Whew, it’s been an odd couple of days.
Fifteen months ago, I was laid off from a job that I absolutely loved. I knew it was going to happen. I had gone into the job, four years ago, knowing it would come to an end. The plant was moving and they needed help.
The people I met there, my team, were the most wonderful people I’ve ever worked with. I miss them very much and I still stay in contact with two of them.
After I left, I decided to try and change my career. I met this bright, caring man at the D.O.L. I took his classes and we talked about a personal issue I’ve been having since high school, about careers and what I wanted to do with my life. His advice is something I tried to follow. It didn’t work out well, because Life always gets in the way. But that’s okay.
I mention those two things because after I was laid off, I went to see my doctor. I have some kind of serious medical problems, and well, ya, the PTSD. She and I also talked about me changing careers. She asked me, at one point, how I survived what I did and that maybe I should write a book about it.
Dr. M. is pretty cool. She’s the one that figured out most of my issues, when 8 other doctors couldn’t. I’d been coping with these problems for a decade. Each “issue” is annoying but not too serious by themselves, but it basically stems from having an over-reactive system and maybe a traumatic brain injury. We haven’t gone after the TBI diagnosis yet. She’s also found a single medicine that helps with the PTSD, instead of the seven I was on at one point. I don’t have to take it every day, either. Totally AWESOME!
So, when I started Smashed Potatoes, it was intended to be a book at one point. To show people who have also gone through trauma and or violence that there are ways of managing and coping, but not from a therapy perspective. More like peer-counseling. Sort of.
Three days ago, I started writing. It’s now 115 pages later. I had every intention of publishing what I wrote but now I think I won’t. Not because my intent on reaching out to others has changed. Not in the least.
I laid the book out in sections, one for each emotion with examples and how I look at it, how I deal with them, with the PTSD, and why I think the way I do. The words just flew out. Like when I’ve been in a fiction writing fever and I can’t step away from the keyboard.
Things like Logic. Logic is a form of critical thinking. 
But it is based on mathematics. You have to make assumptions, even though you are laying out a linear progression. It is a tool and only a tool. One tool. While Logic can help in therapy, it isn’t the only tool and it shouldn’t be used alone because emotions and memories aren’t math. Logic can help guide you out of a problem but it can also talk you in to one. A lot of people out there think that if you can “think about an issue or emotion logically,” it will fix the problem. It can help. Not completely fix. It can also lead you into denial or the wrong kind of desensitization to an emotional issue, so Logic really does need to be used in conjunction with other techniques when it is used.
While the Irish Toast is a humorous example, and was completely meant as a funny-funny, I am also quite serious. One of most common points of issue I hear from friends is that my logic isn’t “linear logic,” so therefore, I am being irrational. My point is that emotions aren’t math and I am not a machine. I’m a human being and if I am applying therapy correctly, a fully functioning one, with hopes, dreams, desires, feelings, and yes, being sensitive. None of those are math.
That may sound simplistic. It’s meant to be. I don’t appreciate being dehumanized, especially if I am telling someone that they have been a complete and total insensitive jackass. If I’m hurt and saying something about it, I’m hurt a hell of a lot worse than you could ever actually know and it’s way past being “logical” about it just to get you out of the jakehouse. I get to be a human being, too, and not some rock you can smash up against.
So these sections, one for each emotion… It’s been a wonderful experience. Hard, too. When I got to the end, the section on Forgiveness… By the time I got there, just before I got there, I felt like a cleaver had cut through so much bullshit I’ve been carrying around, and sliced it to the side. I almost didn’t even write the section.
I’ve known for years that I have had to hide most of who I am because other people can’t deal with knowing what I survived. That a lot of my problems, trust issues, and PTSD do come from from that inability to cope. It isn’t that I can’t deal with it. I did have a lot of flashbacks. I do have problems with the memories. I won’t deny that or that they can be really, really bad when they happen. Can be. Not will be. And how bad or whether or not they happen mainly has to do with the people around me.
I do take responsibility for healing myself. That is massively important.
But when I got to the Forgiveness section, I had written about some friends that I had over the years. The ones I was with when I was a teenager- they had this awesome attitude that has been an absolute gift. “It’s okay. Go have your nutty. Then suck it up afterwards and let’s go get a burger.”
They were aware of my problems and what caused them. I don’t ever remember a single time when they pried me open to know more. It wasn’t that they didn’t ask questions. They did. It was that their response and attitude that I was strong enough to take it, relive it, and get through it that made it possible for me to BE that way. That life continues on and you just roll with it, good, bad, drooling, or whatever. When it’s done, it’s done for a while.
Even better was the humor that came with it. They didn’t take things easy on me, kicked me in the ass when I needed it. No one shied away. And when they needed the same things from me, they got it. They didn’t stop their own problems from popping up and they actually let me close enough to help.
That is awesome.
I’ve had that catharsis a handful of times. Writing these 115 pages did that. Getting my arm tattoos was another. Getting the next tattoo will be one, too.
So that’s today’s message. BE ALIVE. Be present. Be open in the moment, even if it’s a sobbing, snotty mess. If someone else can’t cope with you being a survivor, too bad. Fall on your ass and get up. Don’t let anyone cripple you or treat you like a victim. Look down at your scars and say- “What a beautiful mess. I AM ALIVE!”
And if someone shows up in your life, can see, can deal, and doesn’t yank back, then you got a good one. Cherish them. They’ll be the glitter that turns those scars into fairy tracks lighting up the night.