Perspective. It's all about perspective. Survivors of trauma often suffer physical and mental health symptoms long after the trauma is over. Sometimes these symptoms are body memories, such as pains that interpersonal violence survivors where an injury used to be. Sometimes these pains do not seem to make as much "sense". For example, some survivors experience chronic pain and chronic fatigue. Like me.
Interestingly enough, I am also a personal trainer and fitness instructor. This may seem like a ridiculous career for a chronic pain/fatigue sufferer to have, but that is where perspective comes in. I used to work for a woman who suffered fibromyalgia. (It should also be noted that she initially suffered from anxiety.) Her pains would often be so unbearable that she would be forced to work from her home. Her job was sedentary. She struggled with her weight, not because she ate poorly, but because she was in too much pain to move.
My job keeps me moving. Exhausting, yes. Painful, absolutely. I am also fit. I am tired and achey, especially on cold, rainy days, but at least I am able to move and do that which is necessary to be an independent individual. On Sundays, my anxiety levels often increase because I know that I will have to "perform" tomorrow, to force my body to move vigorously while making it look easy, when I'd rather curl up and sleep. It feels awful. It is also beautiful because I have a job that forces me to do these things as opposed to keeping still all day and actually making things much worse.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Begin...
The worst thing about having a blog is the first entry. I am convinced of this. IF one has interesting subject matter and IF one can manage to write the first entry, one is sure to write an at least mediocre blog.
Ah, yes, the first entry. The blank Page stares you down. "Well, don't you have anything to say?" the Page says. "Yes, I'm working on it," you say. "I just need to figure out how to begin." "Begin at the beginning," the wise Page coaxes. But you don't know where the beginning is. You lost it somewhere between your repressed memories and your tedious to-do list.
"Well," the Page muses. "Tell the good folks at home what your blog is about." You bite your lip. Hard. "But if I tell them what it is about, they won't want to read it." At this point the Page laughs aloud. "Whoever said they SHOULD want to read what you have to say! NOBODY wants to read this stuff. But they will read it anyways. It's like the car wreck on the side of the road. They can't help but look." And you have to admit, the Page has a point.
This blog is not about being a foodie or suburban yogi or a body-building soccer-mom. This is a blog about life after trauma, how much it quite frankly sucks, and the few-and-far-between victories that keep you going. This is not a blog about how to cook a rotisserie chicken, but how to choke down every day like the gummy part of said chicken, all the while reminding yourself how "lucky" you are that you got out relatively- ahem - unharmed, and how "grateful" you are to be here (wherever that is) and not where you were, no matter that you will never be where you could have been (wherever that was) had you not been bestowed the title Survivor (whatever that means). In the back of your mind, you know this is bullshit. "I am just thrilled that I wake up every morning to the stench of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and go to sleep to the to-do list, meal-planning, calorie-counting-like-sheep so that I can actually avoid thinking or feeling anything that 'normal' people don't think or feel."
I wish I could say that I am writing this blog for altruistic reasons, as many of my predecessors can. Actually, my reasons are quite selfish. I need to write. I need to record the mundane details of my life with wit and charm that will make you fall in love with me so that I can prove to myself that I am special, lovable, or at the very least, alive. Through writing, perspective is formed. Perspective is what turns tragedies into comedies, and tragedies get boring after a while.
Before we part, I must address being "selfish". Perhaps it is selfish of me- or at the very least very Western-minded of me- to showcase myself and exploit my own dirty laundry simply because I am bored and tired of taking trauma so seriously. However, I am not the only one being selfish. After all, you are not reading this blog not because you care about my story. You are reading this blog because there is something about me- my story- that reminds you of, well, you. I would have it no other way.
To those who are in the grips of trauma, you are reading this blog because you desperately need to know that I exist, that you will get out, and that whatever form it takes, there is life on the Other Side.
Ah, yes, the first entry. The blank Page stares you down. "Well, don't you have anything to say?" the Page says. "Yes, I'm working on it," you say. "I just need to figure out how to begin." "Begin at the beginning," the wise Page coaxes. But you don't know where the beginning is. You lost it somewhere between your repressed memories and your tedious to-do list.
"Well," the Page muses. "Tell the good folks at home what your blog is about." You bite your lip. Hard. "But if I tell them what it is about, they won't want to read it." At this point the Page laughs aloud. "Whoever said they SHOULD want to read what you have to say! NOBODY wants to read this stuff. But they will read it anyways. It's like the car wreck on the side of the road. They can't help but look." And you have to admit, the Page has a point.
This blog is not about being a foodie or suburban yogi or a body-building soccer-mom. This is a blog about life after trauma, how much it quite frankly sucks, and the few-and-far-between victories that keep you going. This is not a blog about how to cook a rotisserie chicken, but how to choke down every day like the gummy part of said chicken, all the while reminding yourself how "lucky" you are that you got out relatively- ahem - unharmed, and how "grateful" you are to be here (wherever that is) and not where you were, no matter that you will never be where you could have been (wherever that was) had you not been bestowed the title Survivor (whatever that means). In the back of your mind, you know this is bullshit. "I am just thrilled that I wake up every morning to the stench of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and go to sleep to the to-do list, meal-planning, calorie-counting-like-sheep so that I can actually avoid thinking or feeling anything that 'normal' people don't think or feel."
I wish I could say that I am writing this blog for altruistic reasons, as many of my predecessors can. Actually, my reasons are quite selfish. I need to write. I need to record the mundane details of my life with wit and charm that will make you fall in love with me so that I can prove to myself that I am special, lovable, or at the very least, alive. Through writing, perspective is formed. Perspective is what turns tragedies into comedies, and tragedies get boring after a while.
Before we part, I must address being "selfish". Perhaps it is selfish of me- or at the very least very Western-minded of me- to showcase myself and exploit my own dirty laundry simply because I am bored and tired of taking trauma so seriously. However, I am not the only one being selfish. After all, you are not reading this blog not because you care about my story. You are reading this blog because there is something about me- my story- that reminds you of, well, you. I would have it no other way.
To those who are in the grips of trauma, you are reading this blog because you desperately need to know that I exist, that you will get out, and that whatever form it takes, there is life on the Other Side.
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