Shape Shifters
Shape Shifters
Do you ever look back over your life, as far back as being less than two foot tall, and wonder how you got from there to here? Was it natural evolution, to grow and shed the innocence of youth, lose the art of living in the moment, as though the future and the past were all rolled into that moment? Imagine, the youngest memory you have, perhaps playing in a garden, catching butterflies, or picking daisies, or counting the clouds above. Didn’t it feel like that you were that moment. There wasn’t a separation between you and all that you were experiencing, touching, smelling, hearing and seeing?
This very state of being is the art of mindfulness, the principle of living in the now. How could we have been such experts in this with little if no guidance? Ekhart Tolle wrote an entire book exploring the importance of this, called The Power of Now. For me, in a different body, and very different shape, I have had to re learn the beauty of living this moment. I’ve read books, learning meditation, practised mindfulness, held crystals and lit incense. That little two-year-old flying around the garden in a wig shared with her sisters had none of this. She was too enthralled with the moment she existed in. Could it have been that she lacked the concept of time, so believing that this is all there is? If so, I want that back!
In our lives, we grow, develop, change, adapt, learn, and age. But at what point to we learn who we really are, and why we are here? I often wonder, if the younger versions of Grace had not sustained repeated losses, abandonment and abuse, she would have travelled a different path, made different choices? Does the world shape us or do we transform ourselves in the face of what the world throws at us? I think it is a combination of both. I think perhaps the world tests us, and we determine our own destiny based on whether we transform in the face of adversity or succumb to its heavy lesson. I think I succumbed and transformed, and, in many ways, this is the nature of complex-PTSD.
But who would I be without the scars that shaped me? Are scars not a beautiful transformation of the body to represent resilience and growth? What about the scars that we cannot see? The pain where the light doesn’t reach? Are only the visible scars worthy of compassion? The victim of domestic abuse, barely concealing the bruises, or the survivor of a fire, bearing the anger of the fire long after the flames have been extinguished.
From my experience of complex-PTSD and speaking from a person who, to the outside world, shows a sunny disposition, my inner turmoil is hidden well, my scars are invisible. To such a degree that I am judged harshly when the symptoms of my condition interfere with my life, the decisions I make or the reactions I have. Even those who have known me all their lives do not accept the scars I carry. I have only been judged heavily. Reported to Children’s Services for binge drinking, another chapter, another story, accused of lying about previous abuse; the notion of repeated assaults too unrealistic for them to believe, even though re victimisation is a very common phenomenon for trauma survivors.
At my places of work over the years, I have been dedicated and disciplined, always on time, always reliable, and always ready to deliver nursing care to all the patients under my watch. However, I have always battled with authority, particularly men, but women as well at times. I recognised this later in life, because it was escalating. I would lock horns with nearly every manager that I worked for. It was also made worse because I worked for the NHS, which is the most stressful organisation to work for (in my opinion!) – shout out to teachers, carers, police, fire fighters and dentists! Hope I haven’t missed any key workers? I could dedicate a whole chapter on all the workers in the world. Shout out to us all.
In my current place of work, I have three letters in my Personnel records – one from my therapist, explaining my condition, another from a psychiatrist confirming my condition and the last one from a worker at Blue Door, a local Service supporting victims of sexual assault. I had to do this and show my manager because my condition was starting to affect my work and my relationship with others.
I realised I was rehearsing an unconscious dance with my own shadows. I was battling the injustice of my childhood, the failure of care providers to meet my needs, the abandonment of adults that were key to my survival. I was incapable of trusting superiors, those for whom I entrusted my work environment.
For a long time, I blamed myself. For years, in fact, I labelled myself as “feisty”, “short tempered”, “intolerant”. Don’t get me wrong, I am flawed. I could write a chapter for you on my weaknesses. It could be the reverse rule of a dating app, where you describe yourself in the most favourable terms, in the hope of attracting a life partner. I would likely attract the bacterial life of a sewage tank. Luckily, I didn’t. Although sometimes I describe my husband in these terms, if I am in the middle of a menopausal meltdown (a whole other book!).
Having complex-PTSD while not a “get out of jail free card” in terms of reasons why you exhibit certain behaviour, it does explain so much about how we conduct ourselves in different environments. It was only with the help of therapy that I explored the damaging effects that the condition was having in my work/career. My therapist pointed out that the younger parts, Grace as a child, was exhibiting pain, distrust of adults and this was manifesting in my relationship with the manager. While other staff members tolerated a laisse faire style of management I needed order, structure. Well, little Grace did.
I created a barrier with my manager. It broke my heart to know that she didn’t like me, once describing my bite worse than my bark. I am not sure if this is an insult, compliment or an actual observation. But I must stress I’ve never bitten anyone at work, and I only bark at the post man. Nevertheless, my behaviour or rather responses to others was becoming a problem. This in turn chipped away at my already depleted self-esteem which then reopened old wounds.
As my therapist and I stripped back the layers of my trauma, drawing the current behaviour to previous experiences, I could feel the shift, the changing shapes of who and what I had become. I began to realise, that the inner voice, the internal critic, was lying to me. She had spent years, living inside my head, berating my character, tearing me down with her judgments. According to her, I was not worthy of respect, I was already broken, and in any situation, where I felt discomfort, or anger, or frustration, I was the problem.
But a new voice had been given a magnificent sparkling microphone (not dissimilar to the one my sister bought for our country walks- another chapter). This voice had an authentic tone, a more calming quality, one which I started to tune into as much as possible. The critic was still present, she was trying to upgrade to a megaphone (another country walk companions my sister, and I had in real terms). It can be like tuning into a radio station, where no matter how close you get to the one you want, there is interference; static. My inner critic was the static, my new internal voice a window with a different view.
The work I have done with my therapist has cultivated the map to this view. Over the last four years, the conversations, the soul searching, the tears, the panic, and the healing has shifted my position, creating a new perception of myself. A better version of who I thought I was. I still see me in the mirror, and admittedly, some days I must iron my features back together, such is the curse of menopause and age. However, I think I see a sparkle back in my eyes. This is the importance of seeking help with complex-PTSD. It can b
