Well not
exactly cured, but I am as good as cured in the company of trusted friends. And
I attribute this sudden advancement to an insight I had last week.
In the previous
post I referenced having gone to see Dr. Shoja on Wednesday feeling liked “I’d
aced the exam.” I don’t want to make you sick with the minutia of my trip
through my PTSD crisis, but the following is for friends who’ve been on the
journey with me.
My friends all
know (too much) about the abuse I endured. They know about it because I could
not stop talking about it. One day, my friend Beth told me to shut up and get
over it; she likely spoke for all my friends.
At the time of
my abuse I was emerging as gay and so I felt I deserved everything that
happened (and didn’t happen) to me. I felt guilt and shame for both the abuse
and its cause.
I credit Dr.
Shoja’s under-the radar comments for helping me to realize that the shame and
guilt could be, and should be, addressed. I credit her for guiding me to my
insight that my reaction to the abuse was worse than the abuse itself. I am
grateful to her for not telling me and allowing me to “discover” that for
myself.
But how was I
to, as Beth put it, “get over it?” I knew Dr. Shoja wasn’t going to tell me.
Well it
happened. Here’s how.
Dr. Shoja
mentioned in a recent session that PTSD was an anxiety disorder. I did not know
that and when she said it, it resonated with me. I took immediate interest in
her casual comment about the “spectrum” of anxiety disorders.
Then, on Labour
Day, came my readmission to hospital and there was a lot of talk about
psychogenic seizures and the anxiety that causes them.
Anxiety: I’d
had migraines and eczema all my life and I’d been told they were caused by
stress — another word for anxiety. The word was not new to me.
But suddenly it
had no meaning. What is it? And how can I be having all this anxiety without
knowing what I am anxious about?
It was by
constantly questioning of my responses to stimuli that had me determine what I
was anxious about: I am anxious about people, I concluded. And why would I be
anxious about people, I asked myself? Because I don’t trust them was my honest
and immediate answer to myself.
And then came
my Eureka moment: I now define anxiety as a lack of trust. For me, this was a
profound insight. When I thought of myself as someone who is fundamentally
untrusting of people, I instantly excused myself from culpability. I felt
justified in not trusting people given how my birth mother, the Catholic
church/orphanage and my adoptive parents — all my caregivers — abused and
neglected me.
Suddenly I was
free of thinking that my past abuse, and
all things bad that happen to me, are my fault.
Did the
realization have any effect?
DEFINITELY!
Yesterday at
lunch, Dwight remarked at how well I was speaking. It was the second time
someone said that last week. Then later in the afternoon, I went to Rob’s
place. We did errands together in advance of a small dinner party for some of
his clients who’ve become his friends and then stayed for the dinner and I
“passed.” I stammered a couple of times, but so slightly I don’t think anyone
noticed.
I believe that if
I live my life within the perimeter of the comfortable and familiar and with trusted friends, that I am cured.
I am not saying
this naively. I realize there will be setbacks and that I still stutter
sometimes “out there” in the world. But I just don’t care if I stutter a bit
sometimes.
I believe the
seizures are over. Now that may be
naïve, but I have reasons for believing it to be true: I avoid situations that
seem likely to induce them and when I feel a mild one coming on, I can will it
to stop. I know how to breath and “withdraw” to keep myself calm.
Cured. Well,
cured enough. Yessss!