Surgical Removal Of Trauma
If only our past traumas could be removed by a scalpel, wouldn’t that have the permanence we often seek so fervently in our effort to silence pain. A clean cut, with the precision of a surgeon’s skillful hand. Taking the pain, incinerating it and moving forward, free and light from old memories. It’s just not as easy as that.
I can say for sure because I had two major surgeries, to remove all the evidence of having had children and the other, all evidence of having female body parts, at least so that in clothes, they were not visible. To be clearer, I had an abdominal plasty in 2020, just as the country went into lockdown, then in 2022 I had a breast reduction, just before the Queen passed way (I don’t think the two are connected).
At the times of these surgeries, the months leading up to deciding to go ahead, I believed that I needed the operations to correct what was “wrong” with my body. I believed that I would “feel” better about myself, that my appearance would somehow heal the inner wounds. I naïvely thought that my self-esteem would improve. I never made the association with trauma. I never saw that I was trying to de sexualize myself, until I had conversations in therapy.
It is like a kind of self-harm, except the mutilation is done by a surgeon, and the skillful removal of breasts and abdomen, is performed with expert precision, and masterfully re constructed to that the result is aesthetically pleasing. Hindsight, that old friend, has been insightful, as always and I now recognize some startling connections to some of the assaults on my body, much earlier than these surgeries.
I explained to my counsellor that I have spent my life, at least as far back as memory allows, trying to make myself as small as possible. I remember when I was very little, always craving attention from adults, usually my mum, wanting to be picked up, cuddled, babied. This never happened, all my care givers were either mentally distant, or stoic like my grandma. As I grew, by the age of 13 I was diet conscious, at the age of 15 eating only muesli, at the age of 18, weighing 8 stone, and losing my periods. I was obsessively exercising and constantly making sure that my weight was below 9 stone.
Fast forward to the time after having my third and last child, I was still fairly slim (I never did gain much body weight in pregnancy) but I had two C-sections in the same year, my two younger children only a year apart. My body felt damaged by adulthood. No longer innocent. No longer youthful, blatant evidence that I had engaged in sexual intercourse. After three pregnancies my breasts also grew, much to my horror. I spent hundreds on minimizer bra’s, hiding my cleavage, never wearing white, or low hung tops.
This became increasingly obsessive, and I couldn’t bear males looking at me. There was a paradox here, because I craved validation, for my personality, my wit, my presence, but not my body. Things became increasingly obsessive when I spent £16000 on the two operations, consenting to the surgery to cut these body parts away. When I spoke with the breast surgeon, he did ask when I wanted a reduction and explained that I didn’t really need one. I’m ashamed to say I denied having any mental health problems, he would not have done the surgery if he knew.
As I look back, 3 years on, I don’t for a second regret the surgeries, this is because I still battle with body dysmorphia. However, I don’t show off my flat stomach, I still cover up! I don’t show off my chest, even though it is now much smaller, I am still conscious. The problem is the mind, the problem is the association with sex appeal, and the knowledge that I am a sexual individual. My inner most beliefs and values regarding sex have not evolved. I still have shame sitting at the route of my sexuality.
No wonder. As a small child I was exposed to this and witnessed sexual images, in books, and in real life, all of which horrified me and caused confusion, shame and disgust. Nobody protected me from this, I was never given any advice or support. I grew up with silence around these experiences. Nobody validated the incidences where I saw things I didn’t understand. So, I learned that it was wrong, not talked about, shunned. What exacerbated this early experience with sex, was that the cycle repeated itself as an adult. I remained silent again, mute, unable to have an opinion, to stop what happened, to stand up and express my disgust, to withdraw consent to something I didn’t want. I mentioned this re victimization in other chapters and this was very evident in my adult life, at certain points. Only in therapy did I realise and start connecting the dots.
It’s no wonder that I crave the innocence of a child, I try to design my body so that it has the appearance of pre-pubescence. I literally “veet” my body hair and have done for more than 17 years. I wonder now if, subconsciously, I am erasing all signs of adulthood and sexualization. I don’t wear high heels, ever. This makes me look bigger, taller, like a woman. I identify as a girl, even though I am 50 years old! With the help of therapy, I have recognized the underlying reasons for all these attitudes and behaviours. I have never wanted to “grow” up because my mother showed me what happens to grown women. She let me see what men do to you when you are a woman. I didn’t like it at all. I didn’t understand it, I was confused, and I was left to make sense of it all alone.
With no guidance, and a lot of confusion, laced in a cloak of shame, this is a recipe for disaster when it comes to forming healthy relationships with the opposite sex. Growing up I made no connection with sex to intimacy, trust, respect or love. It was an act, to be endured. It was a gift you imparted to the recipient, and it rewarded you some kind of admiration from that man, if you performed suitably. So, this became the relationship I had with sex. It carried no deeper connection; I was able to go into such a union without any emotional reaction. This often made the recipient more attracted to me, likely the appearance of aloofness and independence was seen as a challenge. This would create a vicious circle. The more someone was attracted to me the more it repelled me.
There were exceptions of course, when there was a true spark and this happened only twice in my life; one with my first son’s father, and finally my husband. In these relationships there was a deeper connection, and so perhaps these were as close to normal as I would ever get. The relationship with my husband is the longest I have ever had with the opposite sex, and I think he has been able to get to know me the most, and what is a miracle, is that he loves all of me. The good, the bad, the ugly and the traumatized. This kind of relationship is a true gift, and I spend every day being grateful for it. I have had to work so hard to show up sometimes, within the marriage, and at times, I have pressed the self-destruct button and almost destroyed all the growth. But with dedication to counselling, and self-help, discovering more about complex-PTSD I am investing more of my energy and love into nurturing this beautiful relationship and giving my husband the best version of me I can find!
