple times…those loves didn’t come with the words and the story of movies and theatre and novellas. Or maybe they did, I just didn’t realise it at the time. No…no, I think it just wasn’t…wasn’t the fairytale.

So, I believe that it’s all still coming my way. Is it still a fairytale then? I’m not sure. Perhaps it is until proven otherwise. But that’s the attitude of realists, scientists, pessimists even…and I’m none of those.

I’m the believer. I believe in magic first and what is ‘real’ second because I feel it. I feel the magic and only watch the ‘real’ (I.e.”real life”, “real truth”…someone else’s “real”…) I feel it on the tips of my fingers, I feel it running over my hands and into the bones of my wrists. And I’ll believe until it cascades through my body and overflows into my world.
Then it won’t be ‘magic’ any more. It’ll just be….it will just be.

the doctor hopes

– The Doctor (Me too, Doctor. Me too.)

 

I have great, massive capacity for love and I think that’s why my idea of love is so different to other people’s (it seems) and why I haven’t been satisfied by my past experiences when compared to the stories of love that roll through my head. It’s because this fairytale love is the love that I give to other people, but they don’t see it, they can’t see it because they’re not ready for it.
I think in the past when it comes to love, I have unconsciously ‘settled’. As much as I massively love others, I somehow have come to believe that I don’t deserve the same. On a surface level, I do, which is why I am not satisfied by past experience, as aforementioned…but in truth…because I have never received the huge, deep love that I give to others in return, I have come to believe that I mustn’t deserve it. Something is wrong with me, that must be it.
Where, why and when did I learn that? Let me guess…childhood.
We really are all just emotionally wounded kids that we pushed together to create ourselves as ‘adults’.

I know in my childhood I was….hmm…I always get stuck when I try to go deeper into these things. Okay, try again.
I was ‘the over sensitive one’.
I once wrote online that I have experienced childhood trauma. I was unsure about writing it because I know that people would not consider anything that happened to me spectacularly ‘traumatic’…like, my ‘not really traumatic, you’re just being over sensitive’ experience does not allow me the right to use that term relative to me and my childhood.
However, in this moment I’ve decided I’ll take it. I’ll take it and I’ll use it. It feels a bit uncomfortable as I write these words…but right at the same time. That uncomfortable feeling is actually just fear of the aforementioned judgement.

{Here is something that helps me with all that:

The dictionary defines ‘trauma’ as: a deeply distressing or disturbing experience.

The dictionary defines ‘traumatized’ as: subject to lasting shock as a result of a disturbing experience or physical injury.

I most like this description from Wikipedia: Trauma is often the result of an overwhelming amount of stress that exceeds one’s ability to cope or integrate the emotions involved with that experience.}

Anyway, so. I seemingly believe that I don’t deserve love, or at least, the kind of love that is similar to that which I believe I offer to others. This issue has to do with self-worth. Trust me on this, I’ve done three pages of shadow work (‘shadow work’: identification of detrimental core beliefs, with the intention of changing them into something positive, or at the very least, neutral) that led me to figuring that out…

It is a daily occurrence for me that I have intrusive thoughts and flashbacks about things that happened in my childhood. I haven’t done anything about it because just contemplating the idea of ‘dealing with them’ makes me feel…basically nope nope nope nope nope and so I nope the hell out of there, every single time. Even now. I’m noping. I’m noping all over the place.
At the same time, this, just writing this, is a break through because it’s the longest I’ve thought about all this (as I write this, the things from my childhood that I’m referring to are flooding through my brain).
Here are some things – and here is the issue – a lot of them seem like nothing to be traumatised about – but I am traumatised by it (because of the inability to integrate or cope with the emotions involved in the experience – hence why I like the Wikipedia definition).
I’m still typing because I’m putting off writing them out. Procrastinate is my middle name. No it’s not, I lied. Anyway:

I have a memory of my brother taking my bright blue, flower shaped clock that I looooooved so much and smashing it on the tiles in the hallway near the front door. I think I was about 10-11? But actually, in this memory, I can’t remember….I think there was an orange clock that looked the same…but it was orange? Maybe I had two? Anyway. Smashing of the clock. There. I said it. And see? That seems like nothing. But there it is. I remember he wanted something, or wanted me to do something for him and I said no and I don’t know..I know there was yelling and I was really upset, screaming that I hated him and crying. I suppose it must have been more than him just wanting me to do something? Dunno. Yea, so, that. He smashed it. I remember he was laughing and smiling. Um…and I was like, “I hate you!” and…that’s all I remember. ….Hmmm….?

Next.
Being in the kitchen around age 7. We had just had dinner at the kitchen table. My brother had done something, or said something really bad and was getting in trouble. (He was two years older than my twin sister and I, by the way). The kitchen table is bright orange and is actually a bench, come to think of it. That’s a better word. It’s an orange bench and there’s three chairs on one side and the inner bit of the kitchen with the cupboards and the kitchen sink Etc. on the other side. Mum and dad sat on that side. My brother sat at the ‘head’ of the bench, and my sister and I sat on the other side.
Dad had stood up to approach my brother to smack his hand as punishment I.e. my brother would hold is hand out in the air, palm down, and dad would hit the top of his hand really hard. I think.
My brother obviously didn’t want that so he started backing away, away from dad and where he was sitting, around to me and my sister’s side of the bench. Dad was coming forward towards him. I got up off my chair and backed away, ended up standing near the wall at the opposite end of the bench to where my brother had been sitting. Dad grabbed my brother’s wrist, making him hold still and then hit the back of my brother’s hand with his other hand. I remember the feeling/just know that my eyes were welling with tears.
I remember that I must have said something about how dad shouldn’t have done that, and dad turned and looked at me and said, “Do you want a smack too?!” I burst into tears and backed all the way up against the wall. I was either crouched down or I’m just thinking that because I guess it would kind of seem like that if I’m looking through the eyes of my short 7 year old self and comparing that perspective to me and my height now…
I remember being really scared…my brother ran up the stairs and slammed his door. My dad sat back down at the bench and continued eating his steak and peas…or I’m just remembering that’s what he was eating. ….Yea, so, there’s that one.

Intrusive memory three:
Mum hemming my skirt for high school and very indirectly suggesting I would look “un-ladylike” if she put it as short as where I wanted it (which isn’t really true in my now grown up opinion, it would have just been the tiniest bit above the knee which was not allowed at our school). I took this completely the wrong way, thought she was calling me a slut and started crying and yelling at her. She stopped hemming my skirt, left the house and either drove away somewhere or was just sitting in the car outside…not sure.
I went upstairs to my bed and cried for two hours, thinking that I was a bad daughter and mum hated me so much she had to drive away. I called her phone and she didn’t answer (I think? Or did I just add that in? Oh well), so I was like, “come back, come back!” in between my sobs. I think Dad came in and said she just needed some time out and basically tried to tell me it would be alright and that I was over reacting.
When she came back I said sorry and cried in her arms and she sort of stood there a bit emotionless and was like, “it’s alright” – like, she was still mad and didn’t want to have to comfort me at that moment. She still does that a little bit sometimes – I mean, something upsets her and she is like, “it’s fine. I’m fine” but she looks weird and her mouth is just a straight, expressionless line and no matter what you do you can’t hug it out of her for the rest of the day/trip. As I’m older, I do see that’s a coping mechanism. At the time of the argument I didn’t realise that kind of reaction is more to do with her and not me, so concluded that she still sort of hated me/thinks I’m a bad daughter for a while longer.

……

Okay, I think that is enough for now. Whoa. Shit is cray.

And anyway, as The Doctor says:

 

doctor who quote amy