By Your Scars

There’s a classic story about a father teaching his son a lesson about anger and the permanent damage we can do with our words. It’s called “The Fence”. You probably know it but in case you don’t, here it is:

There was boy who had a bad temper, struggling to control his hurtful words and actions. 

His father gave the boy a bag of nails and told him every time he lost his temper, he must hammer a nail into their wood fence. 

The first day, the boy had driven 37 nails into the fence. Over the next few weeks, 

he discovered that it was easier to hold his temper than to drive those nails into the fence. 

As he learned to control his anger, the number of nails hammered daily gradually dwindled down. 

Finally the day came when the boy didn't lose his temper at all. 

His dad now had him remove one nail for each day that he controlled his temper. 

It took months, one by one, removing a nail for each day but finally all of the nails were gone.  

The father took his son by the hand, led him to the fence and said, "You have done well. But look at the holes in the fence. They fence will never be the same. When you say things in anger, they leave a scar, just like this one. You can put a knife in a man and draw it out. 

It won't matter how many time you say "I'm sorry", the wound is still there.

-Anonymous 

 

This story of course has a great lesson about the long term impact we can have when we are reckless with our words and actions. Even if we feel bad, apologize, and are forgiven, some scars will always remain. 

But this story also provides a metaphor with the damaged fence representing a damaged person. And while we should definitely be careful with one another, the scars we bear become who we are. They are our stories and what makes us unique. We don't see each other as polished pieces of wood, each alike and flawless. We fit together with our friends, chosen family, and partners by the way they see and tend to our scars.  The way they make space for our heartaches, hold our pain, and look straight in the eye of our adversity and don't look away. 

I know you have your scars. 

I know the places it hurts. 

I don't wish those parts of you away. 

I know you by your scars. 

Chasing Memories

My husband and I cuddle close on the king size bed with freshly pressed white sheets, and a fluffy down comforter. The warm, salty air swirls around us and rustles the sheer curtains draped around the balcony window. My skin is warm from soaking up the day's sun and my feet ache from the miles walked on the Pacific coast beach. My husband whispers something sweet in my ear and though it is indecipherable over the crashing ocean waves just feet away from where we snuggle, my heart flutters with infatuation. 

I shoot upright in bed and my heart races out of my chest. My eyes adjust to the darkness and I realize I am home in Michigan. The cool air rushes in through the window and my husband lies near me. We haven't traveled in 5 months. We are in quarantine. 

The bass of the music sets the tempo for my heartbeat and the sway of my hips. The cool citrus taste of my vodka soda with lime rushes over my tongue as I take the last sip. The cool New York night air rushes through my long wavy hair as I turn to my friend, K, as we laugh and dance and blow off the inviting glances of two men from the opposite side of the roof top bar. 

I'm covered in sweat and I'm back in my room. I'm shaking from the time hop and crushing reality. It has been more than 2 months since I have hugged a friend or danced in a bar. We are still in quarantine. 

The rickety, spinning ride swoops up and pauses briefly at the top and I catch a quick glimpse of the hundreds of peanut festival goers playfully scattering below. The ride quickly descends and my colleague shrieks with delight. Tears of laughter stream down our faces as the wind whips around us. We return safely to solid ground and laugh until we can't breathe. 

I gasp for air and throw the suffocating covers off of me. My eyes dart quickly around the room. There are no festivals, there is no work travel. We are in quarantine. 

My son rushes toward the water, buckets in one hand, a shovel in the other. He drops to his knees and begins to dig. I smile and  spread a blanket on the sand and open my book. His periodic giggles are my soundtrack. The early morning chill off the Atlantic ocean triggers goosebumps up and down my arms and legs. 

Chills cover my body as I reach for the covers and tuck myself back in from yet another startling wake up into life in quarantine. 

In the daytime, I understand the reality of the pandemic. In the daytime, I can comprehend the new normal. In the daytime, I am grateful for all that we have and avoid clinging to what was. 

But in the nighttime, I chase memories. 

Caution: Hazard Ahead

Image credit: www.pixabay.com

Feeling short of breath? Feeling tightness in your chest? Is that coronavirus or stress or anxiety? Most people in our country right now are feeling some sort of anticipation around what's to come. But what exactly is the hazard head of us? And just how close is it? 

What are we so afraid of? 

There's a lot to keep us up at night. The threat of a lung-attacking virus, the rapid decline of our previously thriving economy, running out of supplies, children missing out on months of school, the constant social media bickering/shaming/bragging/joking, eating our way into a deep state of depression, the list goes on. And the biggest question of all is likely, how long is this going to last?  

The most consuming stress is not that any of the above things could happen - many of them are already happening. The overwhelming stress comes from not knowing. For the most part we can manage difficulty but our brain is relentless in trying to define, predict, and control what is happening. 

Brain states

On our best days, our brains toggle between thinking and feeling. This is important as we are a highly evolved and social species. We need both parts to function well as individuals and together as a society. And when danger looms, this is an essential response system that triggers quick processing to keep us safe, but also elicits big feelings that can sometimes feel out of control.

When the emotional part of our brain takes over, we struggle to think logically. This can skew our processing of a threat, activate big emotional responses, and increase our physical responses to stress. Those big emotions you're feeling are real, and so is the physical response. You're in a survival state and it's meant to protect you, even if it feels uncomfortable to be there.

Another aspect of our brains that we can't fight: our need to feel we are in control even when we aren't. This makes it difficult for us to sometimes recognize that we are in a survival state. Of course it's clear when we are crying, explicitly discussing our fears, or taking actions that mitigate the factors causing our stress. But there are other ways that we embody the effects of the survival state too.

Some of the signs are more attributable: being more short tempered, struggling to sleep, stress eating, and so on. But some are harder to correlate to looming stress. Among these are an increased need to be productive, doing these to make others feel good (more typically a need to make ourselves feel good), and oversharing on social media (seeking connection, needing to be seen).

Again, all of these responses are typical and real. So it's okay to be in your feelings a bit. Just don't sign a lease and get too cozy there. 

Long term

For the most part, our when our brains respond to stress, it's short term: processing immediate threat, and responding quickly with a priority on our immediate safety. Eventually our brain and our body return to a normal state. These kinds of response and recovery cycles are healthy to a point (also called tolerable stress).

But one of the big risks in our current situation is that this might not be short term. When we have prolonged exposure to a threat (toxic stress or trauma) the physical effects and long-term impact is significant, it actually rewires our brains and through epigenetics has an multi-generational impact. We've seen this with other historical trauma most notably slavery and the holocaust.

The long term risk for us at the given moment comes with the duration of ill health, lack of access to food, insufficient health care and medical resources, unemployment, and so on. Layered on this is the impact of new and pre-existing conditions of anxiety and depression.

What we are seeing now is that all classes of people around the world are being impacted by this complex historical event. But, at greatest risk are the already at-risk people in our community, our front-line workers, people without social safety nets; the people who have been at the bottom and are increasingly marginalized in this scenario. The threat of our current situation for certain groups is intense, traumatic, and potentially fatal. 

More on this in my next post: "Who's invited to the lifeboat?"

I Will Not

Image credit: www.vecteezy.com 

I will not.

I will not suffer through this pandemic.

I will not...
                  ...succumb to sadness

                  ...linger on things that aren't happening right

                  ...fear what I do not know

                  ...wallow in self-loathing

                  ...struggle alone

                  ...try to convince myself that my feelings aren't real

                  ...get caught up in other people's struggles

                  ...take for granted my privileges

                  ...drown in my anxious thoughts

                  ...dwell on wishing this wasn't happening
           
                  ...revert to unhealthy or dangerous coping strategies

                  ...forget that people still need me to show up for them

                  ...waste this opportunity to slow down

                  ...feel the pressure to accomplish something

                  ...judge others for how the handle uncertainty

                  ...abandon my values

                  ...let this temporary be my permanent

I will not let something out of my control, control me.

I will not be shaken.

I will not.

Puzzling

When my 30-year-old sister-in-law died unexpectedly, my husband, son, and I met a few other close family members at a remote lake house in South Carolina where we spread her ashes. We spent a few days there, no cell service, no internet, just us and our feelings.

We found ourselves spending most of our time huddled over a complex jigsaw puzzle. I don't even remember what the image was but I remember how consumed by it I was. We didn't talk, we just worked away at noticing common details in color and line, examining the shape of pieces, and silently delighting when we made a match.

In our current state of quarantine, we again find ourselves drawn to jigsaw puzzles. Things are significantly more chipper than the above mentioned memory but I realized there are some pretty strong parallels.

I found this, well, quite puzzling.

What is it about big feelings and despair that draws me to jigsaw puzzles?

It gives us something to do. A way to pass the time. Helps prevent our minds from lingering on the hurt, confusion, and uncertainty. It requires just enough mental engagement to avoid getting caught in our feelings.

They are predictable. We know how it's going to end. It's going to end how it is supposed to. Complete, with everything in it's place.  it is something can control. We can decide where to start, what to work on next, what to save for last. The end result is the same and we can count on that but we also get to choose how we get there. Quite the opposite when dealing with grief or anxiety or depression.

It requires patience. Despite the control and predictability we are afforded, puzzles also require an immense amount of patience. There is no short cut. There is no way to rush the process. Much like dealing with big emotions. There's no way to jump to the end, we just have to give it time and attention here and there.

How do you spend your time when you're alone with your feelings?

Anxiety is...

Anxiety is...

Waiting for the alarm that isn't set.
A nightmare while you're awake.
Words jumping around the page.
The bee almost stinging.
Drowning in air.

Being alone in a crowd of people.
Infinite mistakes and potential mistakes shackled to your ankles.
Never being enough and always being too much.
The car accident that never happened.
The almost car accident replaying and replaying pressing for a different, worse outcome.

An urge to jump merely to avoid the fall.
An insatiable itch.
Being afraid of the dark in broad daylight.
An earthquake that no one else feels.
Waiting for the milk to spill.

Missing pleasure, distracted by waiting for pain.
Choking on nothing.
The scar that stings like a fresh cut.
Being unseen.
Being too seen.

Anxiety is...

Invisible.

Relentless.

Paralyzing.