Steps forward and back...

I have wondered if I should write about why I have not posted, even though this is so important to me ... or if I should just continue on with my posts.  I am still not sure which is the right course of action.  For as much as possible—while obviously my writing is formed by my own experience and from those experience arose my desire to help further open the discourse on the effects of sexual abuse—I want this blog to be about that information more so than about me.

Only me ... my struggles with what I am writing ... is why I have not posted in a while.

In writing about trauma and the brain and about emotions, I was caught off guard a bit. In writing and in thinking about what I was writing, I began to realize anew just how much of my life has been wrapped in numbness, just how much I have disassociated.  Yes, healing is the proverbial onion.  Layers upon layers can be pulled back and yet many more remain.  Still, that realization saddened me and frightened me.

Sometimes, frankly, I wonder if I will be anything more than a human ice cube.  For part of what I started reflecting about was the fact that the emotions I experience—feelings I struggle to both identify and to survive—are something that happens to me, not of my choosing.  Well, that is not wholly accurate.  I am trying to understand and I work to utilize my calm down helps to get through those maelstroms of emotion.  However, it still seems like they are happening to me, especially when the panic attacks and emotional storms happen and I am caught up in them, lost in body, mind, and spirit.

I have been working up the courage to continue.
And then Saturday night happened.
I was felled once more.

I wrote about it on my blog:


Last night was the second performance of the symphony in my season tickets.  The first night was rather warm for me.  I suspect that the venue was warm because needing air-conditioning on September 28th was not something to be expected.  With heat making me quite ill and having another unusual warm-up in the weather (remember, I had a fire just a few days ago), I knew that I had to choose an outfit that would be cool.

I did.
I had a full-blown panic attack.
I nearly drowned in panic, fear, despair, and shame.

It had been three years since ... three years, one month, and six days since I found myself wearing many, many layers.  Even the work clothes I choose were layers topped by jackets or suits.  I could do that because I had my own air-conditioning unit in my office since multiple sclerosis makes me so sensitive to heat and the building in which my non-profit was housed had a poor, oft-broken system.

Trying to find appropriate clothing (translate that anything that is not men's lounge pants and a hoodie) that fit is not easy.  Most of my work clothing (the only real nice attire I had) is far too large for me.  I have given much of it away, but have kept the suits and silk jackets primarily because of their beauty and investment and knowing I would never be able to afford such again.  I suppose I have silly hopes that someone could cut down some of the clothing for me one day.

The only real option I had that would be cool enough is a completely fitted outfit, with an outer covering that was knitted eyelet (i.e., see-through).  The skirt is not actually ankle length and not something with which I could wear my leather boots.  The skit is fitted snugly from waist to hips, then falls straight with a flare only at the bottom.  I had a shell and the knitted top, both of which are fitted.  Simply put, there was no where to hide in my outfit.  To me, I was stark naked.

It was the first time ... since.  I started trembling and shaking and my mind became lost in a maelstrom of fear and shame and panic and frustration because I wanted to go the symphony.  This.  This was supposed to be my "something normal," "something non-utilitarian," "something for me."  This is my raising-my-quality-of-life activity.  And there I was vomiting and trying to find a measure of rationality that I might actually go and hear Brahms.

I tried to call my best friend.  No answer.

I tried to call Mary, to tell her what was happening and ask her to pray.  She  would not judge and she would say something about Jesus and tell me a story about her life and then she would pray after we hung up. I know she would do this and time was running out.  Only her husband answered.  Mary was at a pastor's wives retreat.  Weeping, I tried to explain, even though I was hugely embarrassed, because I knew the Living Word would be the only way I could get through what was happening.  If I had any courage at all, I would have asked him to read a Psalm to me.  He would have.  I think.

So, then I tried to call Anna.  Because she would at least carry me to the altar with her on the morrow and she would understand what I meant without having to explain.  And she would pray.  No answer.

Then, I hit myself over the head, thinking I should call Marie, because she knows full well panic attacks.  She answered the phone!  Marie answered the phone and stayed with me as I got myself, still weeping and shaking and nauseous, out the door.  Marie talked about how bad panic attacks can be and she reminded me that once the performance started, the lights would be dimmed.  And Marie stayed on the phone with me until I got to Sandra's, who was then driving me to the theatre so I did not have to worry about parking or ask the police to fetch my car again.

Still fretting in the car, wondering even as we drove to the symphony, how in the world I was going to get out of the car, walk amongst so many people, and sit through the performance drowning in panic a and terrified of the things running through my mind, things from that night and things from my past and all the thoughts I have about my body, my body that was not hidden from others ... or from me.

My Good Shepherd served me well through Sandra's mouth, for she remembered about my calm down list and practices and asked me if I had a pinecone.  I did not have one on me, but I keep one in my car. I have kept one in my car ever since the flashback-caused-car-accident.  Even though I was ridiculed about having a pinecone in my car.  Even though I was told that if I ever wanted to be normal I would get rid of the pinecone in my car.  It was still there.

And then it was in my hand.

I was so late, I was worried that I would miss the start of the first piece and thus have to wait out in the lighted landing before I could take my seat.  But the theatre is close enough, really, that were I healthy and had a companion, could walk to if I wanted, being less than two miles from my house.  So, even though we pulled away from Sandra's home on the street behind me with just 8 minutes to go before the performance, I arrived in time to climb Mount Everest to my seats and fold and put away my cane before the orchestra started the tuning that signals they are ready to begin.

Climbing Mount Everest whilst holding a pinecone, clutching a handrail, and leaning heavily on a cane is actually not all that easy.  But I did not want to put the pinecone in my purse. I needed to be able to concentrate on the sensation of it in my hand ... round, firm, sharp ... and the reminder of things I savor ... trees, evergreens, pine needles, nature.

The thing about having a full-blown panic attack is what comes after.  Once those stress hormones are no longer pouring forth from your brain and flooding your body, once you are not longer fleeing your fear, your body collapses in relief.  During the first movement of the second half, that strange exhaustion that makes your entire body feel as if it has become the weight of an elephant, that makes even thinking a thought, much less remaining seated in a tiny seat in an historic amphitheatre nearly impossible.  I thought about texting Sandra to come fetch me, but I did not want to leave, to miss the music for which I had come, or to disturb others.

I lost track of how many times I started falling asleep in my seat, only to jerk myself awake.  The pinecone I had tucked away at intermission came right back out as I tried to use those sharp edges to keep myself from snoring in the balcony.  Descending Mount Everest was one of the hardest physical challenges I have faced in a long while.  My legs simultaneously weighed thousands of pounds and were made up of water rather than muscles.  The usual cacophony that arises from a departing audience was silenced by the concentration it took to put one foot forward, lower my weight to the step below the one on which I stood, and then bring the other foot next to my first one.  Years passed between the first step and the last.

As I was walking out, a chatty woman remarked that I was so brave to sit in the balcony, having watched me come down the stairs.  Normally, I would panic by having to interact with a stranger like that, but I was truly thankful for the exchange. My explanation about my hearing and the need to be in the best auditory spot in the building carried me across the lobby and out the doors and kept me vertical while I waited for Sandra to pull the car into the pick-up lane.

Talking a mile a minute about the music and the new instruments I had never seen before kept me awake during the ride home.  Were I brave, I should have asked Sandra to drive me home and walk back to her house. She would have.  I think.  I did not.  So I actually drove up on three different curbs between her house and my garage.

I stumbled to the back door, unlocked it, and fainted.
Amos came to greet me and lick me awake.
I crawled forward enough to shut the door and then napped with Amos on the kitchen floor.

On the way to the symphony, Sandra suggested that I concentrate on the fact that I was battling a fear and that when the concert was over, I could be proud of the fact that I survived wearing fitted clothing and the ensuing panic attack.  The problem is that I am not sure I know how to be proud of being felled so thoroughly by fear, felled in mind, body, and spirit.  I look back at last night in shame.  I am horrified by whatever it was that I said to Mary's husband.  I was babbling in fear.  Anything could have passed my lips.  Today, I had a mess to clean up in the sink, the tub, and the toilet.  I honestly cannot quite believe I did not also vomit in the balcony as I was still battling the panic during the entire first piece.  All I can think about are all the things going to the symphony is supposed for me, rather than what last night was.  And I think about how grateful I am that couple who have been occupying the seats next to me for the past 42 years warned me that I might even need a lap blanket once fall and winter set in because the balcony is rather cold at the Embassy Theatre.  Cold means many, many layers.  Cold means being able to hide, rather easily, in my clothing.

Paul and Marie treated me today to IHOP pumpkin pancakes.  I brought my old iPod with me so that I would have access to two Kindle apps so that we would have two copies of the NASB 1977 so that we could read some Psalms together.  But when I mentioned that, it seemed to me that reading psalms in IHOP was not something either of them though was ... a good thing to do.  So I dropped the idea.  And then I was too chicken to ask them to read them in the car or read them in the house, when they carried in the milk I bought when they took me to Target to pick up more of the innards medication.  But, oh, how I long to hear the Living Word.

I still want to hear what is true and right and salutary, rather than the lies of that panic attack that are still lingering in my mind.
I still want to hear what is good about creation and His created, rather than the bad I feel about my body.
I still want to have prayers written for me, spoken for me, and carried for me to the One who can (and will) save me.

Trying to distract myself, I have been searching for the new instruments I saw last night.  Googling images of instruments a bit frenetically to stave off the thoughts swirling within.  I believe one was a celesta and once was piccolo.  One I have yet to identify is some sort of extremely tall reed instrument that was a flat coil.   The other was a hanging disc.  I saw other instruments as well, such as a triangle, which I never would have fathomed would be used in an orchestra and used so perfectly and so beautifully.  Musically, it was a fascinating evening, even if the two warm-ups were both by modern composers and not what I would put in a masterworks series.

But other that the music?
Am I proud that I survived?
It doesn't feel like I have ... yet.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!


I wrote yesterday that it did not seem to me that the panic attack was yet over.
And that I still longed to hear the Living Word.
I ache for the forgiveness and healing that I can grasp to be poured into my ears that the Holy Spirit might work them into my being.

I included Psalm 27 and my response to it:

The LORD is my light and my salvation; 
Whom shall I fear? 
The LORD is the defense of my life; 
Whom shall I dread? 
When evildoers came upon me to devour my flesh, 
My adversaries and my enemies, they stumbled and fell. 
Though a host encamp against me, 
My heart will not fear; 
Though war arise against me, 
In spite of this I shall be confident. 

One thing I have asked from the LORD, that I shall seek:
That I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, 
To behold the beauty of the LORD 
And to meditate in His temple. 
For in the day of trouble He will conceal me in His tabernacle; 
In the secret place of His tent He will hide me; 
He will lift me up on a rock. 
And now my head will be lifted up above my enemies around me, 
And I will offer in His tent sacrifices with shouts of joy; 
I will sing, yes, I will sing praises to the LORD. 
Hear, O LORD, when I cry with my voice, 
And be gracious to me and answer me. 
When Thou didst say, "Seek My face," my heart said to Thee, 
"Your face, O LORD, I shall seek." 
Do not hide Thy face from me, 
Do not turn Thy servant away in anger; 
Thou hast been my help; 
Do not abandon me nor forsake me, 
O God of my salvation! 
For my father and my mother have forsaken me, 
But the LORD will take me up. 

Teach me Your way, O LORD, 
And lead me in a level path 
Because of my foes. 
Do not deliver me over to the desire of my adversaries, 
For false witnesses have risen against me, 
And such as breathe out violence. 
I would have despaired unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the LORD 
In the land of the living. 
Wait for the LORD; 
Be strong and let your heart take courage; 
Yes, wait for the LORD.


Oh, how I savor that one thing.

One thing I have asked from the LORD, that I shall seek:
That I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, 

For me, I really do see that dwelling, here and now, as hiding in the Living Word, especially the Psalter, as hiding in the certitude of the Christian Book of Concord.  I hide there.  But I also long for safety.  Oh, how I long for the forgiveness that I can grasp when I hear the Living Word read to me, for me.

Thinking of all the thoughts and feelings, of how my body, mind, and spirit were so thoroughly felled Saturday night, I still long to hear the Word.  It quiets me, washes me clean, if only for a while, of the shame that clings to me.  It sustains me. It restores me.

Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief!

Trauma and the Brain, Lesson Three...

The last bit—for now—from the chapter on trauma and the brain is taking a closer look at dissociation. Once again, the authors begin by talking how children learn through their bodies.  Even when the lessons learned are harmful and evil, the repercussions of them linger, just as those of lessons of love and comfort.  Understanding how and why children react to those lessons and the manner in which they are ingrained in mind and body is key step in healing from and helping those who are survivors of child sexual abuse.

Children initially learn to about themselves and the world through their bodies. Hunger, fear, love, acceptance, rejection, support, nurturing, terror, pride, mastery, humiliation, anger—all began with sensation on the body level. As a child, your body was the means through which you learned your first lessons about trust, intimacy, protection, and nourishment. 

When you were abused, your body and your psyche were invaded. You were taught through direct experience that your body, rather than being your home, was a dangerous place where terrible things could happen. Gizelle, who was violently raped by her father, recalls:

"I felt caught, trapped in my body. That continued into adulthood. I never heard any message from my body. I would be really sick and I'd stagger around and go to work. I made a lifetime dedication of not listening to my body, because if I had, I would have had to hear that I had been raped, and I couldn't do that and survive."

Like Gizelle, you may have cut yourself off from your body—from its knowledge, sensations, and feelings, from its riches and its wisdom. You protected yourself as best you could, but at a terrible price. Most of the problems survivors experience with their bodies—dissociation, numbing, and additions, to name a few—arise from this attempt to find safety by leaving their bodies behind.

Some survivors are so estranged from their bodies that they don’t know how to relate to them at all:

"I had to start with the very basic question, 'What is my body?' Is it a bunch of unrelated parts—arms, legs, head, torso, and feet? Is it my organs, muscles, bones and DNA? It is the part of me that runs marathons, but has two left feet on the dance floor? Or is it how I look? Most of my life I've viewed my body as a necessary evil—a receptacle that needs sleep and demands food, a think that carries around my brain. Now that I was healing, it began to dawn on me, 'Was it actually possible that my body was me and not something separate from me?'"

Like this woman, many survivors live disembodied lives, existing solely in their heads. Rachel Bat Or recalls her relationship to her body before she began to heal:

"If someone said, 'What do you feel in your arm?' I would have had no idea what they were even talking about. If I touched it, I felt my arm with my head. But I couldn't get inside of it. I could only touch the skin from the outside. I couldn't have felt my heart beating. I couldn't experience anything from inside my body, because I wasn't inside my body.

But when we don’t live inside our bodies, we miss the crucial information our bodies constantly offer us. By habitually cutting ourselves off from our feelings—of discomfort, pleasure, anger, or even relaxation—we disconnect from ourselves a little more each day. We deaden ourselves and grow numb, and in doing so we lose access to the innate healing power of the body. Our world becomes smaller and less vibrant, and we often don’t even know what we’re missing. (The Courage to Heal, Bass & Davis, p. 247-8)

In the past, when counselors/psychologists had talked to me about dissociation, it was always described to me as "going to a happy place."  In my opinion, this is not an accurate or complete description of dissociation.  So, for me, the authors of The Courage to Heal, literally changed my life in explaining that dissociation is separating yourself from or numbing yourself to your body.  You flee whilst still in place.  My litany for life suddenly became clear.

Shut up.  

Be still.  

Wait until it is over.

In recent years, I had told several people one of my deepest fears ... that I was an axe murderer or something.  I thought that I had an ice cube for a heart.  People would laugh.  Or dismiss my fears.  I have no words ... not a single one ... to communicate the utter, absolute relief I felt, the bindings that loosed from my being, to discover that it seemed like I had an ice cube for a heart because I was dissociating, I was numb. 

At first, that numbness was small and contained, but over time it grew, until I was certain I was a horrible person, a ticking-time bomb, someone who should not live.

Children often deal with the unbearable experience of sexual abuse by emotionally and psychically distancing from the abuse while it is happening. Although dissociation is an intelligent, miraculous, and effective coping mechanism for the child, it can be habitual in adult survivors, so that every time you experience uncomfortable feelings and sensations (anger, sexual arousal, fear, etc.), you automatically “check out” and leave your body, even though you may not be in any real danger. The problem is that you may be leaving your body at time when you clearly don’t want to—like when you’re having sex with someone you want to be with or when you need to stand your ground in your life now.

When you habitually dissociate, you also miss a great deal of joy, because life is lived and experienced and enjoyed through the body.

A crucial part of healing from child sexual abuse is learning to say present in your body, to tolerate the full range of sensations and feelings you find there. (p. 253, emphasis mine)

Staying present is difficult.
It is brutal.
It is the agony of a marathon that seemingly never ends.

A part of me is grateful to understand this particular why and wherefore of me.  Part of me is overwhelmed, struggling to grasp just how much of my life for which I have not been fully present.  Part of me is ashamed.  Ashamed that I do this thing.  Ashamed that I am afraid of sensations.  Ashamed that I do not even know how to identify emotions.

Even so, I am trying to learn.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Trauma and the Brain, Lesson Two...

In the first post on trauma and the brain, I wanted to show how the trauma of sexual abuse affects the brain and thus the body.  Sexual abuse is an assault on the whole body, the whole being, not just an act of penetration or molestation in one particular spot of the body.  It is also a trauma that is not fixed at one point in time.

In the post, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) is introduced.  I would like to post a few more thoughts on this:

People with PTSD continue to cycle through rounds of distress. Memories of the trauma remain stored in the amygdala and the hypothalamus—the primitive, instinctual parts of the brain that are concerned with survival. These areas of the brain (also called the “old” brain) can only react; they are not able to think, reason, plan, or compare. The old brain responds instantly to danger, overriding the thinking parts of the brain. This ability to react immediately—without thinking—can save our lives, but at a cost.

The old brain deeply imprints information related to danger and survival, and since it does not have the capacity to integrate the experience of trauma and cannot differentiate the past from the present, it continues to react as if you are still in danger. Whenever you experience anything that is reminiscent of the initial trauma, the amygdala and the highly attuned structures surrounding it are activated, triggering a new cascade of stress chemicals.

For survivors of child sexual abuse, smelling a particular cologne, seeing the shadow of a man at sunset, sensing a sudden movement out of the corner of the eye, or being touched in a particular way can set off an intense alarm reaction in which the initial panic, helplessness, and terror are re-experienced in the present.

As time goes by, PTSD symptoms can become more ingrained, and for some people, traumatic memories grow more intrusive. Survivors often vacillate between a state of hypervigilance, in which all of the body’s distress signals are on “red alert,” and the opposites, shutting down completely. Over the years, survivors of child sexual abuse may be increasingly numb, agitated, or a combination of the two. (The Courage to Heal, Bass & Davis, p. 244-245, emphasis mine)

It may be difficult to understand, but these responses can go unnoticed by the sexual abuse survivor and those in his/her life.  Sometimes, they are so subtle, so very instinctive. Separation. Capitulation. Fear.  My example with the smell of beer, avoiding it without knowing, avoiding what would come after I smelled it.

And then there are other times when the response is so profound it cannot be unnoticed, even if it is not understood.

A few years ago, an anesthesiologist came to introduce himself before a procedure.  I was extremely agitated, not about what was going to happen, but about the fact that I was clad only in a thin gown, with no underwear.  To be blunt, underwear makes a profound difference in my level of comfort.  Since then, I have learned to ask for surgical underwear before hand and to have it put on before I awake.  But then I did not know of that option or have the courage to insist on it when others didn't see the need, as was the case the following year with another procedure.

The anesthesiologist, a man, put his hand on my shoulder, slipping between my gown to rest upon my skin.  His fingers were splayed downward, his fingertips resting on the upper part of my breast.  I became so terrified that I was sedated immediately, instead of the plan of doing so once in the procedure room.  Since I was in a surgical clinic, rather than a hospital, the protocol was to not even use versed outside the procedure rooms.

I can understand that, for some, touch is seen as comforting. But it is not.  And when touch becomes a trigger, it is harmful.  Would that it were I could help others understand that they should stop and think what might be comforting for the other person rather than what is comforting to them.

Fortunately it is possible to gradually move the trauma that has been locked in the old brain to the higher, reasoning part of the brain that holds our language centers—the cerebral cortex. Unlike the old brain, the cerebral cortex has the capacity to integrate new information and to change. Once trauma memories are integrated into this more advanced part of the brain through tools such as imagery, the creative arts, and body-based therapies—along with psychotherapy—survivors of abuse learn, on the deepest level, that the abuse happened in the past and that it is over.

As a result, automatic stress response and other PTSD symptoms can be significantly reduced and, in some cases, eliminated altogether. (p. 245)

Once, when I was recovering from an asthma attack, a man came over and put his arm around me to ask if I was okay.  I screamed, "Don't touch me!"  And then was flooded with shame.  I was in church, after all.  

I did not know the man.  And my counselor, in debriefing the experience, stated that it is not appropriate for a strange man to put his arm around a woman he does not know no matter the location or the circumstance.  But I, rather bitterly replied, that my efforts to set boundaries for my body were never respected in church.  There is all this touching ... a hand to the small of the back as you pass through a door, a hand on the shoulder in greeting, a hand on the arm.  That doesn't include hugs ... the full body hug, the opposite shoulder to shoulder half hug, the side hug.  And even hand shakes.  

After the pit bull attack, which only exacerbated my problems, I needed a safety zone to be around others.  When I would go to church, because I am oft wobbly or walking slowly with my cane, ushers would reach out and take ahold of me.  Without asking.  Sometimes, even after asking and hearing my response of: "No, thank you."  I asked the pastors to speak with the ushers.  But this was not something that was easily accomplished, since there were no formal usher meetings or training.  I can appreciate that my pastors did not understand the severity of the problem.  

Sometimes, I would cry aloud.  But usually, when it happened, I would stuff all of that terror and panic and helplessness and shame and failure and self-loathing into a tiny ball and then breakdown in the parking lot afterward.  I would struggle to get home. I would vomit.  I would become insensible, caught in this storm of emotions and sensations that I could not understand or process.

Ultimately, I told them I could not come back to church without knowing for certain I would not be touched.

No touching.  No hugging.  Period.  

This has been a very difficult to set.  Yet the longer I have gone with having mostly full control of my body, the better I have been.  One of my pastors still sticks his hand out nearly every time I see him.  No matter how many times I ask him not to do so.  I struggle with the pressure to shake his hand and the desire to scream that I want it to be my choice.  There are also two people who have hugged me. However, for the most part, I have carved a bit of safety, a bit of certitude about my body.  This has helped me to then have the clarity and the courage to take other small steps toward understanding what has and is happening to my body that I might progress in healing.

The greatest help others have given to me in this is to let me know that my choice, the setting of this boundary is okay.  

Telling me that I am okay—that my feelings are okay, that my responses are okay, that my coping mechanisms are okay—is Gospel to me, is mercy, is love that I can hear, that I can understand.

Healing is possible.  It is hard work and often far, far longer a process than you would wish, but healing to some degree is possible.  And peace, the peace of Christ, in all circumstances is a promise.

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

First lesson on trauma and the brain...

I wish to write more about the topic of how bodies are long affected by sexual abuse, but there is so much to understand before you can really grasp the breadth and depth of its effects.

For me, what has helped the most has been The Courage to Heal. The reason is that the authors explain so much about what has, is, and might happen to you.  Instead of being crazy and alone, you are actually normal and in large company.  If nothing else, learning those two things changed my life.  Given that I had had counseling several times before reading the book, I find that immensely, ineffably sad.  

Why did it have to take so many years for me to find this book??

The authors encourage you to not read the book alone and to not feel constrained to read it in a linear fashion, although that is very helpful to do.  Because of this, when I saw a note about trauma and the brain, given how much I have been affected by the physical trauma of the pit bull attack, as well as sexual abuse.  I have PTSD and, as noted in the first post, it is difficult to pin-point an exact cause, but the tipping point, for me, was the pit bull attack, those long, terrifying, agonizing minutes where I was screaming for help and no one came.  This time, I was screaming aloud, and yet ... still ... no one came.  Not when I wanted someone to come.  Not until after.

While it is definitely not my intent to quote entire swaths of Bass and Davis' book, with regard to how trauma affects the brain and this knowledge's help with understanding the effects of sexual abuse, I want to include what I believe are some key points and do not wish to diminish the expertise and eloquence of the authors by summarizing this important knowledge.

We have learned a tremendous amount about the physical and emotional effects of trauma.  Although there are important differences between child sexual abuse and other kinds of trauma, there are also many similarities.  If you have been sexually abused as a child, you have a lot in common with people who have gone through other types of traumatic experiences—an orphan living in a war zone, a shopkeeper held up in a robbery, a driver in a head-on collision, a veteran struggling with memories of war.  In some cases, the trauma is linked to a one-time event; in others, the experience is severe and ongoing.  But in every instance, victims suffer a devastating combination of terror, helplessness, and loss of control.

When people are confronted with a traumatic event, their bodies have an immediate physiological reaction.  Every species has this biologically drive response to dire threats of harm or annihilation.  The instant a threat is perceived, our brain reacts, sending signals to the pituitary and adrenal glands to release a flood of stress hormones.  These hormones—among them, adrenaline, cortisone, and norepinephrine—make you hyperalert, preparing you to either fight or flee.  This fight-or-flight response is extremely useful when survival is at stake:  The heart beats faster, blood pressure rises, breathing speeds up, and the entire body prepare for action, whiles nonessential function—such as hunger, sleepiness, and digestion—shut down.  Once the threatening event passes, normal functions are reactivated and the body returns to normal.  People often become suddenly aware that they are exhausted, hungry, or in physical pain.

A third biological response to danger is the freeze response.  In nature, when fight or flight would be futile, animals instinctively collapse and becomes inert.  They look as if they are "playing dead."  This reflex releases more chemicals—pain-killing endorphins and opioids—that take the animal from a state of extreme energy to complete immobility.  Tense muscles instantly relax and breathing and heartbeat slow to barely perceptible.  If the animal survives, it immediately begins to discharge the built-up chemicals through intense shaking and trembling, heavy breathing, and sweating.  Ultimately animals return to a state of equilibrium and leave the encounter fully recovered, carrying no residual trauma.  (The Courage to Heal, Bass & Davis, pp. 242-243)

I would like to note a few things before continuing with the rest of this first lesson on trauma and the brain.

In reading through the book, I have become increasingly aware of just how careful Bass and Davis are with each and every word.  They are purposeful writers, as I noted in always making the distinction between sexual abuse survivors and sexual abuse victims. One word that I noted above is "annihilation."  This is not a word of extreme. This is reality for so many when faced with sexual abuse.  Sometimes, it is an annihilation of life itself, such as being held in place with a knife or a gun.  But, sometimes, it is an annihilation of hopes, dreams, identity, safety, etc.  Those are real things, too.  In some cultures, virginity means life for females who are not married.  And, in some cultures, even if you are a sexual abuse survivor, you are seen as complicit in adultery, which can carry a death sentence.

For Christians, who have had purity-as-law and purity-as-evidence-of-faith heaped upon them, sexual abuse is an annihilation of faith and/or hope of all that is entangled with purity, with virginity.  I believe, completely, that the place for sex is in marriage.  I believe, completely, that those who sin by having sex outside of marriage, are forgiven just as with any other sin.  And I believe, completely, that the sins of sex outside of marriage and of adultery leave you no less clean, no less pure than any child of Christ, washed clean through the Holy Waters of Baptism.

However.

However, it oft seems that sexual abuse is viewed, in some twisted fashion as the sin of sex outside of marriage.  Sexual abuse is not sexual activity; it is not a willing and free act of sinning against what God has designed with regard to the activity between male and female.  It is not sex.  Yes, a child of sexual abuse is no longer a virgin, by definition of that state, but a child of sexual abuse is not committing sexual sin.

I lost count of how many times I was told by Christians, when I revealed my past, that I was no longer pure.  Some of those times were by males who said they could only date someone they could marry and that person had to be pure.

Yes.  Having only recently discovered the pure doctrine of the Christian Book of Concord, I have long, long struggled not just with the feelings of filth and dirtiness that can come from being violated, but with the feeling and idea that I was spiritually filthy, spiritually dirty.  So, for me, facing the prospect of being sexually abused, especially after I became a Christian, was facing annihilation.

But in every instance, victims suffer a devastating combination of terror, helplessness, and loss of control.

To me, this is important to note.  It is a combination that is truly ineffable.  It is a combination that does not always have an ending.  And it is a combination that, for me, was written into my being in ways I still am only now beginning to recognize.

For example, I learned a while ago that the smell of beer is a trigger for me.  [Talking about triggers must come later.]  After receiving a call from someone who was struggling, I drove over to be with her.  When I pulled into her driveway, she was already walking toward me, so I rolled down my window.  But, as she drew close, I was overcome by terror and an inexplicable—at the time—desire to flee.  The woman was drunk, reeked of beer, and was sloshing the contents of a bottle all over herself and the driveway.  I did flee.

Later, when I learned about triggers, I realized that beer was one of mine.  A regular abuser was almost always drunk when he hurt me.  As an adult, I have avoided the smell of beer and places where beer is consumed without ever realizing why.  Now, I know.  But, when I smelled beer that night, I was overcome with terror, helplessness, and a loss of control.

The most important point, to me, of this passage is two-fold: 1) The responses of your body and mind are normal, expected and 2) How gracious is our Creator who made our bodies and minds to protect us wherever possible.

Oh, how long it has taken (and is still taking) me to grasp that my responses are normal and not something for which to punish myself further.  Understanding what happened—and happens still—has been one of the biggest steps I have ever taken toward healing.  Period.

Shut up.
Be still.
Wait until it is over.

This has been the litany of my life.  For good.  Yes, for good.  It helped me to survive.  Now, when I find myself following that litany, I try to stop and tell myself that I am safe and that I have choices.  And if I fail, if I still find myself in that place, then I work to let that be okay.

I want to finish this first lesson on trauma and the brain with why knowing how trauma affect the brain is especially important with child sexual abuse.

In human beings, dissociation is the mind state that accompanies the freeze response. With the help of pain-killing biochemical that have suddenly been released, we disconnect from what is happening to us. Our capacity to feel—both physically and emotionally—shuts down and we distance ourselves from the pain and terror we would ordinarily experience. Dissociation is an extremely effective survival mechanism, shielding us from the full impact of traumatic events. But the trauma itself is not processed or healed. In most cases, it is stored, not as a usual memory that fades and distorts over time, but as a nonverbal body memory, which is much harder to identify and process through thinking and talking. This is why we are not able to change our reactions to traumatic events just by “thinking them through." (243, emphasis mine)

Thus, my pattern, my litany, my life of Shut Up.  Be still.  Wait until it is over.  Any threat.  Anything that was threatening to me.

When humans freeze or dissociate, we are deluged with the same hormones as animals under attack. Once the danger has passed, we can sometimes use the same natural recovery mechanisms. We can shake, move, cry, yell, and breathe deeply, processes that sometimes help eliminate the chemicals our bodies have produced, just as animals do. And when we have the support of a caring person or community, we can receive comfort, thus meeting our need for understanding and connection.

But when children are sexually abused, they are rarely in a situation with optimum conditions for recovery. Instead, silence, secrecy, and isolation are the norm. Sometimes children are prevented even from crying out. And far often the abuse is a recurring event, without time for recovery before the next assault.

In the weeks and months after a traumatic event, trauma survivors often experience an acute stress reaction that can incorporate an array of troubling symptoms, including nightmares, flashbacks, trouble concentrating, intrusive thoughts, insomnia, an increased startle reflex, panic, depression, numbness, mental confusion, sudden explosions of rage, and alienation. The world no longer feels like a safe place.

For many people, these reactions last a few weeks or months and then gradually subside. But for others, the symptoms persist, eventually developing into post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. Survivors of child sexual abuse—especially incest—are at increased risk because they experienced many of the dynamics that make long-term PTSD more likely: the trauma (or threat of trauma) was repeated and of long duration, they were children when the abuse occurred, they experienced great helplessness and betrayal, they believed the abuse was their fault, and, most significantly, they used dissociation as a way to escape. Although dissociation is an important protection, it is a factor that is correlated with the later development of PTSD.

Post-traumatic symptoms can grow stronger and become more entrenched over time. Or they can go underground and reemerge years, or even decades, later at a time of increased vulnerability—when a life event acts as a stimulus and triggers the post-traumatic reaction. (243-244, emphasis mine)

There is a misnomer with regard to children and sexual abuse.  So often, you hear:  Children are resilient.  This implies—if not outright stated afterwards—that it is okay if children are sexually abused because they will bounce back, will get over it easier because they are children.    To say this, to think this,  to act upon this is an egregious perfidy.  Utterly.  

It. Is. Not. True.

Sexual abuse survivors of all ages and all numbers of instances need careful, considerate, and comprehensive support and assistance to set them on the path to healing.  Some wounds, I believe, may not be fully healed this side of the vale, but there is hope for a start to healing, for a measure of safety, for peace.

There is so much to say about trauma and the brain, about triggers, about instinctive responses, about patterns, about PTSD.  But it is my hope that this is a solid beginning to help you think about the topic. Understanding yourself, your body, your mind is ever so helpful in healing.  Knowing that you are known, even in the things you do not yet see or understand, is powerful.

This is why, when I created the Praying the Psalter blog, with labels (Blogger only allows up to 20 per post) to help others navigate the Psalter in their prayers and begin to see the themes in this collection of prayers that our Triune God gave us in His Living Word, I added a post I had written about how the Psalter showed me, taught me, that I am known by God.  With regard to what I have shared here about responses, Psalms 42 and 77 are the clearest examples of how my Creator understands me, understands Myrtle.  

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!

Bodies...

On my main blog, there are subjects I have revisited many a time, because I cannot quite find the words to say what it is that I mean to say.  And then there are some subjects that are revisited because there is too much to say in the first place.  Here, the subject of bodies, is one of both.

Children learn about the world through their bodies. If they are protected and nourished, they feel at home in their bodies. Living in their bodies is a source of pleasure, accomplishment, and satisfaction.

When children are sexually abused, they learn that the world, and their bodies, are not safe. Abused children experience pain, fear, and conflicting sensations of arousal. Often they leave their bodies to avoid these feelings—or numb themselves as best they can.

For abused children, the body is a place where frightening and painful things happen. They learn to always be on alert, to be ready for danger. Or they cut themselves off from their bodies and learn to ignore them, living mostly in their heads. For many survivors, the experience of trauma leaves a deep impression on the body.  (The Courage to Heal, Bass & Davis, p. 7)

Take a look at any baby and you will quickly see that children learn about the world through their bodies.  Their first discoveries are often with their own bodies ... tongues, toes, fingers, fists.  As soon as they are able, they begin exploring their world with their hands and feet, grasping and kicking aplenty.  But they also learn safety and comfort through their bodies.  They are held by their parents.  They rest against their mother's breast to nurse.  Their skin is stroked and kissed.  Touch is comfort.  Closeness is safety.

Yet for the sexual abuse survivor—from infant to adult—their own body can become a place of fear and shame, a place of horror and pain, a place to flee.

Think about that for a moment.
And another.

Children learn through their bodies even before they speak.  Children learn through their bodies before they understand what it is that they are learning.  It is no wonder, then, that sexual abuse leaves a deep impression on the body.

Sometimes that impression is known.
Sometimes is it unknown.
Sometimes it is both.

Often, it makes no sense.

Well, if you understand the whys and wherefores of how the body responds to trauma and if you consider how much we learn through our bodies, then sexual abuse survivors struggles and responses make perfect sense.  All that is part of what I would like to share.  The body's response to trauma and responses common to many.  But the basic block of all of that is understanding that sexual abuse survivors have bodily wounds that can color all that they think about and do with their bodies.

For the Christian, this struggle with the body can be more damaging, for there is a physicality about the sweet, sweet Gospel that cannot be ignored or escaped.  That physicality can both soothe and agitate.  Both.  One or the other.  Both.  And, again, it is not so much important that you understand why  or how this can be so.  It is merely important that you accept that such can be the case.

Children learn about the world through their bodies. If they are protected and nourished, they feel at home in their bodies. Living in their bodies is a source of pleasure, accomplishment, and satisfaction.

When children are sexually abused, they learn that the world, and their bodies, are not safe. Abused children experience pain, fear, and conflicting sensations of arousal. Often they leave their bodies to avoid these feelings—or numb themselves as best they can.

For abused children, the body is a place where frightening and painful things happen. They learn to always be on alert, to be ready for danger. Or they cut themselves off from their bodies and learn to ignore them, living mostly in their heads. For many survivors, the experience of trauma leaves a deep impression on the body.  (The Courage to Heal, Bass & Davis, p. 7)

It is okay of you hate your body.
It is okay of you are ashamed of your body.
It is okay if you flee from your body.

You are still without blemish and are still clean.
You are still fearfully and wonderfully made.
You are still forgiven.


I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!