The Practice

Photo by Katerina May on Unsplash

Drama Queen. Prima Donna. Hypochondriac. Worry Wart. Spaz. Moody. Ridiculous. Obsessive…

I’ve been called a lot of things. Some better than this, some worse. But never a trauma victim.

Trauma victims are people abused in their childhood. Prisoners of War. Holocaust survivors. Those who have lost their communities to natural disasters. Famine. Violence.

I’m just a girl who reads about that stuff from the comfort of her own bed. Who closes the covers and sighs and says, “it’s incredible what people can endure,” and goes to sleep.

But I’m also, now, a girl that wakes up at night with panic attacks. Night terrors. Debilitating fear.

I just finished the book The Choice by Dr. Edith Eger. I found it while looking for light reading – something to get me back into the habit after being unable to focus for over a year, unable to digest anything meaningful. Reading used to be a joy, and I wanted to find that joy again. But this jumped out at me, maybe for obvious reasons. For me it was obvious, anyway. All I have been thinking about for over 18 months is what “choice” really means. What it really is.

And this book is about exactly what my mind has been pondering with such depth and desperation lately. It is written by a Holocaust survivor who turned her tragedy into a career helping others manage challenging emotions and experiences. In her lifetime, she has counselled and coached thousands and thousands of people, from veterans coping with PTSD to teenagers trying to find a place in this world, on how to recognize that we all have a choice. We can choose our own freedom, no matter what the circumstance.

I am currently beginning writing my own book on almost the exact same subject. My lens is different, but my message is the same. No matter what the circumstance, we are empowered by our ability to choose our perspective.

This is the wisdom I was so incredibly blessed to come to know firsthand through my experience with my daughter’s illness. It is wisdom I wish to share, because I have found it to be the most fundamental knowledge I’ve garnered in life that gives us any sense of control.

And yet, ironically, I have felt utterly out of control as of late. Floundering. Grasping for air.

I was speaking to a dear friend of mine who is a Therapist and I mentioned this to her - how strange it is in life to know the answer and not be able to execute the wisdom. For example, I want to coach my clients to face life without fear. To chase after dreams and not let the judgments of others or self-doubt hold them back. To be present in the world with their whole self and not need validation from others. To know that, at the end of the day, they make their own rules for life and they get to decide what matters to them and what doesn’t.

I want to share this wisdom on a stage and inspire others to let go and focus on what they want. Focus within – on the voice that knows everything is ok. And yet, I am paralyzed by fear of public speaking. I used to enter competitions to do just that, and now the idea of it makes me want to tear off my own skin.

The panic attacks are real. They have been real for a long time, and now they have become so pronounced that they are beginning to threaten by ability to function. To do simple tasks like pick up the kids from school or, god forbid, meet with my clients.

I share this because I have finally realized, through this current relationship I have with this anxiety, that knowing what to do is only the beginning. You must then practice the lessons in order for them to have any benefit. Any meaning.

I have had to come face to face with a reality that has been hard for me to swallow. I am a trauma victim (victim is a terrible word, but I’ll use it for lack of better vocabulary). I am going through PTSD. No sugar coating it. No getting myself out of it with positive self-talk. I held my breath for 18 months and now I’m letting it out. And to let it out, you have to feel it.

So yesterday, instead of running from it (literally, on my treadmill, for hours), I sat. I crossed my legs and sat on my mat and felt it. The surge of adrenalin in my veins. The vibration echoing out of my cells and into my sweat glands. The racing heart. The chest pains. The numb hands. The difficulty breathing. The heat. The fear. The total sense of terror that screamed at me, “Get help! Quick! You’re going to die!”

I sat with it and I didn’t die. And I didn’t judge it. And eventually it subsided on its own, leaving me exhausted and relieved. The only thoughts were, “Breathe. Breathe.” The only wisdom I needed was this.

In doing this exercise I was training my brain to expect a different outcome. My panic attacks – the cycle of terror that those with Panic Disorder experience – usually come about by the simplest trigger. A moment of nausea. A tightness in the chest. Any indication that I may be about to go down that road rushes me into a cascade of sensations that become instantly overwhelming, and my brain immediately assumes I can’t handle it. I need to get help.

But this time, I handled it. I gave my brain and body some evidence that a different outcome is possible. I don’t need to panic about the panic. I can sit with it. I can stay.

And I can practice this.

I started this blog because I wanted to help those in transition by sharing my own experience with change. And it has become a much deeper, wider, broader project than I ever intended. But after reading Dr. Eger’s book I realize how powerful this exercise may be in my quest to be of service to others (because it so profoundly served me). In her book she speaks of her own trauma and is incredibly transparent about her personal struggle in coping with her suffering. As an “expert” on healing, she shares that she herself is constantly working with it. She is forever “practicing”.

When I originally sat down to read her book, I had a strange assumption that she would be a real-life example of Roberto Benigni’s character in the movie Life is Beautiful. In the movie, Guido (Benigni) and his family are taken to a concentration camp where he uses his imaginative storytelling and positive attitude to carve out a fantasy for his son, masking the horrors around them by turning the circumstance into make believe. In the movie (SPOILER ALERT), his wife and son are eventually liberated, and his son escapes the situation still believing his father’s story that it was all an elaborate game. Throughout the movie, Guido maintains an almost unimaginable level of creativity, joy and hope, amid the most terrifying of situations.

I am an absolute dreamer, of that there is no doubt. When I first saw that movie at 15 it changed me and has remained a cornerstone of my attitude toward life. To me, this kind of creative living is accessible all of the time. I have a belief that, if honed enough, you can develop skills in storytelling so significant that you can create whatever world you want, regardless of external factors.

But the missing piece I’ve realized in this pie-in-the-sky ideal is that momentum takes us away sometimes, and fighting it doesn’t help. Preaching ideals doesn’t either, and often just pisses other people (or ourselves) off. Sometimes we are swept up in circumstance and tune ourselves to things like fear. We have real experiences that, in turn, cause us to react. To feel things. To think things. And, unprocessed, these emotions can settle into our bodies and make us hostage to our unconscious systems of meaning.

Practice is processing. It’s letting things flow through you. It’s allowing – which was the whole purpose of this project. I want to learn how to allow.

We can’t force ourselves to change. We can’t bang things into place with any real effectiveness. Not when the stakes are high. Not when we are conditioned to pain, or trauma, or fear. To change, we must allow things to move. To flow. To happen.

I know that, for me, I am currently crossing a river of change. And there are currents. And I can’t yet step onto the distant shore. In many ways, I can’t even see it. But that’s how transitions go. We must walk through the current and allow it to take us, even though it is incredibly uncomfortable. Eventually, we find solid ground again. And that solid ground, if we are willing to go with the flow, will be new and better than before.

I have given in to seeking my own trauma therapy. Because we all need support, and we all need to admit to our own traumas and fears. They are not things to be ashamed of and they are not things to run away from. You can’t run, anyway. They find you, and they get louder, and eventually they can abduct your life. Vulnerability is a strength, and one I now recognize so profoundly. Transparency leads to trust. And that includes trusting ourselves. Because we can all practice. And we can all learn to stay.