How Social Distancing Triggers Survivors-(And why I’m Choosing a Quiet Life Instead)

since social norms and expectations have been so drastically altered—I feel emboldened to embrace what I wanted to be all along; before abusers got ahold of me; before authority figures felt they could tell me what I ought to be doing with my own body…

These are difficult times for all. Isolation ‘suggestions’ (rules) are being made and mandated by authority figures. Even ministers are developing new social norms for Christians; with the move to online church services and meetings. My own small fellowship has stopped meeting. My husband’s small Bible study has gone online. Most people are willing to follow these suggestions, believing it is for the greater good. My adult children are now working from their homes. They’ve mentioned coming to our home for a bit since they are working remotely anyway. But they have not done so; yet.

For a survivor of sexual abuse, this is a time that is rife with new fears and old traumas. As an abused child I was unable to develop internal guidelines about boundaries and personal space. ‘Go give your cousin a hug and kiss’ or the dreaded, ‘come sit on my lap’ were frequent commands. Child experts now stress how important it is not to force a child to touch someone if they would rather not.

But I didn’t have that choice as a child. If it was suggested that I sit on the lap of an adult relative; or go for a long drive with an adult family member, I knew I had to follow the suggestion. I felt powerless in the face of my perpetrators. My main caretakers had me in a state of helplessness. Extended family members further groomed and exploited me, long into adulthood. When I left my childhood home for one of my own, the perpetrators of my childhood continued to cross boundaries through harassing comments over the phone or unannounced visits to my home. Wherein I again felt, and believed myself to be, powerless to stop it.

Coming into the realization that I had personal space, and choice, and that I could choose who to let into that personal space (and that ‘family members’ didn’t get an immediate free pass to be there) was an ongoing and costly process. And I am still patching holes in those boundary walls around myself.

I can almost hear the voice of a former therapist as I type this: Remember that boundaries are walls with gates! We don’t want to wall ourselves in completely. Rather, we get to choose what and who to let in the gate!

As I see the current social distancing rules being implemented, it gives me pause. I once again feel powerless. Following the ‘rules’ as they are being handed down makes me uneasy, even as I know it is the right thing to do. I am once again fighting a familiar childlike fear— that I’ve done something horribly wrong and that this is all my fault somehow. That I shouldn’t have taken that airplane trip I felt it was still okay to take…because to disobey an authoritative suggestion, in any way, means I’m a bad girl. (Even if the authority suggesting it is evil.)

My husband keeps saying he doesn’t care if he gets sick himself. But he just doesn’t want to be responsible for making someone else sick. Which only makes me feel guiltier for being so concerned about myself. Traversing the recent thoughts in my head is like walking through a minefield.

Needless to say: Obeying these new social distancing commands doesn’t give me a senes of calm and peace.

And how can it? These are unprecedented times. We are sacrificing our relationships and our mental well-being in an attempt to protect our collective physical health. Something that can not fully be protected anyway.  Oh, I’m not suggesting that social distancing isn’t the correct response. Again: I’m practicing it myself. I haven’t left the house in days. I am simply pointing out that this action will also have consequences, and all the more so for the vulnerable amongst us- the elderly, the infirm, the disabled, the mentally ill and any of us who have already survived major traumas. Pray for these people. Check on them. Be there for them. Have patience with them in their fears.

Because this is a particularly difficult time for those of us who were already struggling. But as is often the case; those who have not suffered much themselves rarely stop to consider the plight of the already suffering.

It seems like this time of social distancing would be an introvert’s dream. In some ways, it is. As an abuse survivor, I shy away from people who like to draw in too close when talking to me. I need my space. I like to be alone. I like being in a grocery store where the other people in the aisle keep their distance from me (and then some). All the more so because I never had that sense of personal space growing up. But it also made me sad. Being told to isolate myself triggers old memories. Memories of a time when I was so isolated, as a child, that the frequent loneliness was a constant physical hurt in the back of my throat. Then I hardened myself, afraid to get close to people for different reasons. All because the choices with what to do with my own body were not my own to make.

My health has never been ‘good’; and that also gives me pause in the midst of a global pandemic. Many people who have lived through traumas end up with autoimmune issues and disabilities. I am no different. I’m still figuring out what, exactly, is wrong with me physiologically. I am no longer willing to be told by authorities in white coats that I’m ‘just an anxious’ person with psychosomatic symptoms. The biggest step I made for my own mental health came in realizing that there is something physical going on with my body; likely the result of past traumas, that no doctor has yet to be able to explain. Let alone diagnose and treat.

So to know that I am ‘amongst the vulnerable’ due to my physical maladies unleashes fresh grief for what was taken from me. A surge of fresh anger comes too; as I realize the full extent of damage my perpetrators caused me. How those early attacks against me left me vulnerable and weak in so many areas; including physically.

I realize all over again just how costly sexual abuse is to a child. How it remains crippling to a victim who was not given proper help or timely intervention. In order to try and protect myself physically— as a child stuck in an ongoing abusive situation— I harmed myself mentally instead. Believing I was a bad girl and keeping emotional distance from everyone was easier than believing the truth: that I was in constant danger from caretakers who were not actually caring for me.

I see the toll that that old manipulation of my body and mind took on my future relationships. Particularly those with my spouse and children. I see how it left me vulnerable to fear. Weak in times of national and global crises, and all too willing to quickly sacrifice my mental health and relationships in order to survive—to just physically get through it—whatever IT may be. In the past this has resulted in many moments of paralyzed inaction where I did what was expected of me by others. Instead of what was truly born of my heart and calling in life. I don’t know what it will look like for me, walking forward into a future where nearly everyone seems: a bit paralyzed.

All I know is that I’ve had so much time stolen, and, given my broken mindset, went on to waste a lot of time myself. Time that I could have been cultivating peace and joy instead of living a bit paralyzed by fear.

As a note I wrote to myself years ago, and still have posted on my fridge reminds me:

Triggers aren’t the problem. Avoiding pain is the problem.

This recent virus, and the worldwide social upheaval it has caused, has been like a grenade thrown into a giant barrel of triggers. I imagine it’s similar for other trauma survivors. If not, I’m glad to hear it! As for me: where do I even start assessing the pain? Sigh. I have to start with underlining and reaffirming my belief system and let it unfold from there.

And I believe what was meant for evil will be used by God for good. Perhaps God is using this time to show me the remaining hard areas of my heart, which weren’t as tender and soft as I’d thought. Hard areas which are ready to be ripped open, and must be ripped open for me to keep walking with Jesus. (Deuteronomy 30:6, Matthew 13:15). Well, even so: I am shocked at how many of hard spots remain. I thought I’d made more progress than I had.

Another way to put it: I am shocked at the size of the healing onion I’ve been peeling. I thought it was like a basketball.

It’s more like Pluto.

  • A ‘healing onion’ metaphor is something those of us in recovery, (from most anything), often talk about. There are so many layers to that onion! And each one hurts. The eight hundredth layer of onion makes me cry just as much as peeling back the first layer did.

And so as I look forward, to a future that on the one hand looks scary and isolated, I see how influenced I remain by ‘outside suggestions’ and how necessary it is to tune all those out and figure out what to let in, and out, the gate of my heart.

I also see an opportunity to do something that I’ve always wanted to do more than anything else; without a lot of social pressure to conform to something else entirely.

It has always been my desire to simply live a quiet life and to teach that to my children. But abuse and social norms and a desire for popularity, deep seated people pleasing, familial expectations and the need to make a living ($) kept me from doing what I wanted to be doing within my own properly walled life–back when the children were young. Now that they may descend back home for a bit-perhaps I can get a second chance to correct a few things.

And since social norms and expectations have been so drastically altered—I feel emboldened to embrace what I wanted to be all along; before abusers got ahold of me; before authority figures felt they could tell me what I ought to be doing with my own body…

I am encouraged that some of what I did not freely give my own children, in their childhoods (when I was still blinded from the fog of abuse), might now be freely given. Somehow. Someway. But first I need to live it out myself.

Underneath the handwritten refrigerator note that reminds me:

Triggers aren’t the problem. Avoiding pain is the problem

I am posting two Bible verses. Meant to guide me into the future.

  • Make it your goal to live a quiet life, minding your own business and working with your hands, just as we instructed you before. Then people who are not believers will respect the way you live, and you will not need to depend on others. (1 Thessalonians 4:11-12)
  • Now when these things begin to happen, look up and lift up your heads, because your redemption draws near. (Luke 21:28)

I seek peace. Contentment. A quiet life. Wherein I can freely feel both pain and joy; as it comes and needs to come. Quietly peeling that Puto-sized healing onion and being okay with that task; day in and day out. A walled up and fortified home with a gate, and a door and a front porch that opens to the good and stays firmly shut against the bad. While the greatest source of hope, transcends even the hardest pains and the best moments of pleasure left on earth, and hinges entirely upon Jesus’ return for me.

For: surely, I now believe the hour of His return is quite near.

But if you are reading this, and it has triggered new fears: Please know there is still time to repent and be saved. Romans 3:23 for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. Confess that sin state to God. And then call on Jesus. John 3:16-18 For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life. For God did not send His Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world through Him might be saved. “He who believes in Him is not condemned; but he who does not believe is condemned already, because he has not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God.”

Not that I am suggesting anything here. I am offering up the Word of God as it was offered to me.

I freely choose to repent. I choose to believe. I choose to forgive those who have hurt me. In spite of many well meaning (I have to believe?) Christian suggestions to do just that, it was somewhere between the Holy Spirit’s leading and my own heart desiring Christ–that I chose, and continue to choose, those things–entirely on my own.

Because a forced choice, a softly suggested choice, a groomed choice, a vague feeling of obligation and guilt–all that is meaningless, and I believe, can even be meant for evil.

“Twas grace that taught my heart to fear. And grace my fear relieved.” John Newton (a former slave trader).

That’s exactly what it was like for me in my own conversion. The fear of God gripped me and then calmed me.

My abusers, the minister who molested and assaulted me, the evil powers and principalities that rule this world– couldn’t, and still can’t, take away my simple free will choice to follow Jesus. I am affirming that choice in this writing. Because if ever there was a time for such affirmations–it is now.

Now that that’s been affirmed: I will continue to peel away at Pluto. And quietly work; hoping to fly under the radar until I either die or Jesus comes for me in the clouds.

Maranatha

 

 

 

“Even if the ground is icy, you can still plant tulips!”

Apologies for anyone who may have sought my blog in recent weeks and could not find it. It took me a while to privatize the original posts. I kept a few public. For those who requested access, you didn’t miss new content. Just access to old stuff I no longer wanted public.

I presumed my blog was going to be over. Now that I have safeguarded the things I once shared so freely: my anonymity feels secure again. Yet, I sense going forward that things around here will be more like the early winter out my window.

Colder. Less traffic than the little I received prior. But with more excitement for what could possibly be ahead. To quote a fellow Midwestern garden enthusiast, who was recently raving about tulips, “Even when the ground is icy, you can still plant tulips! The bulbs still bloom in the spring!”

…I am probably talking to nobody right now 😊. Or at best one or two. And that’s ok. I have pared down the blogs I follow. Conscience dictated that in so doing: I also remove the followers to my blog (if they belonged to any of the blogs I no longer follow). I hope it is not hurtful to anyone.

I am doing my best not to care about that. Recovery from people pleasing is not always easy. I wish I could say that I had the discipline and lack of eagerness-to-please-others to maintain a well trafficked blog.

I don’t.

Much has changed in my body and mind since I started looking into physiological reasons for what had been diagnosed as an anxiety disorder. I can’t get into that here as it’s too identifying. My body isn’t the only thing which has changed since I began exploring ways to heal it. My mind has as well. Gains I made in years of cognitive behavioral therapy were washed away by months of various toxins being released. Which can leave me so ridiculously irritable I could bite the head off a puppy at the wrong time of day. When it passes again, I find I have a boldness I’ve always wanted to possess. Wondering why I ever was so timid or afraid to say things simply and speak the truth. Confused as to why I once gave my money to a therapist telling me how to do just that.

The anxiety which occurs now is a passing physical type of anxiety and agitation, not one rooted in mental trauma. I know the difference, now, very intimately. I have no real idea how much of the ‘anxiety disorder’ and PTSD that I was diagnosed with was truly trauma or behaviorally induced or some combination of physiological, psychological, spiritual, and physical components.

I do suspect it was more physiological and physical than it ever was mental or spiritual. And I suspect that could be true for many people who are urged into medication or therapy (or told to JTJ- Just Trust Jesus) without someone looking carefully and deeply at their physical health.  I don’t believe I have seen a doctor, minister, or other professional who has come close to understanding any of it. Therefore I won’t pretend to either.

I will say, however, that now that some fog has lifted from my toxic brain, I see things clearer than ever before (even as my eyes are often blurry from vitamin deficiencies and toxins still leaving). I see that I was never a defect, or a reject. I know my childhood abuse affected me in every way possible, and knowing that is depressing even as it lets ME off the hook.

The childhood abuse affects how I approach receiving medical care, receive offers of friendship, and respond to the flames of narcissists. Had I not been mentally, emotionally, physically, sexually, and spiritually abused as a child — I likely would not have ever stopped looking for physical roots of illness. After my doctor stopped looking and wrote me off as a head case, I would have gotten a new doctor. Nor would I have been as willing to listen to ministers and Christian therapists giving me advice about how to fix my spiritual life–implying that I wasn’t doing something right or else I would be thriving instead of struggling. I would have said goodbye to many things much quicker than I did.

I have also encountered a staggering number of people who appear, in hindsight, to have had personality disorders. Those were the ones I usually let ‘help’ me the most.

Had I not been so bound up — I would have looked at what I was eating, and also doing with my time, and dug deeper there. Instead I instantly went to navel gazing. I wouldn’t have been so ready to believe the people who kept telling me there was nothing really wrong with me (Except EVERYTHING important–like my belief system and basic thoughts and behaviors)…oh, the easy fuel that wide-eyed-me must have been for all those out there eager to restore me to Christ. Sigh.

But that was not the path God had set me on. There is a reason I spent the last five years going down so many rabbit holes labeled ‘this is actually your own fault’.  I was predisposed to blaming my own personality traits and character, first, rather than looking at all the physical and external causes as to why I might feel anxious, tired, and in chronic pain. My childhood set me up for people all-too-willing to tell me what else I was doing wrong and how to correct it. And that all started to lift earlier this year. Even as it continued, to some degree. I am a slow learner and I made another doctor appointment with someone following a restrictive diet who’d grown quite popular on social media. When he posted shirtless, a gym selfie, I finally started to wake up that something was off about him. His clinic called me to reschedule my appointment and I quickly blurted, ‘oh let’s just cancel it.’ The poor woman on the phone seemed confused by my eagerness to cancel an appointment I once was eager to make.

In the end: this world is fallen. There is no perfect pill. No perfect diet. No perfect lifestyle maintenance regime. No perfect church. If there were, then it would mean Jesus had returned and set the earth right again. We will all know it when that occurs. Until then, don’t be fooled*!

(*Note to self)

This has been the lesson of the last five years of bunny trail after bunny trail. Harsh, I know. But I need to say this for myself, so that I remember it going forward. Falling for the illusion of perfection from those who overly promote themselves is a weakness. So long as I remember I have such weakness, it will be more easily managed. It isn’t so much a weakness in my character, though, as it is in my experience. Growing up in an environment where so many people were claiming all the answers (even when they flew in the face of truth and reality) really messes up your ability to know and trust the truth. Truth is– again– there is no perfect way in a fallen world. It simply doesn’t exist. I do believe we can make gains, and get to a point of high function regardless of our limitations– and I will continue to try. But I am going to try not to fall for the perfection illusions that keep being put forth by oh, everything and everyone — from commercials for antidepressants to doctors who pose shirtless.

I do maintain that Jesus is the way. Beyond that — there’s a lot of ways to lay down your cross. The important thing is that we let it (whatever it is) go.

That is why I’m letting go of the idea that there is still something wrong with me that needs healing. Because I am ok just as I am, in some pain and with granny-size-underwear covering a butt full of cellulite. There is beauty in that; value in that. More than there is in something uncovered and overly promoted. This world is eager to tell YOU why you being you is giving you an anxiety disorder (or cellulite or diabetes). Or why your diet sucks and you need to eat the rainbow. Why pharmaceuticals are evil. Or why Trump is really a Russian spy operative. Most of the time, they have something to sell, or simply fuel to garner, by making such claims.

Very few are willing to navigate the overblown claims to try and find any nuggets of actual truth. The past five years were my training ground to do just that. To swim in that stream and not drown in it.

In the end — share what works for you, and tell me about you or your life. Care enough to dig into the claims others make, rather than dismissing or falling for them. That’s what I hope to do here. A bit more colder than prior, as I am still figuring out what I am doing myself — but hey, spring comes eventually. For now — I avoid a lot of foods and supplements too, as I have discovered that many of them were a root source of health issues plaguing me for life. They escalated into fibromyalgia, and a diagnosed anxiety disorder and PTSD the latter of which I’m not sure is even a thing anymore and the former of which I’m not sure is a root cause or a symptom of something else.

I’m saltier than I’ve ever been prior, too. The need to be nice is lifting, as the quest for real and true burns strong in me now that I am figuring this stuff out.

Furthermore: that ugly brown tulip bulb WILL turn into a thing of beauty after it’s been buried properly. Like blogs that were all over the place being put to rest in the cold earth. Like life after death. Like coming out of a lifetime of chronic pain syndrome culminating in a five year fog of anxious self blame… only to realize it was the abuse and abusers, combined with some food that doesn’t agree with me. Not, actually: me. There is the bloom after a cold winter. And it is beautiful. Truly Beautiful.

My arms hurt–as do about sixty seven other body parts. But I hope to plant more tulips in the icy ground regardless.

They’ll bloom eventually.

beautiful bloom blooming blossom
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