FACING TRAUMA

   After starting therapy back in the Cretaceous age with a fabulous therapist, I thought I had pretty much dealt with some of my early childhood trauma, including: sexual molestation and being shot by a .22 rifle at close range when 7 years-old. "Job done!" as the Brits would say, dusting their hands together, certain it was laid away in the earth or a lock box.

 

    But be careful how chuffed up you get, Annie, about your various accomplishments. This was brought home to me in a stark and shocking fashion today as I sat on the couch, blissfully looking at monkey videos and answering questions from my FODMAP food group. "No, it's ok to drink black tea." "Yes, you can have 1 tsp. of honey on this diet." "Buy some FODMAP cookbooks (you jerk!) and find a good brownie recipe." Let me direct you to the right places, sweetie, 'cause expert Annie knows what's what.

    Suddenly I looked up to behold a large bear at our gate, ready to climb over and seize the few bird feeders we had left. 

"OH, MY GOD!" I shouted to Rick, running to get the boat horn to scare it away. Luckily, the dog was inside, safe, although, being a Jack, if she had been on the deck she would have been barking hysterically and warned us earlier. I opened a window, put the horn up to the screen, and gave two short blasts. BAM! The bear rushed down our steep stairs, probably into the woods.

    I went back to the couch, patting my heart, feeling it beating wildly. As I sat there, resuming monkey videos but somehow--they weren't doing t'job--I realized I was fucking trashed. I was on high alert, probably having what we in the ANS community call, "An adrenaline dump." Not fun, as if every dendritic nerve in your body were on fire and twitching madly.

    I felt teary, exhausted, shaky, and frightened for ages. What was going on? I am usually quite brave. This was the 6th bear appearance in over 2 weeks, despite bringing in most of our feeders. None of them had affected me in this way. Again I asked: What was going on?

    After a few hours (doesn't take me long) I figured it out. Sigh. When 7 years-old, I was shot at close range with a .22 rifle through our living room door as I sat on the floor, cutting out paper dolls. Thank God I had my knee up, otherwise I probably would have perished. The bullet traveled all the way up to the top of my thigh, just missing the saphenous vein. 

But what happened today was that my PTSD from that awful accident (you could not believe the amount of blood one gun wound can produce) was triggered by that damn bear.

    The shape of the upright wooden posts holding up the top deck beams and the size of the bear reminded me, horribly, of that gun shot from a tall figure in the doorway. And it took me down! I just sat with the emotions for awhile, feeling them, letting my heart race, crying, and knowing that "the body keeps the score" when it comes to trauma. I so thought I had dealt with this before. Sigh. My damn inflated ego like the blanc mange in Woody Allen's "Sleeper."

    I pulled out my copy of the book on trauma, "The Body Keeps the Score,"

 and began to read and underline, like the good Hermione Granger student that I am. I had bought this years ago and neglected to read it. I wonder why? But now was the time to do some trauma work. I could not put it off anymore.

    I reached out to my community, posted a pic. of this book cover on FB, telling what had happened with the bear. So many dear and loving responses flowed in. One friend from church immediately responded, "Oh, Annie, this makes me sick!" We texted back and forth and she lifted me in prayer. I emailed our new Haydenville UCC pastor Mark, who is a love, and he called to support me and talk over what happened.

    This is an astonishing, loving, direct, knowledgeable man who seems to always know the right words to say, not trying to "fix" the situation but just listen attentively. We talked about one of the ways of dealing with trauma is to have a place to put it. I said, "I wrapped up that bloody rug and laid it in Jesus' lap." "Yes!" he said. As I have found before with a bad miscarriage (is there ever a good one?), the hands of Jesus can hold all the blood I might shed. Always.

 

    A few other things helped my reawakened trauma today. (I seriously thought of going to Dunkin' Donuts and ordering their Apple fritter to drug my feelings.)

I breathed in and out on the couch, doing the prayer deep breaths Mark taught us in church. "In--God." "Out--heals." Repeat for quite a few breaths. It calmed my heart and soothed the adrenalin dump. Then, Rick and I drove up the road to our lovely beaver pond for a walk with the doggy. We saw a Canadian Goose on the pond, majestic and huge. Water lilies were forming a dense and beautiful mat at the far edge of the water. Warblers called. A stream rushed beneath the dirt road. It all helped, sights, sounds, smells.

    You may well have had childhood trauma in your life, or in later years. It unfortunately, is very common. Sexual abuse of girls and women is over 25%. Physical violence in marriages is around 33%. Grab a copy of this book and also, "My Grandmother's Hands," which has wonderful exercises in it to help heal your wounds. Know that trauma does not need to keep you in its grip forever. There are ways to work through it, to help loosen its spiky claws. For those of us who are Christian believers, put your horrors in Jesus's hands, knowing that that her loving fingers will salve your wounds; that the breath of God, ruah, will move through your body, settling your fears and your past. 

   I frankly do not know how people get through this life without God, and I do not understand how anyone can live without a dog (or cat).

 Our Rough Coat Jack Russell Terrier came, curled up on my lap, and licked my arm as I cried. They know. Always. And are there to comfort us and remind us that we are never, ever alone.