A few days ago, one of my sons brought up Christmas. Filled with excitement, he imagined aloud what he might get for Christmas.
Far from feeling elated myself, I felt a surge of panic at the mere mention of any day not today. This year, Christmas for me doesn’t mean candy with a side of connection, or peace with a pile of presents nabbed from under a sparkling tree.
It means the promise of even more devastation than has transpired in 2020 so far.
This time of this year, anything bigger than this moment terrifies me.
I asked that Christmas list reflections be kept in Christmas lists,
for which my husband gently chided me: Continue reading “fueled, well”
Early yesterday morning, I took my sons for drive-through hot chocolate. Rather than heading straight home afterward, I drove surface streets for a few minutes before hopping on the freeway.
Even for a Friday morning in pandemic times, traffic was unbelievably light. For a few miles, then, we got to do one of my favorite things in the world: unhindered by bumper-to-bumper traffic, fly down the freeway in SoCal sunlight.
My heart soared, despite the outward mundanity of the act.
I grinned as I told my kids how much I loved the feeling. I’d only just voiced curiosity about the source of this feeling when I found my answer, which I shared with my kids. Continue reading “possible”
I moved to Japan in May 2004. While I took a lot from my time in Japan,
it’s the tiniest, most apparently innocuous piece of
my experience in Japan that’s
filled my heart
Growing up in profound trauma, I also grew up far outside my body:
Things happened to my body in the physical plane, but none of that mattered
to my mind, which subsisted on words and insights untouched by physical sensations.
While living in Japan, I found there was one activity that brought all of me together for a few minutes at a time: Continue reading “drying in the sun”
Four weeks ago, I wrote about unlikely inspiration: being laughed at and photographed for wearing a face mask. I wrote about how reflecting on that encounter helped deepen my commitment to practicing empathy even—perhaps especially—when it’s hard:
If I rage at [Unmasked Woman], the maskless woman who set this post stirring, I do not show care. I do not show empathy. I do not reflect, in act, my deep belief that “redeemable” is a category into which every single human being may fall.
A few days later, I’d learn of the police murder of George Floyd. I’d see my husband, a Black man who has gently walked with me as I’ve grappled with the enduring consequences of my own many encounters with trauma, split open and bleed out decades of racism-born trauma. Unskilled at being with him in his own trauma, I’d leap right into the roiling waters of trauma with him, leaving us both exhausted, wounded, and wary. Continue reading “to experience grace”
Once upon a (not-so-recent) time, I used to spend hours arguing with my husband, Anthony, about the dishes.
Specifically, I thought he should be doing the dishes a whole lot more often, and I made it my mission to bring this utopia to life.
More recently, perhaps a month ago, I asked Anthony not to do the dishes. Since being stuck at home due to COVID-19, I’m finding doing the dishes keeps me grounded in the here and now. Continue reading ““You’re in my threat radius, sweetheart.””
Yesterday afternoon, I stood near my dining room table and proclaimed, “I can’t find my Tumblr!”
“You have a Tumblr?!” my husband replied. “I didn’t know that.”
“Not really. I posted, like, one original post there a few years back. I’m trying to find that post.”
Soon afterward, I found that Tumblr, and I found that January 2018 post. “That post” was the last one I shared on Tumblr.
I read it and let its core sink, again, into my bones. And I wondered:
How had I forgotten what had once
lived so deeply in my bones?
Looking at my Twitter profile yesterday, I saw too. many. images of police brutality not hidden under sensitive-content warnings.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad these images are being captured. I’m glad this history is being documented and made accessible. I’m especially glad attorney T. Greg Doucette is aggregating these incidents into one Twitter thread; in one single week of protests against racism and police brutality, his documented incident ticker is up to 334. Continue reading “TO LIFE”
From my very first post here, I’ve written about how trauma has shaped my life.
Since before my first breath, I suffered the effects of violence from within my mother’s womb. This wired my nervous system in very particular ways even before I endured my first direct bodily blow.
I don’t write much about many of the specific blows I experienced. Most the specifics are lost to my thinking memory, stored instead in muscle, bone, and implicit memory.
Because most the specifics are lost to my thinking memory, I can be triggered–catapulted back in time, so that I’m confused about whether I’m in relatively choice-filled 2020 or choiceless 1988–without knowing why. Without knowing what sent me back.
A couple of days ago, my sister Rachael wrote “Meringue Pie & PTSD.” Continue reading “each other”
Every weekday morning, I get dressed up for work.
I’m not going to any office, right now. I’m not going anywhere where anyone but my husband and kids can see me.
A few weeks back, in “To walk through,” I wrote about the importance of boundaries as a many-trauma survivor in the era of COVID-19. For me, clothing is a boundary:
Dressing for work helps me distinguish between work and not-work time, when all these times are now spent at home. Continue reading “When I am done with words”
I am laughing
I haven’t been laughing
all morning, mind you;
quite the opposite!
I was triggered by
something I saw
Instead of walking away,
I dove in, despite my husband
saying, “Deb, please. You are
deep in trauma.
Get off Twitter.
do this!” Continue reading “the beauty now”
On Monday, I didn’t feel well. On Tuesday, I felt worse, and so took the day off from work.
While I wasn’t suffering from coronavirus, there was an indirect correlation with it.
Understanding the correlation helped me set myself down a different path.
In my last post, I wrote about healing the enduring psychological consequences of childhood trauma.
I did not write about the ways trauma continues to impact my physical health.
In my first post on this blog, I wrote:
My childhood home was filled with trauma. Specifically, of the ten adverse childhood experiences (ACEs) studied by the CDC and Kaiser Permanente, I experienced eight. As explained at ACES Too High, experiencing even one ACE can adversely impact a person’s lifelong health. People who experience four or more are at massively increased risks of poor health outcomes.
I didn’t dive into detail about the “poor health outcomes.” But as Aces Too High explains, Continue reading “Matters of my/our health”