For Trauma Survivors, Quiet Moments Can Be Challenging

“I wept like a child. It was not because I was overcome at having survived my ordeal, though I was. Nor was it the presence of my brothers and sisters, though that too was very moving. I was weeping because ....fill in the blank with whatever/whoever helped you survive... had left me so unceremoniously.”
— Yann Martel, Life of Pi

The quieter moments of healing can be oddly disconcerting. Healing in general isn’t quiet: maybe loud is the wrong word, but intense would be accurate. The feelings that go with healing from trauma loom large. The grief, sadness, sorrow, rage, anger, terror. These feelings take over your mind and your life. I have often compared them to a wild cat: a tiger pacing back and forth in front of you. And while I have found this frightening, I have found it almost more frightening when those feelings go away: where did that tiger go? A tiger you can see is awful. The tiger you can’t see is terrifying. It feels like you can’t protect yourself because you can’t see it anymore: it feels like it is laying in wait to attack out of the blue.

That is where the problem of trauma is the problem. When you live through trauma you get used to it. You are resilient to bad times. You know how to cope. But actually what can be difficult are moments of calm, quiet or contentment. These are unfamiliar. The growing edge for trauma survivors isn’t toughness –it is softness. It isn’t hard work, it is allowing for rest.

Keeping in mind that for trauma that has been repeated, and that is most of what we know as trauma: war, child abuse, domestic violence, community violence, the trauma is really three forms of trauma. What did happen, the violence you experienced. The protections you created to survive the trauma, the way you shielded yourself from its full impact. And what didn’t happen, the growth and development you missed because the trauma was occurring. In order to heal from trauma you need to work with all three aspects of the trauma—and the last one, what didn’t happen, often gets missed.

The quiet moments of healing are moments that often didn’t happen in the lives of trauma survivors—either there was always something to fear, or you could never let your guard down enough to even notice or take in moments of quiet. You have no practice with them, they are unfamiliar. It is this lack of familiarity that you experience when you are healing. Trauma you know. The tiger pacing back and forth in your life has been a constant presence both during the trauma and often during the healing process. But then one day he disappears. You should be happy and relieved. Finally calm. Finally quiet. Finally rest.

But instead you look around and oddly miss the fearful presence you had become accustomed to. This is the growing edge of healing. It is counterintuitive because you are used to hard work. You are used to toughing it out. You are not used to quiet and rest. And you are not used to seeing yourself in all of that quiet: a quiet pond is the one you can see your reflection in.

And I think that this is one of the hardest parts. You formed your identity around trauma and through trauma—and then you work hard to heal from it and suddenly you find yourself in a world that is quiet and you wonder who you are without all that noise. Who am I now? It is a little like being an infant—blinking out at the world with a mixture of wonder and concerned interest. It all seems new and unfamiliar. But the truth is, in that moment, I feel new and unfamiliar. And it is so hard to remember that this was the goal of all that hard work. It is a quiet and invisible peak that you get to with all that climbing and sustained effort. And it is by no means the end, but really a beginning of growth that is long overdue.

Often when I find myself in this place of quiet I notice I feel ‘lost.’ And maybe I need to see that lost really does describe the situation. I have lost my familiar companion of trauma and fear and the other emotions that come with trauma and healing from trauma. I have lost a part of my identity I needed to survive, but have now grown past—no longer needing all of those protections. And this land of calm is all unfamiliar territory—I haven’t explored it yet, and I don’t know who I am in relation to it.

Surviving trauma doesn’t prepare you for these moments of lost. Because lost requires a different set of skills: the ability to sit still, to be quiet, to wonder, to reflect. These feel like ‘nothing’ in the beginning; they can even feel like you are doing something wrong. You can mistake quiet for detachment or dissociation. You can mistake lost for sliding all the way back to the beginning of healing. But this is the work of quiet. This is the work of calm. This is the new environment inside you and outside you that will allow you to grow. Use all of your patience and compassion. Hold yourself in this new space the way you would an infant or small child who needed reassurance. Let yourself be in this new place. Let yourself grow in it.

For more on Lost 

© 2023/2016 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD

 

 

Learning to love (and share) your violets

Willfried Wende for Pixabay

When I was training to become a psychologist I often felt lost trying to figure out how to be helpful—and how to channel the love and care I had for my clients in a useful way. One of the stories that I heard during that time that had the biggest impact on me was the “Violet Queen” story from the psychiatrist Milton Erikson. The story may be more legend than truth, but as I heard the story-- a client of his was very concerned about his aunt who was very depressed. The client heard that Erikson was traveling to the same town as the aunt for a lecture and the asked if Erikson would check in on her—visit—see if something more couldn’t be done.

As I was told the story—Erikson took a psychiatry resident with him on this visit. The aunt was wheelchair bound. She had once been involved in her church and community, but now she rarely left the house. The house was cluttered and dark—except for one corner: there was a shelf of African Violets. Erickson and the student sat with this woman in the dark and Erickson talked with the woman about her experience but didn’t really do a typical visit and didn’t probe her symptoms that much. But as he was leaving, he turned around and gave the woman one prescription—that she should get the dates or information of all of the births, deaths, engagements—and other life events from her church community and on those occasions, she should give them one of her African violets. She should share her love of violets with other people and not keep them all to herself.

The student Erikson brought with him on the visit was completely baffled by how he handled the meeting with the old woman. Walking away from the house, the student said, “She was completely depressed—but you didn’t ask her anything about that. You only talked to her about her plants, I don’t understand.” He had expected a lot more from the famous psychiatrist. He was waiting for the lesson for how to treat depression.

To which Erikson is said to have replied: Sometimes you just have to grow the violets.

Years later Erikson received a newspaper obituary sent by the client about his aunt— a beloved woman who graced every occasion at her church with African violets and how dearly she would be missed.

The relief I felt as I heard this story for the first time was immense. There was something so powerful and so simple about looking for the tiny seedling of love –and figuring out how to help your client grow it. How to look for the tiny seedlings in my own life—and grow them. It took problems that were so big, and seemed so insurmountable—and made them small, manageable, tangible. Rather than try to ‘fix’ what was wrong—I worked with clients to look for the violets: what could we grow? Where could they connect to something that mattered? Where could they share love?

And I think in this era of emerging from Covid—that it’s an especially important time to look for those tiny seedlings of love—to learn to grow our violets –and share our violets—and help others find and grow theirs. Look for what is small, but lovely. Look for what is seemingly insignificant in the midst of what seems messy or dark. Look for what brings a spark to someone’s eyes or energy to their conversation. You know love when you see it. It’s suddenly brighter than it was before. It’s lighter.

There’s a lot we can’t fix right now, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be working to help ourselves and the world heal. That doesn’t mean we can’t make a difference. Sometimes we just need to connect with and share what we love. Sometimes you just have to grow the violets.

© 2023 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD

The Healing Power of Routines

“I am looking for friends. What does that mean — tame?”
”It is an act too often neglected,” said the fox. “It means to establish ties.”
”To establish ties?” “Just that,” said the fox. “To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world....”
— Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

Many years ago when I worked out in western Mass, I drove the same route every morning at 5 am. And if I passed a certain spot on the road at approximately 5:16 am, I saw a red fox on his appointed rounds. It became part of my morning routine, trying to make sure I was there at the right time for a fox sighting. In the story of the Little Prince, the Little Prince tames the fox. I would have to say, that this fox tamed me. The Little Prince defined tame as ‘to establish ties.’ And while we never met face to face, this fox changed the way I lived my morning—I made the fox a priority. He became part of my morning routine. I felt better when I got to see him.

When we let ourselves be tamed by routine, we get a chance to rest in something else, in something bigger. You create through the act of repetition, and if you wish, devotion, something that can help you feel tethered, grounded, more connected. You establish ties.

Routines can help us feel that we can count on ourselves—can count on the world. Yes, it is true that you can’t predict everything, but you can give yourself a few things that you can mostly count on.

Trauma and big loss can throw us off balance, can make us feel like there is nothing solid in the world, nothing we can count on. And healing can stir up that same sense of disequilibrium, and loss of balance, loss of knowing what you can count on. And having a few well placed routines can help you feel more solid, give you sea legs on the pitching boat of healing, give you a sense of the horizon again.

Children know all about routines. They hang on them like the fixed ropes that they are—and they use them to keep climbing the steep and exciting mountain of growth and development. Routines are what help their brains learn that the world can have an order and predictability to it: that one thing follows another. And the truth is, the fixed ropes of routines can support us all—whether we are healing or growing. Fixed ropes don’t keep us in one place—they allow us to keep moving and stretching and climbing. They allow us to use all of our efforts at forward motion, and not on figuring out how to stay safe.

It doesn’t need to be an entire regimen or anything. Though when needed—a regimen can be really helpful. When I worked in residential treatment and a client was having a really bad day we would sit down with a piece of paper and schedule her entire day in half hour increments. 8:00 am—wake up. 8:30—eat breakfast. 9:00-watch morning TV, etc.  The first time I did this with a young woman I was surprised how effective something so simple it was. It was a whole day of things she could count on and it buoyed her—she was much stronger by bedtime. It’s a really easy and inexpensive fix for bad days—with no negative side effects. I use it myself when I am feeling untethered.

Yes, a routine can be something really simple. But it doesn’t always mean creating something. Sometimes it is a matter of appreciating and being mindful of the routines you already have: your morning coffee or tea, feeding your pet or filling the birdfeeder, reading the paper, waking your children, your morning run or trip to the gym, packing your briefcase for work, opening your laptop or turning on your computer. Take some time to just notice your routines this week, the ones you do daily without pausing to think.

And sometimes, it might be important to add in routines in that can support your health and healing even more: meditation, walks, prayer, a favorite book at bedtime, a cup of tea in the afternoon. What might you add in as a time to anchor yourself, soothe yourself, give yourself a moment to pause, breathe and connect—to establish ties to yourself- and the world around you?

© 2023/2015 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD 

The Sacredness of Constancy

“Talons gripping the edge of the nest
wings spread, gauging the wind
the young osprey pushes off,
soaring.

With each practice flight,
the young bird returns to the nest
and places at his mother’s feet,
one twig.

Every evening
in the dark, bright, quiet
of the moonlight the young bird
sleeps.

While his mother,
taking his twig,
builds a nest in
his heart.

So when he flies away
wherever he lands
the young bird
is home”
— Gretchen Schmelzer

On the coast of Maine, the tides go out, and the rocky shoreline appears and then the water comes back in, right up to the shore. It may be a small thing in the grand events of the world, but there is such solace in that constancy—in knowing that as you watch the water go away from shore, you also know it will return. It is a twice-daily event, which adds to the experience and learning of the constancy that nature provides. The moon disappears from view and it comes back. The sun disappears from view and it comes back.

The very best of parenting is like the constancy of the tides. Children are their own force of nature. It is the sacredness of constancy that helps hold them and shape them. You are the tides for your children. You are the air.  You are the sun and moon that their world revolves around.

Constancy isn’t cool, or hip, or sexy, or most importantly, marketable. “Hey, let me sell you a ticket to watch the tide roll back in over the course of hours!” Constant moments aren’t Facebook postings: The First Day of School, Graduation, Soccer Championships, Recitals. These are all wonderful and I personally love to see the pictures whether I know you or your kids or not: there is such joy and humanity in those photos. But these aren’t pictures of tides, they are pictures of special events: like meteor showers and rainbows—the colorful moments of life that occur, but you catch them and enjoy them when you can.

I can market Disney and make you feel great about being the kind of parent who takes their kid to the Magic Kingdom. But there is no equal marketing for you getting the 5th glass of water that night. Even if that 5th glass of water is actually the thing that will become part of the fabric of your daughter. Even if that act is the nutrient all children need. Much like there is marketing for Sugar Cereal and Junk Food and not carrots.

The sacredness of parenting rarely shows up in pictures, it’s hard to share on Facebook, it’s hard to see when you are in it. The sacredness of the everyday—the mundane, routine, constant all-of-it—that is what makes the warp and weft threads that create a person. The sacredness of the everyday of parenting is what makes up the fabric of who a child is, the self and worldview they rest in, the blueprint for relationship they will carry with them.

There are no pictures of you putting a Band-aid on arm that actually doesn’t have a cut on it. Of picking up cereal, or socks, or Legos off the floor. The endless laundry, dishes, trash. There are no pictures of the hundredth viewing of ‘Frozen’ or reading of ‘Goodnight Moon.’ The seventeenth math problem. The tears after a fight with a friend. There are no pictures of bedtime after bedtime, and breakfast after breakfast. Of the wrestling matches of putting on socks and finding shoes and NO I WON’T WEAR THAT COAT. Your ability to shepherd all of these things are the tides that come in and out.

I have such a perfect image of my niece as a toddler, all wrapped up in a towel after a bath at night, sitting on my sister-in-law’s lap. She was just hanging out, her wet hair slicked back, pink cheeks, sucking on her fingers, her blue eyes looking out, but not all that interested in the grown-up conversation around her. This was one of those sacred moments of childhood—where it was nothing special—to the outside world--but it was everything special to her inside world. This is the sacred everyday act of parenting. The absolute building blocks of safety and security and contentment and confidence. This was just the end of bathtime, the beginnings of bedtime, the transitions of the everyday. But they are the bricks of healthy capacity—put thousands of them together and you have a foundation that can hold anything.

The very definition of this constancy is that you can take it for granted. You believe in its existence utterly. I don’t worry whether the tide will come back in. I know it will. I don’t worry that the moon will reappear. I know it will. And the constancy you provide your children is something that they can and should take for granted. I am not talking about material things or that they will never learn to pick up their own Legos. I am talking about the constancy of asking for help and hearing a response (even if that response is age-appropriately telling them they can do it themselves). I am talking about the constancy of nighttime after nighttime of good-night, and morning after morning of good-morning, of bath, books, and bed; of lunch boxes and walks to the school or bus stop; of someone who listens again and again to the same story, the same movie, the same knock-knock joke. Of whatever it is we will figure it out.

Your super powers are your indestructability and your ability to show up over and over again. What makes your work important are the thousands and thousands and thousands of small threads that you weave around their heart, their soul, their growing being. This is what makes constancy sacred. You are building a space in their heart for this constancy—for this ability to hold the world and themselves. You are building this constancy in them so they can hold the rest of the world--which so often isn’t constant. Like the poem of the Osprey above with each mundane, routine, sacred constant act, you are building a nest in their hearts that they can return to for strength and comfort for the rest of their lives.

© 2023/2016 Gretchen L Schmelzer, PhD