hey all – i may not be writing much here on my blog, but i chat it up over on facebook, so if you’re interested, check me out there.
ALSO- since i’m seriously intending to keep writing books, (i think i’ve stopped because i have been failing to keep up the blog) i wrote a little survey that i would love if you would quickly take.
some of the answers are required, just right idk if you want!
Please take this survey!! it’s about me and future writing! **
http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/MZM6VJB
as another published author with a tale of my own journey (stumbling toward faith), i desperately wanted to like this book. it is always valuable when any of us tells our story and brings our pain and struggle into the light.
in the introduction to her book Mending Broken, teresa b pasquale writes this:
I thought about writing a clinician’s view on my experiences. I considered explaining all the technical nuances of trauma from the inside out. Then there were times I thought about writing a memoir, cataloguing every inch of my own trauma and recovery.
In the end, the most authentic model of storytelling for me was a hybrid of the two vantage points and the two parts of my self.
i believe that in this hybrid she created, teresa seemed to destroy the beauty of the book. try as she might, her choice of two voices sounds exactly like that – the book lacks integration between “the story” and “the information.” Also, even though she concretely gives several steps, she lacks pieces of “the road in-between;” meaning, how she got from one part to another.
pasquale comments on her division of four parts:
These four stages are my compartmentalization of the four emotional places on the roadmap from traumatic experience into a birth of a new self: mind, body, and spirit.
Anytime anyone puts something into a “step system” or “emotional place,” i grow wary. recovery simply isn’t like that. trauma isn’t simply frozen in time, it is liquid — it interweaves within a person’s life in all places, and sometimes often, even after you feel you have conquered it, it strikes up again.
teresa would probably describe this as “band-aid living” — and tell us there is life “beyond it,” but i think mostly everyone, not just trauma victims live this way. it is why we are so good as a church at ignoring other peoples’ pain. we live in an imaginary “beyond it” and never look at or even really acknowledge our own pain or struggle. instead, we judge others – “why haven’t they gotten over it?” when all of us, survivors and friends, really exist in the same spaces.
teresa’s stories matter, just as all of our stories matter. if someone reading this book would think there are only four steps to take, however, it would be tragic. what really matters is the day by day, moment by moment living: that we are present to ourselves one breath at a time. that each breath is healing us and giving us another chance. we must be authentic in our presentation and stop pretending we are otherwise. all of us. not just those of us with PTSD.
i don’t think this is a terrible book. i think teresa’s story is powerful, and her own self-analysis as a therapist is enlightening. her journey through mysticism and yoga and contemplative spirituality is beautiful and light-filled, and familiar to my own journeying. i just don’t think it is a global method that always works, as applied in this book. “mending broken” is a different path for all of us. we each live it out in our own way and through our own time. although this book promises light and hope, it tells one person’s story of how it worked for them. there are many other stories;each of them just as poignant and powerful.
it is my belief that we can never tell another survivor how to heal. we are simply all living alongside one another, without judgment, and supporting one another to a space of compassion for each of us.
i believe that teresa b pasquale’s book is a solid one. she shares many of the same healing techniques with the ones that i myself have used. we both found a sense of salvation in the same places, and acknowledged the things that need fixing. however, i still believe that ptsd cannot be cured. i believe it can be eased, and we can learn to live with it rather than against it, but i believe that we are always more aware, more sensitive, and more easily wounded than those who have not struggled with it. acknowledging that is also a way to acknowledge our human frailty, our common intention, our genuine powerlesness, and our authentic selves.
for more information:
mending broken – official booksite
mending broken $1.99 on Kindle: http://amzn.to/XqYiXF
Teresa B. Pasquale – web site
Crooked Mystic – Teresa’s blog, including ‘life parables,’ ‘gritty living,’ ‘mystic path,’ ‘emerging verb,’ and mp3s of Teresa’s teaching
Teresa’s blog for TIKKUN
SEEK{ers} – the young adult contemplative/faith formation community Teresa leads
#SpeakeasyMendingBroken
Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquility:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen, And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.
- Kahlil Gibran
“Nations, like stars, are entitled to eclipse. All is well, provided the light returns and the eclipse does not become endless night. Dawn and resurrection are synonymous. The reappearance of the light is the same as the survival of the soul.”
– Victor Hugo
as an evangelical, Easter was the church’s biggest ta-da. decorations of flowers were brought out, the choir practiced months ahead of time, we started making posters on palm sunday and planned our lovely outfits and dresses several weeks earlier.
it was this big thing. the highest holy day in churches everywhere. there was no doubt about it – resurrection was real.
as i continue to explore and grow and breathe, i see that resurrection is everywhere. the phoenix, the seasons, the patterns in a forest. the new spring leaf, the rising dawn, the first wake after a long sleep.
we are not limited to one big celebration a year! in fact, if we were truly alive, resurrection would be a common, regular word, and we would notice it all around us.
the church, especially, should speak of the resurrection all year, giving hope to those who may not wait until Easter services.
when i was at the lowest of my depression, receiving ect treatments, and begging for my life to be taken away — every morning i woke up was a new, fresh chance. i was afraid of change and worried i was unloved, so i kept watching each dawn enter with a curious sensation. this is a chance to resurrect, but to what? to who?
my life was riddled with emotional burial, abuse, and spiritual confusion. i may have had a daily chance to claim life again, but i no idea how to accomplish it. all i could do was continue to wake up over and over and over, and let my trouble and darkness naturally flow like a stream over rocks.
i was forced to embrace the death. the darkness, the despair – there was no easy way out. i simply had to let it be. bite a pillow to hide my screams, live each day wondering if i could ever be redeemed.
waiting.
as i have come out of the darkness of my past, i have walked into a new place of being. a resurrection of hope and a life worth living. that which was lost was found, that which was dead or dying is alive.
resurrection means nothing without the horror of loss. it is only after we have seen the darkest dark that we recognize how beautiful and how miraculous even the tiniest sliver of light is to our wounded, broken parts.
” … she is risen indeed”
you once said,
for the record,
that it was appropriate
you represented the Earth
because you were as “old as dust.”
i think you were even older.
your soul runs deep and grounded,
rooted enough to pull me down close to the dirt
with you, the soft mud,
the forgiving love of the green grass,
the web, the connectedness of life.
i believed i would survive when i was with you.
you taught me a great deal about myself,
you encouraged me,
you believed in me,
and you actually liked me, too.
some days, i ached
to sit at your feet as a child
and just listen. your words.
your ragged breathing.
i wanted to absorb your kindness.
i wanted to see the world for one minute as you did.
i wanted to be the person that you believed me to be.
i miss you like i miss a part of myself.
i feel as if some of the beauty has been wrenched from this world
some sense of deep, deep wisdom and love.
i feel alone and frightened.
i bury my face in the lush green grass
wash my tears in the slow-running river,
dry my face on yellow and red oak leaves.
the earth holds onto me.
gently caresses and rocks me
into a calmer place.
i want to rest from trying so hard to believe
each direction recognizes its place,
each element, its powers of restoration.
wind chimes from another world
echo in my own earthly head.
my weariness has held my hand of sorrow,
my hope and care kept the bad things away,
and even though your human frame has gone,
i see you in everything i see around me.
the knots that look like faces in trees,
the ambling stream that washes over small stones.
the light from the chalice at summit,
the stars gleaming from amidst the dark,
the aurora borealis shining unashamed,
and often, without expectation,
the mountain of light.
a poem for wil nelson
december 20, 1944 – march 3, 2013
© renee altson (with 3 e’s)
march 20, 2013
The theme of my year so far has not been the one i chose for myself. rather, it encompasses the experiences of those around me, and my own troubling thoughts.
therapy is going well – not as consistent as i would like – but (after 9 months), we seem to be getting to the pre-trust stage. heh. it is a massive accomplishment.
i have had a great deal of loss this year.
- one of my favorite people died from a heart attack a few weeks ago
- many of my friends are getting divorced, and it breaks my heart
- we have had to let go a bit of the daughter we knew, and now have a rebellious, cranky disabled teenager; who has much in her heart and head she cannot express.
- i lost my beloved ‘elphie’ — my very big capacity iTouch, which contained all of my music, my playlists, and other things. :(
- i lost my psychiatrist (insurance related)
- i’ve had 3 primary care doctors already this year.
- i haven’t been able to go to belly dance classes because i seriously injured my right knee.
there are have been other losses, too. everyday, it seems. and they build upon each other and connect, and sometimes everything feels empty and lonely and cold.
the depression is very heavy again. due to changes with my medical coverage, i had to drop my psychiatrist, and still haven’t found a new one. there were only 2 choices to choose from, as most of the mental health industry in san diego evolves around one major group – the group my insurance terminated their contract with.
i have some books i need to review, but i’ve not written the reviews yet.
i am operating under some sort of cloud – haze – i lose my words in the middle of a sentence. i lose my train of thought often. i can’t concentrate most of the time.
there is so much i want to write about; so much i want to capture, and it slips easily through my thinking and my fingers. facebook has been bad for my writing – i don’t have to work as hard to make sense. i love the interaction and discussions, but i haven’t had to craft my words with gentle care.
i had a project i wanted to do for lent, which flopped. i am disappointed in myself for that.
as always, the best news is that i’m alive. i am finding moments of peace through meditation, my imagination and my involvement with my church. those are enough – even though they don’t seem like it – to keep the small fire still burning.
he sits on the floor
“i’m frustrated” he says,
“I’m very frustrated.”
i feel week and old,
inhuman,
carrying the burden
of never being sure.
“see me”
i seek constant validation
“it really happened”
“you’ve been hurt”
it can never be said
enough
never enough
always just
one validation away
but
we are afraid
to validate our own unspeakable past
it is a burden to bear and accept.
we can keep wondering and asking
we know it happened
but if we believe it
and say “they were mean to us”
fear and pain
creep in like big poisonous spiders.
bigger than our feet
bigger than our open mouth
overwhelming ourselves
the river of denial separating
and we, shocked and limping
walking through on dusty, dry land.
i had 80 plus electroconvulsive treatments (ect) / shock therapy sessions between 2007 and 2009.
that is a lot of shocks, and a lot of loss.
my husband said that i would just “sit there staring” — and how much it frightened him. he’d ask me if i wanted to do something, and i would say ‘no,’ and then disappear again. i forgot how to read; i would start with something simple and lose track by the 3rd page. getting through a paragraph was torture.
in spite of all of these outside affects, i was in deep, terrible pain inside. one day, i started making collages of how i was feeling. what was scaring me, or what i needed. after a few grotesque and awful images, the old guy asked me to try to balance them out. he wanted me to replace new images with old (notice the sly CBT trick inserted there). 
so i did, and it did help, it kept me going for awhile, and even as i was making a new “disturbing” collage, i could still see, and sometimes capture, the good in my life through the positive collage.
i made about 25 collages during those 3 years. each one was a frozen piece of myself – a picture of what i was thinking, feeling, where my head was. each was a masterpiece unto itself (at least in my opinion), and they chronicled a life wherein i had few words.
the images were triggering and difficult; at the same time they were me. i was tired of “being fine” and “thinking positively” and “praying cos god always comes through!” i wanted my real, aching, visible, disturbances to be the highlight. it was how i felt, and i knew that wasn’t something people understood very easily.
when i found out that my therapist of 7 years was going to be “leaving me” (because- you know- this was how i felt) i cried. i have cried that hard at very little… i found myself crying in the session, after the session, in the office, in the office at the hospital, in the icu suicide box, all night long in the icu suicide box, and through most of the next morning.
it was an utterly devastating development for me.
a few months after the shock had worn off, and i could talk about it without hospitalization, i started thinking about what kind of thing (gift sounded wrong) i could give to the old guy as a way of saying thank you.
after a while, i came up with this.
this is a collection of the different collages i made through the years, put together as one big collage. i used the words i had chosen to define how my life would be, and how i would continue to survive. it truly was an awe-inspiring work.
every time i looked at it (and even now), i recognise its power. it says SO VERY MUCH if someone is willing to truly see it. it is actually one of the most intimate things i’ve created in my entire life.
obviously i’ve shrunk it and darkened it, because i consider it a very very special gift. the internet is full of swine, and i’ve learned not to throw them pearls that they can someday use against me.
but you’ve seen a glimpse; now, even a bit more, and i am privileged to share this part of it with you. i hold onto it, physically and with both arms sometimes. it is wonderfully sacred to me. it is sacred images when nothing else would do, and a commitment to continue to strive toward healing and wholeness.
stand gently, for you are sharing holy ground with me.
recently i have noticed that i am jumping at subtle noises again. i feel like i have a tail, twitching all the time. i notice everything – every sound, every pulse of energy in the air. the world is turned up too loudly. everything feels like an assault.
i’ve awoken with a vicious nightmare every time i’ve tried to sleep.
they are the nightmares that stay with you. you wake up, convinced you’re in “that house,” “that situation,” “that bed.” even though they start to slowly recede, you find yourself clutching the sheets – waiting for the door to slam, waiting for the screams, still trapped in the invisible spot behind and inside the dream.
by this morning, i had (had) enough. it wasn’t working. the reduction from 8 mg to 2 mg was too much, too fast. (if i ever doubted i still have ptsd, i don’t anymore) i have accepted that i need that medicine – my body, symptoms, mental state need it. i don’t have to lower it to fix anyone else’s opinion or decision.
this is exactly why i need a psychiatrist.
with so much wrong with me, so much medicine, and so many areas of weakness, i need a pshrink to help me with my meds. not a primary!
i feel so weak and out of control!
ok, breathe. ok.
we went back up on one of the meds she had haphazardly lowered, and hopefully it will kick in again soon.
its hard not to feel like a failure. sometimes i despise myself for needing so much medicine. i fantasize not having to be on anything. i take so many meds it is almost a joke. almost. i get confident i’ll be fine, stop taking something, and end up not very fine at all.
i didn’t realize how much they were helping until i took them away.
i feel paralysed and scared to death. please, bless me with your positive energy and good wishes. please help remind me that there is nothing wrong with being on helpful medications. please let me know that if the meds get out of control, i can go have them fixed in the hospital.
please forgive me when i can’t show up for an event, or talk on the phone. please know that i am not negative towards you, i am experiencing medication changes. please remind me it is okay to need meds to cope; that there is nothing wrong with me inherently, as i so often believe there is.
and, please, please, please send me your best energy and wishes so that i might get a psychiatrist soon. somebody like me really needs one.
i spent a few years trying to be an artsy crafts girl. i ha/ve the imagination, but not the physical dexterity. i can come up with a unique presentation idea, but be sloppy in the details.
i started by scrapbooking–and i actually become rather good at it. as my daughter grew older and my job grew more intense, and as i slowly ran out of room for my very awesome supplies, i slowed down. no more all nighters with my friends at conventions. no more shopping for unique ideas or supplies. i still have all of the fantastic stuff. i keep telling myself that once i get a table, or a room or something that i can leave things out on/in, i’ll do it again. i actually know that’s true. the main reason i don’t scrapbook now is because getting out all the stuff is a pain, and well- not being able to leave an undone project is a pain. i’m not sure that people who have craft tables or even craft rooms have any idea how difficult it is to be a crafter without them.
one year, i decided to go with beads. beads were small, easily kept, and usually limited to a smaller area of space. i was really enjoying myself, making all kinds of necklaces and bracelets, but as i went inpatient to the psychiatric hospital more and more, the thrill of doing beads at home diminished a bit.
i saw my first mala online, and fell in love. a mala (a Sanskrit word meaning garland), put simply, is a set of beads, traditionally used to focus awareness during meditation.
they were tibetan prayer beads, something i had never seen before. i knew what a rosary looked like, though not specifically how to use it, and as i was experiencing a new sense of meditation, i thought it might help to have the tibetan beads as something to focus on.
i was drawn to the 108 bead models, but they were expensive. especially the ones i loved the most, with the prettiest beads and the proper tassels. i really, really wanted some, and so one afternoon i printed out a diagram of all of the beads and were different touchstones were, grabbed my box of beads, some wire, and began to make a mala.
i had a special stone i wanted to use as the head. most commonly, bead artists use a buddha, a tassle, or another meaningful symbol to mark the middle. but i had one bead (if you can call it that) in mind.
the counting seemed to be difficult. i kept losing track and starting over. i was building it on wire because my leather was not skinny enough to go through the tiny holes. the wire stung a few times, but the excitement of making my own mala kept me going.
i got the first one done, and as i was using it, i realised that i had missed a bead. the count was off. it had to be half-way redone.
quite a bit bummed, i carefully took off some of the beads and spent the next hour putting them back together, counting aloud. when i realised it was done, i was almost delirious with joy.
i proudly showed it off to my husband and daughter. i wore it around my neck; it just seemed to want to be there. i thought it was beautiful … but still in the back of my mind it didn’t feel “right.” i was worried i had somehow let all of tibet down.
to me, it didn’t look like other malas … it just didn’t.
i put it in a silky bag and carried it around with me. at meditation, i showed it to my little group, and there was lots of oohing and aahing, but still i was ashamed of it somehow. it felt large and over-stated and no matter what my meditation partners said, i found myself stuffing it back in the bag.
later that week, i took it to a therapy appointment (the old guy) and my therapist was suitably impressed. i was trying to tell him that i thought something was wrong. he just smiled at me and said, “whatever you do is going to be unique. its made by you. i like it.”
as i reached across the room to take the beads back from him, i grabbed too hard. the wire bent the wrong way, and beads, wire, creativity and intention went flying in all directions. i startled myself by bursting suddenly into tears. the old guy helped me gather them, and then looking in my eyes, gently suggested i put it together again.
with the difficulty i’d already had doing it twice, i didn’t like his idea very much. oh i don’t know, i muttered, it doesn’t even look like a real mala. i stuffed the wire and beads in my hoodie pocket, and decided i was done with my foolish endeavors. once again, the old guy encouraged me to put it back together again.
i left the session crying.
i ended up going to my local favorite beach and finding actual tibetan prayer beads already made. they looked like they should. i wrapped them around my wrist and felt somehow more genuine. my failure of bead and wires stayed crumpled at the top of my bead box.
one afternoon, for little reason and no fanfare, i pulled the bead box out, and put my mala back together again. when it was done, i was quite careful with it, but gently carried it back to therapy, and pulled it out at the last few moments.
i saw my therapists eyes fill with tears, and he quietly smiled and nodded. i realised a significant thing had just happened; that a significant thing was happening.
and i was the one who’d done it.