Trauma in a Box

 

[Box o' Trauma: source]

One of the things my therapist has suggested is to envision a box in which to contain my trauma when I can't look at it. This came pretty naturally because I usually bottle up my trauma. That's how I survive. I put my childhood trauma (neglect, physical, emotional, environmental, etc.) in the same box with the trauma that came from losing a child, 17+ miscarriages, nearly losing Alli in the womb to the Kell antibody, dealing with the emotional terrorism that came with the attempted framing for negligent homicide by the state, and all the other things I've suffered. It's a lot, and it would be easy to be overwhelmed. That box saved me long before I ever created an image of it in my mind. I don't like to think about boxes because that leads me to the obvious box, the little white coffin into which my waxen-faced angel was placed just over 15 years ago. But I'm thankful for this invisible box. But there's more to healing that keeping the trauma in a box. 

                                      

[Unpacking the box--one leads to another: source]

The hard part is pulling out that trauma and taking a hard look. I mentioned this last blog, the one from a couple of months ago. Unpacking it can be painful, sometimes, resulting in tears. It involves looking at how my trauma affects others and vice versa. The therapist gives me strategies to try to avoid sharing my trauma in unhealthy ways, namely, by breathing through it and grounding myself in physical senses. It's hard to remember to do it in the moment. It's a work in progress. She's also referred us to a family therapist to try to work on all of this together. I guess we'll see how that works. 

[Jack-in-the-box, when the contents of the box can jump out at any time: source]

And you'd think I could just unpack the pain once and be done, but it's still there. I still lost my babies. I still dealt with abuse by the state. I still have years, decades, of unresolved trauma at the hands of family, neighbors, governmental figures, and more. And I will never get an apology. I have to find a way to come to terms with my pain for my sake, to forgive and let go not for anyone else's benefit but to release the poison I don't need in my heart. The goal is to be able to be able to look at her pictures without the pain, to be able to cherish the memories without the anger at the people who have intentionally attempted to steal the things from me that were most precious. It's hard to discern how close I am to that goal. 

[How the box sometimes feels, but without the fun; source] 

Just after we lost Alli and started attending loss groups, the experts in charge laid out the five stages of grief, and I took comfort that the pain would be gone once I got to that last stage. I'd learned about stages of childhood development, and they were (more or less) orderly(ish) and predictable(ish). Then, through hard experience and reading further, I learned there is no scientific basis for those stages. They were created by Kubler-Ross to help people deal with their own impending deaths and had no basis in studies. There is no actual formula for pain. I could go through numbness, angst, anger, peace, etc. and countless other emotions all at once, one at a time, or in triggers that could shoot off unpredictably. Even a rollercoaster is too pat and planned for the experience of grief. Grief is an untamed bronco that could go any which way at any given time. Even that is misleading because there's a way off a bronco. Once a person is on the grief train, it's always part of life to varying degrees. Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but that, too, is a lie. I have acquired a scab that can fall off at any time. As long as I keep the trauma in the box, I can generally exist day to day. But can I do more than exist? Who knows? I'm not there yet.  

[The Box's true identity: source]

The box is lurking in my heart and mind. It's always there. It sometimes chokes me and makes it seem impossible to sense the sun or see a way forward. Sometimes, it feels like I can keep the pain in the box with no problem and continue to live my life. Sometimes, I exist in the box, in a world where everything is pain. I feel broken, kept together by a hodgepodge of chicken wire and duct tape that can fall apart at any time. Sometimes, peace of mind feels temporary, an illusion. But I know I can find lasting peace in knowing I can hold her again one day, in knowing she's still there. I just can't see her. That helps, but not all the time. One day, I'm hoping and praying for that peace to last and feel more substantial. In the meantime, I will live for those moments of peace given me from on high and pray for more. 

A New Death Overshadows My Angel's Birthday

 

[Dreading my angel's birthday.]

I was dreading the approach of my angel Alli's 14th birthday on March 2nd. It often comes with heartbreak and pain that even time and distance don't remove. We look at a baby book of my sweet Alli. It takes us through her four-month life, through the pregnancy with ultrasound images of her, of the kids kissing my belly, of her new, 5 lb 13 ounce, gosling-honking newborn form. Those bright, glorious pictures of her tiny, blue-eyed form take us through our adventures with her, her siblings laying on tummy time with her, her older sister bonding with her, her parents and grandparents holding her with joyful faces. The day at three months when the neighbor taught her to smile. 

[Newborn Alli.]

The pictures didn't show the pain and the heartache we went through with a miscarriage before she finally came. The pictures don't show how much we worked to bring her here alive, with trips every 1-2 weeks from 17 weeks to a hospital 45 minutes away to have a flurry of ultrasounds done to make sure the Kell antibody that plagued the pregnancy didn't suck her dry, as it could have. There's so much of her short time here that the pictures don't show, but they do end with her face frozen in death, her too-tiny casket lying in the ground. They do end with warm letters of condolences. My soul always grows cold when we get to that point. I end our visit with Alli in sobs every time. Then, we eat angel food cake to celebrate her birth. We did that this year, but I just felt numb for all of it. Maybe because it was already in the shadow of a more recent loss. In four more months, we will commemorate her death. 

[Jurassic Park; source]

As we often do, we planned to go somewhere for one of her significant dates. I hate to be in my own head on those days. We planned to celebrate our other second child's birthday by heading to a dinosaur museum with friends. A snowstorm made that impossible, which devastated my teenager. The loss of that anticipated event overshadowed Alli's birthday. We were at least able to watch "Jurassic Park" together, which was something. It's been a long time since we all watched any kind of movie together. 

[My dad when I was a kid.]

But a bigger shadow still overcast the whole thing. Thursday morning, we got the call we knew was coming, My father had passed away. We've seen it coming. He was diagnosed with dementia 10 years ago. Over that time, he went from being a strong, confident man who led his family with an iron fist to a jolly lump on the sofa. He went from being stressed and angry about the burden of adulthood to smiling at everyone, having no idea who they even were but loving them anyway. 

[The jolly lump and his dog.]

As he shed the weight of his memory, he shed his anger, his fear, his worry and was just happy to be fed, given Dr. Pepper, snuggled by his dog, taken care of my mother, and entertained by his TV shows. He just wanted comfort. At the very end of his life, my mother could no longer care for him as she had, so we put him in a care facility. He wasn't happy about it, but we didn't have any other choice. And that's where he passed away, a full ten years after dementia set in. He was always difficult, whether the tyrant or the jolly lump, but now, my mom is kind of a lost soul. He gave her purpose, even if the purpose made her miserable most of the time, but now, she's alone. 

[Carrying the weight of death: source]

All of these things have made this last week so difficult. But at the same time, I don't feel it all acutely. Maybe I'm in shock or just burned out from life, but I don't feel any of this as deeply as I'd expect. As anyone would expect. I feel bad for not feeling worse about losing my father. I feel bad about not fully getting to commemorate Alli's birthday and not really feeling what I did. I know these are irrational emotions, but emotion is usually irrational. It is what it is. I do know families can be together forever. That helps with all of this loss. Maybe the upcoming funeral will make me feel anything other than numb. 

Burnout for Christmas

 

[A gift for my angel; source]

When Alli died, I threw myself into work and anything I could do to avoid thinking. Come the holidays, I jumped into as much service as I could think of. We wrote down the nice things we did for other people and put them in a bottle. On Christmas morning, we read back over the service projects we did as a gift to my angel. 

[Observing what remained of my holiday spirit; source]

Last year, on sleeping medication that did not do me any favors for a year and a half, I crashed and burned out. I got sleep but lost my fire. I didn't have it in me to much enjoy the holidays, let alone help others do so. The fact that the economy turned my income from comfortable to surviving did not help matters. But we still managed to squeeze a few things in, still did a few things to help others. 

[The results of recovering my fire.]

I got off those meds and onto some that left me able to sleep and with enough ambition to work on jump-starting my writing career. I spent the late summer and fall writing and churning out books and putting them on Amazon, including the first in my novels for kids (Doomimals Book 1) as well as helping my boy get the first of his books out (Misadventures of the Just Us Chickens). We've sold some but are working on figuring out how to advertise. And now, I'm back to burnout between all the writing, a full-time job, and a part-time job. 

[Looking through the boughs darkly.]

The holiday used to be so hard because I felt the gaping hole where my youngest child ought to be. Songs about babies, pregnancy, and angels didn't help. Now, it's the burnout, two years running. Burnout is hard over the holidays because everything feels harder. The year has flown by so fast that it doesn't feel like we ought to be doing this all over again. I've slogged through the season so far, not deeply mourning but not excited about the little things. It doesn't help that others in my house feel the same. So, it's with a sense of duty and guilt that I still push myself to do something. I decorated the tree minimally because I was doing it alone. Wrapping is no longer a joy, so I trot out the tired, wrinkled gift bags and shove things in, sans Christmas music. 

[True meaning; source]

I'm trying to ignite that holiday spirit by reminding myself of the true meaning, the birth of the Savior. I've been listening to Christmas music, but only the stuff that won't automatically feel stale. Which is hard to find sometimes. Hint: shopping in stores doesn't do it. Pentatonix continually produces more unique versions and styles. The Tabernacle Choir often teams with fun performers like Muppets. Josh Groban makes me happy. Lindsey Sterling and Jackie Evancho are on the playlist for today. I'll be focusing on spiritual Christmas and spiritual songs and messages today. They help to bring in the Spirit and also the true spirit of Christmas. I'm still looking for service ideas on a budget. I know that will help, too, because nothing brings the Spirit faster than helping others. Feel free to share what helps you enjoy the holidays. Maybe something you say will help. I'll survive the holiday. I'd just like to survive it with a smile and maybe some memories that will last.