trauma

I held my breath through October (reflecting on trauma, grief & living)

| Kimberly Smith

October last year was rough.

It was the month the foster care placement was completely imploding as she looked for anyway she could find to break it down. There were lots of nights spent wondering where she was. There were aggressive messages, slammed doors, defiance and rejection when she was home and fear and worry when she wasn’t. There were multiple calls to caseworkers, carers, teachers, youth leaders, after-hours support and even police. My nerves were shot, my heart broken as I watched her work to tear down what we had spent three years building.

It was a scary and lonely time. There wasn’t a blueprint for how these things play out – I guess others didn’t know what to do either. So, I cried alone – a lot. I didn’t sleep enough. I muddled my way through decisions and the necessities of life and work but it all felt very tenuous. I was constantly waiting for the next thing – the next message, the next report, the next demand, the next sighting. Plans were tentative; hope was suspended. And ultimately the outcome was not what it could’ve been or anything like what we’d been working towards.

So, this October I held my breath.

I held my breath and braced myself for the memories and reminders to come. The anniversaries of milestones missed and events disrupted. The triggers of moments and places where decisions were made and more distance was created. The reminders of opportunities missed to recover or redirect. The school holiday dates highlighted in my calendar in hopes that those things would still matter to my household. The advancing of plans and decisions that have been recalibrated in light of her leaving. The waves and waves of grief and guilt, and concern for her. My shoulders were tensed, my eyes were stinging, my reflexes were on alert.

In the physical, holding your breath makes you very self-focussed. When you’re holding your breath you don’t think about much else except for the sensations that develop in your body. (Are you trying it now? Go on!) Your chest gets tight. Your face can pucker. Your lips get taut and your mouth gets dry. Pressure builds in your ears. Your eyes squint. Your stomach contracts. Every activity in your body feels magnified and whatever else you might be trying to do at the time gets harder or even impossible.

In the emotional realm, holding your breath has a similar effect. In the space of self-awareness, one’s sensitivity to other feelings is heightened. For me, so many other sadnesses crept in. I became more aware of the pain points in my life – the disappointments, the rejections, the longings, the things I was missing or missing out on. Everything felt just that little bit harder – decision making, life admin, personal disciplines, relationships, physical tasks. As the days of holding my breath accumulated fatigue set in and things just got harder still.

It took a while to diagnose. As social isolation increased and functioning decreased it became a new normal of sorts. Things shifted incrementally and almost undetected. Until, in a moment of desperation-fueled clarity, I raised a flag with my best-friends. “I’m really not doing too well. I need your help.”

The door opened then to start to give voice and light to what I was experiencing. To name the unfamiliar anxiety, overthinking and second-guessing. To acknowledge the fears, and the dysregulation. To articulate the social apprehension and fretfulness that led to withdrawing in ways that did not support the well-being of this extroverted, external processing, people-needing soul. To describe the physical manifestations and observe how the body has its own way of holding and responding to trauma. To apologise for my absences, unresponsiveness and self-protection.

I breathed out.

Trauma and grief are unpredictable and uncontrollable. They’ll pop up when they want to, whether it’s convenient or not. They’ll grip your heart and distort your thinking if you pay them mind, or you don’t. But breathing out is the only way you’re able to breathe in again. Breathing out is necessary to make room for the intake of the sweet fresh air of the care of friends. For the voices of reason and compassion and kindness and grace to get a seat at the table. There is beauty and healing in tears cried in safe company. A mercy in being pointed to Jesus and reminded of God’s presence and power. There is release in shining light on the hurts and heartaches that spiral in on themselves in the dark.

I held my breath through October. It turned me in on myself and took me to places I’d rather not go again. It’s a recalibration, almost a retraining, but I’m paying attention to my inhaling AND my exhaling and … breathing.

learnings from counselling – it’s called trauma

| Kimberly Smith

2020 was a year of unprecedented change and challenge for many. (And also the highest ever recording of over-used terms like unprecedented.) So much was disrupted and there was an incredible amount of grief and loss experienced by people in various ways and to differing degrees. All of this at a time when many of our regular mechanisms for processing grief and loss were unavailable – which only served to cause more grief and loss. In fact, experts are predicting a grief bubble is still to burst as people come out from under the immediate threat and the need to ‘just keep going’ and start to feel the full extent of the losses they’ve experienced.

In May-June I experienced a specific (non-Covid related) life event that was devastating for me – personally, ‘professionally’ and relationally. Living alone and in various stages of lock down and restrictions meant it was a particularly bad time to face something so deeply impacting. I needed my huggers and my ‘bucket holders’ (you know, the ones who can handle the messiness while you word-vomit all the things that are clogging up your brain and heart). And also, the nature of the event meant there were sensitivities around who was able to know what I knew or who would be adversely impacted by what I would share – therefore caution was required.

So you just soldier on, right? It wasn’t good, it hurt, I felt disappointed (and all manner of other feelings) but there was work to show up for and things still to be done and people experiencing far more dramatic and challenging life circumstances than mine.

So you just soldier on.

By November the world around me was starting to open up again – shops and restaurants were functioning, the “ring of steel” around metropolitan Melbourne was opening up visitation to and with my family, work was readjusting and churches were starting to gather in person again. But I found myself feeling stuck.

I was struggling to get excited about social outings (yes, me!), feeling the affects of not having a home-church community, experiencing anxiety when I went out in public spaces, fearing or avoiding interactions and conversations, crying too much, sleeping poorly, reliving negative encounters in my head and rehearsing potential future ones. Stuck. It was an unfamiliar and decidedly unenjoyable place to be.

I thought about counselling. I’d never done that before. I thought about it out loud to a friend and the energy behind their response was strongly positive.

A friend once said “If anyone ever offers you a breath mint – take it!” You never know if they’re just generous sharers or are offering it to you for a reason! I think the same is true for friends or family who are enthusiastic about you going to counselling! 🙂 So I booked myself in.

When I sat down for the first session my counselor asked me why I was there. I bumbled my way through a brief summary of the event/s that happened and the various and numerous ways I’d been impacted. I shared how I was embarrassed by the way I was (or wasn’t) coping with it now – some six months later. And the counselor interrupted me.

“It’s called trauma!”

What you have experienced (and are now experiencing the ongoing affects of) is trauma.

Broadly defined, trauma is the response to events that are distressing or disturbing. There’s not really objective criteria for determining which events will cause trauma response. In fact, two people can respond differently to a shared experience. Trauma might evidence itself through flashbacks or intrusive memories, somatic or physiological symptoms (such as those responses associated with the “fight, flight or freeze” mechanisms, brain fog, increased heartrate, feeling hot or cold, gastrointestinal problems, headaches etc), negative thoughts or feelings, general changes in arousal responses, insomnia or oversleeping, emotional dysregulation, substance abuse, anxiety, or depression.

There’s also the phenomenon of ‘vicarious trauma’ which is experienced by those in helping roles or professions. Where, over time, the continued exposure to others’ stories and experiences of trauma builds up to overwhelm a person’s ability to cope themselves – impacting their own physical and emotional wellbeing.

To varying degrees, we all face “distressing and disturbing” events regularly. If we are emotionally healthy and functioning within our own range of normal, we are able to adjust and adapt to circumstances around us with reasonable agility and resilience. Bigger events of loss, threat, conflict or uncertainty move us to the edges of our capacity to cope and the longer we hang out at those edges the more likely we are to start experiencing and exhibiting the above symptoms of trauma.

It turns out, that ‘soldiering on’ probably wasn’t my best strategy. In fact, pushing past emotions and feelings was probably doing more to exacerbate the trauma impact on my physical and emotional wellbeing. Prolonging its disruption to my life and perpetuating unhelpful coping strategies (or avoidances) rather than naming and owning my experiences so they could be more appropriately processed.

“Give yourself a break.” was the basic learning from session one. Acknowledge your trauma, give yourself permission to not be ok … then we can start to work on healing and recovery.