“It’s not that bad.”

This is a wonderful piece by Aaron Paquette who also has a free PDF book available here.

“It’s not that bad.”

Said in compassion, these are still four words that nullify another person’s experience.

It takes away their right to mourn, to grieve, to experience defeat or loss. It says, “YOU don’t know how you feel, but I do.”

I used to be guilty of this, and probably will be again at some point if I am not present. It’s natural for us to want to minimize someone’s suffering or to offer a different perspective (especially if WE are the problem!) and so we say:

“It’s not that bad.”

If you really want to connect with someone and help them, you have to be willing to take a risk, to open yourself up, to be okay with pain.

Instead of taking away someone’s right to their experience, help them understand it on their own terms, in their own way.

Ask, “How bad is it?”

And allow the reply.

It might be uncomfortable to hear the truth, but it’s the only way to get through something, really process it and grow.

“How bad is it?”

Now you can have a healing conversation.

Because sometimes it’s really bad, and a burden too hard to carry.

And sometimes it’s not so bad after all, once someone is allowed to look at the situation without constraints or conditions.

A lot of people feel that you must NEVER focus on the bad or bad things will happen. Just keep your mind exclusively positive ALL the time.

That is denying the very purpose and path of experience and growth. That philosophy can be unhealthy when taken to extremes.

If you don’t freely acknowledge where the struggles are and what they are, you simply steal your opportunity to learn!

This also works for the state of the world.

And it’s a very good way to diagnose something honestly and then to work toward making it better.

After all, once you know how deep it goes, you have the map for getting back out again.

And so, “How bad is it” can eventually become, “So what’s left that’s good?” And “How much more amazing can it get?”

There is hope for you, for me, for All Our Relations.

And it starts by allowing the truth of the moment, of a struggle, of a feeling, to be expressed.

It starts with that level of gentle kindness and humility.

Hiy hiy

"Letting the words fall out..."

The sun is coming up, the birds are tweeting and my body starts to release the tension that is keeping me from sleeping at night. And then, on what I considered to be a "safe" page on facebook - I saw this image:

I have only been able to sleep during the night once -last night- over the last 3-4 weeks because of the PTSD flashbacks and this topic enrages me on a good day. Performing in comedy for a few years (stand up and improv) this is something I encountered a lot and for many years I just sat silently, swallowing my rage.

I finally spoke up after a joke about rape was made in an improv show billed as "family friendly", but it still took me awhile. I sobbed all the way home after the show and then gave myself a very short hair cut that night, which is a pattern I have of trying to make myself less attractive when I feel threatened) I spoke up about it in the discussion forum for the group; I was belittled, criticized and ignored, as was everyone else who disagreed with the co-director.

I joined the troupe in 2004, performed actively for years, supported from the audience when I wasn't performing and yet when I raised my concern the co-director (who joined the troupe after I did,  FWIW) told me that if I had an issue with the way they did comedy that I shouldn't be there. Oh! I remembered I actually have the file since this was a conversation on a forum so I can quote him directly. Keep in mind, this troupe is an actual business with donors and paying customers - it has taken all of my will power not to review them honestly and accurately on their facebook page, yelp, etc. (Which wasn't helped whenI saw an entire album  on their page of photos I took of the players that they didn't bother to give proper photo credit for, but, I digress...)

"If you have a filter that may get agitated, be warned. Those lines are crossed all the time.... ALL THE TIME..... If you can not handle that, then improv may not be the form for you. " 

Which is complete and utter bullshit. Comedy can be done in a number of ways, some prefer to work "blue" and that's their choice, but it is not in anyway indicative of improv as a whole. Jezebel had a great article about this:

the best comics use their art to call bullshit on those terrible parts of life and make them better, not worse.

This taught me that some people value defending their actions more than examining the motivations for them and that my loyalty to the troupe wasn't valued - by the co-director who told me to leave or the Executive director who demonstrated how little my loyalty meant by failing to address it at all. Ever. It happened  last summer and still not even an apology. I have already lost some friendships over the issue and I have learned that if someone doesn't understand how harmful words -especially words that trivialize rape- can be then they don't belong in my life.  I am actively working to overcome the traumas of my past and keeping company with those that trivialize my pain just doesn't make sense. That lesson enabled me to speak my truth in today's situation immediately (and not shove it down like I used to) and with less fear of losing "friends".

So this was my response to the "funny" beer picture:
I understand that in American culture making fun of rape has become popular and that critics of such "jokes" are usually criticized for being too sensitive and not being able to take a joke. That is a risk I am compelled to take in this case. The image you posted describes a violent rape in detail (not to mention comparing women to a beer bottle to be used & broken). I have always considered (name redacted)'s page to be a safe place but to me (and likely to the 1/4 women who have been sexually assaulted) reading that image was a huge trigger. I implore you to consider re-reading those words from the point of view of a rape survivor with PTSD and keep in mind that an American is sexually assaulted every two minutes. (http://www.rainn.org/statistics)
"He grabbed me around my slender neck
I could not call or scream
He dragged me to his dingy room,
Where we could not be seen.
He tore away my flimsy wrap,
and took upon my form.
I was so cold, damp and scared,
While he was hot and warm.
His fervent lips he pressed to mine.
I gave him every drop.
He drained me of my very self,
I couldn't make him stop.
He made me what I am today. "

Out of suffering...

There have only been a few books that when I encountered them I was simply compelled to buy, without any prior knowledge of the author.  The Prophet, by Kahil Gibran is one of those books. I saw it in a thrift store in Virginia in the 90's and although I couldn't tell what it was about at first glance, it immediately resonated with my soul.

Books have been one of my favorite escapes for as long as I can remember. I've been told that my mother read to me often when I was very little and I was reading by the time I turned four. When they were loading my mother in the ambulance I was calmly perusing my bookshelf to decide which books to bring. During childhood summers I  remember reading about a book a day.  Lovely fantasy worlds that I needed to visit frequently to survive the reality of mine. One of my favorites that I read over and over again was about a teenage American girl who found out that she was switched at birth with a princess. By the time I was in junior high I had turned to Stephen King and RL Stine. Even when I was grounded from everything else (which was often)  my mother still allowed me to read; she recognized it's importance and I am grateful for that. Not all of my memories of reading are happy ones...

We were on a long road trip, I was about 7 or 8, my parents were arguing in the front seat. I was reading in the back seat. It was approaching dusk and my dad told me to stop reading because it was bad for my eyes to read in low light. I closed the book and looked out the window for awhile. When the arguing got too much for me, I picked up my book again; escaping to another world in my mind was my only coping technique at the time. I tried to be sneaky about it and no one noticed for awhile, but eventually my dad realized it. He pulled the car over on the side of the freeway and told me to get out as he took off his belt. I wasn't really surprised, I knew this was a risk I was taking by disobeying. He had me walk around to the back of the car and put my hands on the hood; the familiar sound of the belt sounded different in the open air than it did inside the house. I looked around as the belt hit me again and again, we were almost to the overpass, but I couldn't quite see if there was water or another road beneath it. One car passed, he kept hitting, the rest of my family sat silently in the car. Another car passed. I stared at the back of their heads through the rear window; they didn't even turn around. Another car, and another.

Writing and waning...

"If you bring forth what is within you, what is within you will save you. 

If you do not bring forth what is within you, 

what is within you will destroy you."

  ~Gospel of Thomas

The secrets within me are indeed destroying me and the time has come to bring them forth. I just signed a contract for some of my writings to be published - in an actual, printed on paper- hold it in your hands- feel the weight of it in your arms- book. I've been writing for years,  but mostly for myself and  never with a deadline as important as this. I knew it would be challenging but I didn't realize the degree of difficulty that would be involved. I had been nightmare free for about 3 months, which  is the longest I've been without them in more than a decade.  After only a few weeks of recounting the realities that have been recurring in my nightmares for more than 20 years I stopped being able to sleep at night or even in bed at all. For the last 2 and a half weeks I haven't been able to fall asleep before the sunrise, usually about 5 or 6 am but sometimes I'm up until as late (or early?) as 9am. 

Countless times I catch myself having to unclench my hands and my jaw or have to remind myself to breathe. Which is difficult when it feels like a boa constrictor has permanently set up residence around my ribcage. My shoulders refuse to stay at shoulder level and instead insist on climbing as close to my ears as they can. I try to  distract myself with movies or games in hopes that it will help me relax. My body is alert and awake while being simultaneously exhausted and much more so at night that during the day. When I'm finally to the point that I'm ready to attempt sleep having a favorite movie on helps me be able to close my eyes. The audio helps keep me anchored in the present and when I have a flashback or intrusive memory I can open my eyes and hurl my mind into the movie.  Eventually I close my eyes again and hopefully fall asleep without another flashback, but most nights this cycle repeats several times.  

Then there's the fact that I have been nauseated for at least part of every single day for as far back as I can remember. Doctors haven't found a medical reason and have prescribed 4 different anti-nausea medications over the years - none of which had any effect except when relieving the nausea caused by morphine in the hospital. Today it was 10:30pm before I realized  I hadn't eaten anything since getting up at noon. I managed to drink some milk and entirely too many glasses of Dr Pepper but the thought of swallowing food ...ugh....not happening today at least.  Once or twice a week a particular food will sound appetizing but after a few bites it usually doesn't seem worth the effort of overcoming not only the nausea but also the craniofacial issues, which are myriad. 22 screws in my jaw and a septum that was mangled in the jaw surgery and later crushed in 2 separate car accidents. Despite the original septoplasty and revision septoplasty where they placed bone grafts to hold open my nasal passages, I can barely draw in air through my nose. Luckily I'm usually eating home alone & my pets have yet to complain about me eating with my mouth open.

"How Secrets Sabatge:
Although we encounter secrets in every area of life, they are perhaps most destructive when kept in the home. Families are support systems; our identity and ability to form close relationships with others depend upon the trust and communication we feel with loved ones. If family members keep secrets from each other--or from the outside world--the emotional fallout can last a lifetime.   A person who seeks to undo the damage caused by family secrets must accept that revealing a secret is not a betrayal but a necessity ...the secret wedges a boulder between those who know it and those who don't."   

I've been questioned by extended  family as to why I don't speak to my parents, even scolded for not doing so. I have always been afraid of answering that question honestly because the reaction of the other person is so unpredictable and my honest answer would make me feel very vulnerable. There are so many members of my extended family that I would love to have relationships with but with this secret wedging " a boulder between between those who know it and those who don't.", it is impossible to establish a wholly authentic relationship.  Those who don't know have a different version of family history than I do and therefore have an entirely different expectation of my role in familial interactions. 

I went into foster care because because I couldn't handle the secrets anymore. When I went into foster care I had already told my best friend and my boyfriend everything- they were safe to tell - but I wasn't able to tell anyone else that I had been molested on a regular basis for years. In court ordered therapy they had me take 6 hours of tests. When the Dr discussed my results, it was with me, my brother and sister in law (who I was living with in kinship care by that point) in the room. So when he said the tests indicated I had been repeatedly sexually abused, I wasn't able to tell them the truth. I told my mother the first time it happened and she didn't believe me, I had no reason to think my brother or sister in law would be any different. I told my brother and sister many years later after I had moved to the other side of the country. It wasn't well received by either of them so I stopped telling family.

"Since individual well-being takes a backseat to group fidelity, being the family member who challenges internal secrets is difficult. Taking the risk of opening a long-held secret to friends and loved ones may seem like an act of betrayal. The anticipated catastrophe of exclusion from the family stops many people--often long after leaving home."