somatic experiencing

Thankful Thursday: trailrunning

/ Tracy Abell / 22 Comments

Just over three weeks ago, I took a pretty hard fall while running on the trails in the open space. I’ll spare you the image of my left knee that I texted to my sons after limping home (an image that prompted Wildebeest to reply, “Ewwwww. Mother I am squeamish”), and will only say that the last bits of scabbing came off two days ago (to which everyone reading is probably thinking, “Ewwwww, Tracy. We’re squeamish!”) The point is, my knee is healed and while I’d already resumed running on the streets, I was very nervous about trail running again.

I got up at six this morning knowing I needed to run early in order to beat the heat, and checked in with my intuition: run on the trails or run on the streets? Trails. Okay, then. In an attempt to feel slightly more protected, I put on leggings despite temperatures already in the 60s.

Not gonna lie: it’s always scary to run on those rocky trails after a fall and today was no different. It was hard to fully relax and I had to intentionally push images of tripping and falling out of my mind. I talked myself through the run (“You are strong. You are resilient. You are mindful. Feet on the ground, feet on the ground, feet on the ground,”) and tried very hard to be in the moment. Whenever my brain jumped to catastrophe, I reminded it to “be in this moment, with these steps.” [Note: I’m sharing these details to document the experience for myself, but also in case this approach might be helpful for anyone dealing with a trauma.]

I wasn’t alone out in the open space. A large dark butterfly flew right in front of me, bringing a grin. Birds sang (lots of Spotted Towhees with their sweet sweet teeeeea) and when I paused to stretch at the top of the slog, I heard the liquid song of a Western Meadowlark.

Not a great photo but this was my very first Western Meadowlark sighting of the year at Lake Hasty on 4.3.24

While I avoided a particularly rocky segment of the trail, I knew it was imperative I run past where I’d fallen. As I got closer to the scene of the fall, all sorts of feelings and tightness showed up in my body, and I paused to allow myself to feel all of that. As I had immediately after the initial fall, I visualized my left foot hitting the rock in the trail and then rewrote the story in my mind. Instead of slamming into the hard ground, I slid into what was essentially a slip-n-slide of banana pudding (yep, that’s what my brain came up with that day). Both initially and today, I allowed my body to feel that frictionless sensation and then visualized myself laughing as I wiped pudding from my face and hands, and licked it from my fingers. I went through that exercise several times. It’s a somatic experiencing trick I learned from my therapist, and I highly recommend this for releasing trauma from your system. It works. As I walked home from the initial fall, my knee hurt but my body was already more relaxed. And over the next week, whenever the image of falling popped into my head, I reverted to my banana pudding rewrite. Pretty soon, I stopped having “flashbacks.”

Today I’m very grateful that I was able to run on my beloved trails again. I’m grateful I remained upright and I’m grateful for the tools I have to help me recover. I know from past experience that today’s run didn’t fully liberate me from my trauma and that I’ll be tentative for a bit, but facing my fear will go a long way toward getting me back to where I want to be. And where I want to be is out running on the trails. 🙂

With a little help from William Faulkner and my friends

/ Tracy Abell / 55 Comments

This morning

[info]dotificus

 pointed out that I was leaving rather sad writing-related comments on journals.  She wisely advised I stop beating myself up about my lack of progress and instead, give myself room to write whatever comes to mind.  To relax and breathe.  Or just be stuck.  Her concern brought tears to my eyes.

A few minutes after reading her comment, I left for my weekly somatic experiencing appointment.  When I got there, I told my therapist I was weepy this morning because I was so frustrated and stuck on a project.   In talking about it further, I realized a huge part of my anxiety is the worry that I’d “talked” myself out of this book.  The thing is, I learned the hard way (as in having to abandon a really great project) that I cannot talk about a book until I have at least a first draft written because each time I say something about the book, it’s like letting air out of a balloon.  Pretty soon the book/balloon is flat and lifeless and I have no desire to play with it anymore.  I do have a first draft of this book but it’s different than the others I’ve written.  More plot oriented than character-driven.  Since I’m not as comfortable with plot as characterization, I started talking with Zippy about plot issues.  Well, he suggested stuff and we talked and talked about my book, and at the time I thought it was really cool to have that connection and collaboration.  Now I’m not so sure.

In discussing all this loss-of-energy-on-this-project stuff with my therapist, I realized I needed to stop talking about this project.  Then she recommended visualizing a circle around me and my project, one that keeps that creative energy close but also prevents anyone/anything from interfering in my process.   So I closed my eyes and did that (somatic experiencing is all about looking within and tracking physical/emotional sensations.  I know it sounds wacky but it’s been a lifesaver for me).  She asked if there was anyone I wanted to stand guard on my circle, to help me keep out the interference.  I chose William Faulkner.  As I visualized my circle with ol’ William standing guard, I felt relief.  Not one hundred percent relief, but some.

Then we talked more about the panic and doubts I’ve had about this project and I told her I felt like I was in a free fall.  She asked if there was anyone I’d trust to grab onto me, to stop my fall.  I immediately visualized a human chain of writer friends, all of you, reaching out to grab my hand.  As I pictured all of us linked by our hands, I thought about how you all understand what I’m going through, how we all cheer each other on, and celebrate the good moments and mourn the bad.  I thought about how this publishing trek is so tough and competitive but how everyone here is willing to help out the other writers. 

I got teary again.  The good kind of teary.  In that moment, I felt safe and confident of my writing ability.  The panic and doubts were gone.  I wasn’t alone in my crazy shame spiral.  You’ve all been there.  You know what it’s like and you all do your best to drag fellow writers out of that icky place.

Since this morning’s appointment, I’ve had a couple more moments of loathing and doubt.  But each time I visualized my connection with all my writer friends, and felt calm again.  Later I sat at my desk, closed my eyes and basked in the quiet

[info]lurban

 wrote about in today’s post.  And you know what?  I wrote 700 words. 

I appreciate each of you so very much.  Thanks for all you give.

 

Personal Yet Universal

/ Tracy Abell / 66 Comments

In August of 2004, my health crashed.  Diagnosis was first Lyme disease then chronic fatigue.  I went from an incredibly strong person who ran, lifted weights, hiked, swam, etc. to a woman with no energy who spent the day in pajamas, napping three or four times each day.  Friends drove my children to and from school.  My husband did EVERYTHING around the house.  I had difficulty concentrating, could not multi-task, and overall was mentally fatigued.    

I eventually regained some strength but experienced a near-constant buzzing/humming sensation throughout my body, and pain in my hands and legs.  I still could not think clearly and was easily overwhelmed.  I became depressed.

 

In the summer of 2006, I happened upon an article about post traumatic stress disorder and chronic fatigue.   The article mentioned a book called WAKING THE TIGER by Peter Levine.  I read the book and realized I was suffering post traumatic stress!  But how could that be?  I hadn’t been assaulted, hadn’t experienced a natural disaster or lived in a war zone.  Well, I learned trauma can accumulate in our systems.  The time I’d been rear-ended, the various dental procedures, the C-section, all those experiences left residual energy in my system (I think of it as by-products of the adrenaline my body put out during those fight/flight moments), and my body reached the tipping point.  Hence, the buzzing/humming sensation.

In October I began weekly somatic experiencing therapy in which I learned to discharge that unwanted energy from my system.  It’s an amazing process and I’m thrilled to say I’ve regained much of my strength and vitality.  I’m not 100 percent yet but I’m running again, I can multi-task, and I’m not so easily overwhelmed.  Also, the process helped me understand the ways I disassociated in order to survive.

So why am I writing about this now?  Yesterday’s news out of Virginia Tech brought back many of those old “symptoms.”  My legs buzzed, my hands ached, I couldn’t think clearly, and I cried.  And cried.

And then I thought about these two news briefs from yesterday:

BLACKSBURG – A gunman massacred 32 people at Virginia Tech … The bloodbath ended with the gunman committing suicide, bringing the death toll to 33.

BAGHDAD – In the northern city of Mosul, a university dean, a professor, a policeman’s son and 13 soldiers died in attacks … Nationwide, at least 51 people were killed or found dead.

And I cried even more.

Because I realized I’m still living the post traumatic stress profile in regards to Iraq.  Even though every morning I maintain this sign, I’ve disassociated from that tragedy.  The civilian death toll is so high I can’t even visualize those numbers (I realize the “official” number is much lower than the actual death toll).  I can’t imagine what it’s like waking each morning with the knowledge there’s a very high probability someone you know will lose someone they know that day. 

The Virginia Tech tragedy plays out each and every day in Iraq.  Not the same circumstances but the same cycle of horrific violence and heartbroken families.  Yet I don’t cry about Iraq on a daily basis.  I won’t allow my mind to dwell on the terrifying reality of night raids, rapes, executions, explosions, starvation, and disease.  I’ve forced those thoughts from my mind in order to survive.   

And that scares me.  Because when we become numb to the lives of other beings (human and otherwise) on this planet, atrocities occur and our collective health is damaged.

I don’t want to “disassociate” the fact that we all love our children.  That we all want a safe, happy, and healthy future for those children.  And that every parent grieves the same way.

Today I grieve for everyone on the planet.