You'll Understand When You're Older

by Kerry Guttilla, guest blogger

"You'll understand when you're older."

Has anyone else heard that a zillion times as a kid? or has said it to their own kids? ME! on both counts..
When we are kids I think we believe that there is an age that you turn where suddenly you have all the knowledge to make the "right" choices... (🙋🏽‍♀️🙋🏽‍♀️guilty).

Then you "grow up" (I use that term loosely) and realize there's no such thing as an all knowing I have my "shit together" adult or their "ducks in a row" or their "head on straight" or insert any generic Urban dictionary phrase for it. It doesn't exist. At all. 

Sure, you can do all the "adult-esque" things----pay the bills, jot your "to-do-list" down in the newest notepad you just bought at the staples back to school sale, have a job, get married, have kids, do all the cliche stuff that you were taught was the "American dream"; the white picket fence, middle class suburban life requirements...but if you are waiting for that moment where you stop making mistakes and completely have your shit together, you're going to be waiting forever.

We are all knowingly or maybe sometimes unknowingly faking it and then posting the movie trailer of our lives that we do "have together" on social media so that everyone else thinks we know what the hell we are doing. We don't. I don't. 

That couple who just posted their perfect getaway holding hands and hashtagged #blessed #livingthedream #myheart #myreasonforbreathing #couplegoals #weareperfect #together15yearsAndNeverHadaFight had a BRAWL for 3 hours over parallel parking the car.. (in her defense, the backup camera stopped working). The girl who left her job to travel the world and makes you envy her life with every instagram pic, just changed her number to ward off the debt collectors. The guy who keeps getting promoted and seems to have the career you would die for is so empty inside that he fills himself up with those ambitions and a bottle of Jack. 

There are so many times I look at my own social media pictures and think, "That doesn't tell the whole story at all." Pictures from days and nights that started great and ended in mistakes, regrets, arguments and/or tears that no one sees behind an instagram filter--but no one wants the world to see that side of their story. 

Everyone has something in their lives that isn't perfect and WE ALL screw up. That doesn't have to mean you're doing life wrong....I'm pretty sure no one is doing it exactly right or partially right or 7 percent right? There is no rule book or guide to life. There is no phrase that could be told to you as a child that can guide you in a step by step American Dream process. Ultimately, It's YOUR call, and YOUR unique dream, and YOURS alone. Do it however you wish. One life. Stop worrying about what people are saying, thinking, doing, posting, gossiping....or if you're right, wrong, succeeding, failing because of a comment left on your last post or a message in your inbox...who cares? 

Admitting that you have no idea what is going on or you are not sure what you are talking about, you're figuring it out as you go is the most honest statement that could ever come from an "adult" mouth.
We're all a little messy or a lot messy. We are all Human. 


If you don't have your shit together, if you feel like you missed the memo on the perfect life-- well from one mess to another, I support your mess, and I'm rooting for you.

Giving Up The Fight

photo credit: Athena Grace

I used to sleep with each of my hands forming a fist. I didn’t notice this until a massage therapist told me to relax my hands so she could work on them, and then it dawned on me that I tended to sleep with my hands in fists. I thought my fists meant my hands were relaxed. I know that doesn’t sound logical. After she said that, I noticed that whenever I sat to watch television that my hands formed fists. Standing in line at a store, if my hands weren’t holding what I was buying, then they were in fists. The next time I got a massage, my fists were back. It seems as though when I wasn’t using my hands they were forming fists.

I’m not a fighter, at least not in the traditional sense. I’ve never been in a fist fight in my life. However, for about a decade and a half after I developed PTSD, I consciously and subconsciously fought the varying degrees in which my disorder presented itself. Thankfully after I learned tools that helped me, I had significantly more days where the fight to stop or suppress flashbacks and other symptoms from rearing their ugly faces were much less often than the days that felt peaceful. My awareness that I was fighting against my symptoms was more often nonexistent rather than all consuming, though I know exactly what being all encompassed by a flashback feels like.

Still, my hands gravitated to forming fists whenever I wasn’t using them.

I didn’t realize I was fighting until my therapist told me two words that changed my life. I sought counseling after one of the worst flashbacks I’d ever experienced. I told her that I wanted to be done with PTSD and not have to fight against my symptoms every time I was triggered. I asked her this question—how do I rid myself of PTSD forever? Her two words—you don’t.

It was the opposite of what I expected to hear, yet it didn’t bother me that my therapist suggested that I might technically have PTSD for the rest of my life. Hearing her say you don’t actually put me at ease. I could put my dukes down. To me it meant I should stop fighting my PTSD and instead learn how to move through my symptoms in as peaceful a way as possible.

From that moment on, I stopped fighting. Looking back, I wonder if my fists, which had felt like a relaxing way to have my hands, was a result of my disorder feeling like a fight. Whatever the case, it feels good to move through life with open hands. Sometimes I still catch myself going to sleep with fists, especially after a stressful day, but I’m much more conscious about releasing them. Noticing my fists used to disappoint me, but now they remind me that like everyone else I’ll always be a work in progress.

How Can Anyone Be OK With This?

photo credit: Forgiven Photography

My childhood was beautiful. I know I am lucky to be able to say that. Though it was not perfect, I never worried where my next meal would come from. I trusted that the insecurities that intermingled among the confidences I gained as I learned new things was a part of growing up. More important to me than anything else, I always knew that at the end of the day no matter what the day brought that I’d fall asleep in the same bed every night.

I’m not a parent, but I was a child, and I think the place where a child rests every night should be the most consistent, peaceful place in their home, perhaps in their life.

My bed was not fancy. It was an old wrought iron bed with chipped white paint. It was a twin size and it was so high I had to use a step stool when I was little. I didn’t choose the quilt or the sheets, but my mom made sure they were clean and the bed was made until I was old enough to take on those responsibilities myself.

On long car rides home after a family event that stretched past my bedtime, I always looked forward to snuggling up in my bed.

After anxious moments that I wasn’t sure how I’d find my way out, I knew I’d have my bed where I could curl up under the covers.

When I was tired and wearing nice clothes that were never comfortable, I relaxed whenever I thought about changing into my pajamas and getting into my bed.

As an adult, these desires to go home and get comfortable in my bed are just as frequent.

I’m privileged to have grown up in a country where my parents didn’t feel the need to flee to escape danger. My father was a lawyer and my mom was a homemaker. They had the luxury of raising me and my sister with structure, of course thanks to their work ethic and efforts, but certainly made easier by living in a free country to pursue what they wanted, not what they had to do in order to survive.

The circumstances of being born in the right time at the right place with the right family is why I was so incredibly fortunate to have a childhood free from trauma….and also one with comforts that unknowingly provided me tools so that I could learn how to soothe myself in a healthy way during stressful times.

Maybe this is a reason why when I developed PTSD after witnessing a tree fall onto my father and seeing him pass on a day and a half later I was able to find my way out of my PTSD symptoms mostly on my own. By the way, I don’t recommend doing that.

Today, when I think of kids who don’t have their own bed to look forward to every night but who have parents who are so desperate to do what they can to create a life where they all are safe, I wonder if on their journey these kids rely on the embrace of their parent’s arms to drift off to sleep. After a long day of migrating towards the US border, I wonder if as these parents hold their children if they reassure them that the sacrifices of leaving their families, friends and everything that is familiar is worth the pursuit of a better life for which they’re willing to work hard to earn.

Once they’ve reached the US border, I wonder if after these kids are lured away from their parent’s arms if they become angry and resentful of them for painting a false story of hope after they become tired of crying themselves to sleep, if they’re even able to fall asleep at all.

I wonder what traumas these kids endure from the adults who put them into cages and in converted superstores. Sure, some of the photos show clean, cheerful bedspreads on twin beds, but not every kid gets a bed like that.

I wonder if these kids understand why their shoelaces are being taken away once they arrive and if they’ve ever even heard of the idea of suicide before. I wonder if they’re contemplating it now.

More than anything else, I wonder what the effects this trauma will have on these kids lives and the ripple effect that will inevitably impact the society in which they integrate and beyond. 

Regardless of political viewpoints or what current policy says or doesn’t say or ultimately what anyone wants to see happen with the future of our borders, how can anybody be ok with this?

Working Towards Understanding

Though I have lived with PTSD for over 20 years, I have never been suicidal. I’ve never come close to having suicidal thoughts, and the thought of doing the acts that could end my life make me squeamish. That being said, I know I’ll never be immune to suicide, because having known some who have attempted and some who have succeeded and still struggling to understand why they did what they did leads me to believe the desire to end one’s own life can happen to anyone.

The deaths of Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain, two people who offered special gifts that influenced millions, have been shocking. Both had extraordinarily positive personas, which is why many of us were drawn to them. Knowing that a new cheerful design and a captivating story will never be shared by either of them ever again is incredibly sad, and though I’d much rather they were both still living here in this realm with the rest of us, their passing has forced me, and perhaps others, to take a deeper look at why people commit suicide. 

Why do people commit suicide?

I don’t know, but I really want to know. I want to know so that I can recognize this mentality in myself before I have symptoms. I want to know so that if I see something in someone else I can do more before it gets to the point where I have to call the National Suicide Hotline, which by the way is 1-800-273-8255.

I’m not just seeking to understand the signs and symptoms, which include, but are not limited to, a preoccupation with death, social withdrawal, mood swings and exhibiting risky behavior. I want to understand the why….the steps it takes to get to the symptoms. 

I appreciate that this is not an easy subject to talk about, but now may be a time for those who do understand to be brave and share your stories for the sake of helping people like me understand. I know it’s so hard to revisit the past, but know that I will listen with compassion and without judgement while holding you and your story in the safest place possible. I would like to think others would do the same.

There is one thing I do understand about suicide—that everyone I know who has faced it are all good people.

Definitions

I live about 40 minutes from New York City. My surroundings are an intertwining of century-old town centers, suburban neighborhoods and farms. I get to enjoy the benefits of these places while being close to one of the greatest cities in the world. The scenery changes and the energies fluctuate, but the one thing that gradually dissipates as one moves away from the epicenter of the city is the pace at which people do everything.

I see this difference in pace most clearly in my acupuncture practice. Years ago, I had a new patient come for her first appointment. I knew nothing about her beforehand. I gave her my intake forms, all 5 pages, for her to fill out. Normally, I sit at my desk and catch up on emails or write while I wait for new patients to complete their forms, but not this time. I had barely sat down and opened my email when this patient sprung from her seat and whisked herself to my desk so quickly I wondered if her feet had touched the ground. Though a bit sloppy with spaces where no information was entered, I could decipher what she had written to give her a safe, effective treatment.

During her time at my office, she revealed to me that she worked and had lived in Manhattan before moving to New Jersey two weeks ago. Already, she wanted to move back to Manhattan despite moving to one of the most coveted towns in the state with a downtown that’s filled with an exceptionally wide variety of restaurants and shops and also has a vintage theater and an art museum. She spoke a mile a minute and her heart rate matched her frantically controlled energy. She constantly checked her phone. She could not sit still. She didn’t understand why her treatment would take over an hour and why her body needed time to respond to the acupuncture needles.

Not all New Yorkers move at this pace, but when I first started going into the city, I thought I had to move fast so as to not stand out like a tourist or get trampled by the crowd. It wasn’t until I went to acupuncture school in Chelsea and spent time with classmates who lived and worked in Manhattan that I noticed they strolled the streets rather than walked briskly, that they didn’t talk super fast, that they took the time to enjoy their surroundings. Though my natural tendency is never to rush, I appreciated that my friends moved at a pace that matched mine.

Years later, I went on vacation to Capitola, California, one of my favorite places in the world. It’s a small beach town next to Santa Cruz on the central coast. It has an area with a small surf break, which is a good spot to learn how to surf. My sister and I took a private lesson. As I fell off my board and continuously apologized for being in the way of other surfers, they kept telling me in their chill tone with a smile, “it’s all good.”

The next morning while waiting in line to order my chai, I noted that the speed at which the line moved at that coffee house was the slowest I’ve ever experienced. Compared to the deli where I would get an egg sandwich in New York City, I could have ordered 10 sandwiches at that pace. I also noted that not a single person seemed to mind.

Cars stop for pedestrians in Capitola. They wait for the person to completely cross the road before proceeding. Sadly, they often don’t stop on Main Street in front of my office, which has two well marked pedestrian crossings, and if they do stop, they’ll only stay stopped until the pedestrian has walked into the other lane. I’ve had cars slowly roll up to me just as I am stepping out of their way.

Stores open on time in New Jersey. One of my favorite stores in Capitola opened a half hour late, and the manager apologized to me once she arrived and she unlocked the door. She had been out surfing and lost track of time.

Newark Airport is like a shopping mall and usually a zoo of people with some running through terminals. The terminal where I typically wait for my departing flight at San Jose Airport has only a few places to grab a bite or a magazine but has this captivating kinetic sculpture that causes me to put my phone away and stare at the balls rolling through various obstacles.

Traffic is terrible in both places, but I hear more horns honked in New Jersey. The beaches get crowded in both places, but I don’t notice my neighbors as much in California. The wealth in both places is sky high, but it’s more obvious in New Jersey.

It’s amazing how different these two places are from each other.

My pace aligns better with what I experience in California. However, the life I’ve built and I love is in New Jersey. That doesn’t mean that I have to move at the pace that others do where I live. Instead, every day I choose to move through my day at my comfort speed, seemingly laid back  but still productive compared to those elbowing others to catch a train to make it to work on time.

Sometimes patients will ask me if I’m from around here. I tell them that I grew up one town away and they’re surprised. They often tell me that I seem like I’m from the west coast. I am always prepared for my response—“I am a Jersey girl living a California lifestyle.”

Where one lives does not define them. The same goes for when one is diagnosed with PTSD….it does not define them.

Though I write and speak a lot about PTSD, the vast majority of people in my inner circle, and even people who I know but have a more peripheral role in my life, likely would not think of PTSD being what I’m all, or even mostly, about. More likely they’d say I’m about being outdoors, that I like to travel, that I’m into running, yoga and hiking. They picture someone wearing very little make-up and sometimes wearing strange outfits (but since a lot of the clothes I wear I buy in California, I’d blend in better there). They know I’m into holistic therapies and eat high quality, healthy food. They’d say I love cats and guacamole, though not together. They think I’m sometimes funny but more often they ask me for my opinion about things. They see me as positive and inspiring and successful, the last being the typical view of what “success” looks like is so not what I’m about. And those who really know me best know that I am a huge Incubus fan.

Everyone else who only know me from my writing likely think of PTSD when they see my name, but I also know that they think of my commitment to living with the disorder in the most peaceful way possible.

If you have PTSD, never forget that it doesn’t define you. You define you.

And if you know someone with PTSD, never define them by their disorder. If you do so, you are ignoring the qualities that are worth appreciating and admiring.

The Quote That Made Me Become An Optimist

photo credit: kieferpix

I used to be a pessimist. If you spend two minutes chatting with me or scrolling through my social media profiles, you’d never guess this in a million years. I used to see nearly every circumstances in a negative light. Years ago when my boss discovered someone had placed a full cup of tea at the bottom of a wicker garbage can at the wellness center where I worked, my response was, “people are stupid.” Sure that was a dumb way of disposing a full cup of tea, but I had uttered that sentence so often that it rolled off my tongue without me considering what my boss might think.

For much of my early twenties, I didn’t bother trying to go out to meet a guy. I assumed they were all pigs.

I thought money was the root of all evil, because as I worked hard to save for a down payment for a condo, I kept chasing the amount I’d need thanks to the rise in prices from the real estate bubble in the early 2000s. I had to live at home with my mom because I couldn’t afford even a small apartment.

Time with friends always involved gossiping and complaining. I thought Chicken Soup For The Soul was the stupidest book ever written and I mocked people for reading it. Fairly tales seemed ridiculous and I thought anyone who had success must have cheated or stepped on someone in order to achieve their fortune.

This negative mentality resulted after I developed PTSD. I was twenty years old, and up to that point, life was pretty rosy and happy. My world was turned upside down after I witnessed a tree fall on my father during a fast moving thunderstorm. He passed away a day and a half later. The anger that resulted became the undertone to my emotions, sometimes bursting out uncontrollably over the most mundane things but mostly living deep below the surface where its influence was just enough for me to become the pessimist that I’d never been before.

Life sucks, then you die. Money is evil. People are stupid. This was what I thought constantly. I didn’t think I was being pessimistic. I thought I was being realistic.

It’s hard to believe that watching an episode of Dawson’s Creek started my journey back to being an optimist. I noticed in the background of a scene in Dawson’s bedroom a quote on the wall: Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be. It took me by surprise. I stared wide eyed at the screen hoping I’d see it again to make sure I read it correctly and so I could jot it down word for word. It was the first time I’d ever seen a suggestion that one’s happiness could be a choice. I went online and discovered it was said by Abraham Lincoln.

I kept thinking about that quote. I started to wonder if the years I felt unhappy after my dad’s accident had been partly my choice. I knew not everyone was stupid, but why was I saying so? I knew money could be used for good, but why did I think it was evil? Why wasn’t I celebrating my peer’s accomplishments instead of bashing them to others?

I didn't want to be living with my mom. I didn’t want to constantly feel like everyday tasks were a burden. I didn’t want to continue feeling stuck in this pattern that wasn’t giving me much joy.

From that moment on, I worked on seeing the glass as half full rather than half empty. Abraham Lincoln’s quote became my daily mantra, and I’d think about it all the time. I’d catch myself saying people are stupid and immediately I’d feel embarrassed and silently promise to myself to not say it again. I put effort into dating, trusting that guys with good intentions existed. I began to feel gratitude that I could afford my bills, or that I even had bills for things that most people in the world lived without, even if some months were extremely tight. I stopped gossiping. I committed to no longer complaining. With effort, the optimistic mentality that I had chosen became an effortless lifestyle and is now my identity today.

What’s even better is my anger that was a part of my PTSD is no longer an undertone to my emotions. When things go wrong, I start thinking of solutions rather than dwelling on the problem. When loved ones pass on, I remember the many wonderful moments rather than wondering why they had to be taken too soon. Finding the silver lining is not always easy, but for me it’s worth the effort.

The way I see everything now has resulted in me having a life that brings me joy despite my PTSD symptoms that have lingered over the last twenty years. I own my own business and it affords me a lifestyle that makes me comfortable. I found a guy with good intentions and fell in love with him. We’re celebrating our sixth wedding anniversary this month. I have amazing friends whose aspirations I admire and whose support I appreciate. I laugh more. Most mornings I wake up early and feel excited about my day. Not every day is perfect, but I have way more good days than bad.

I never chose to have PTSD, but I am boundlessly grateful that I chose a mentality that now serves me well.

Words

Last Saturday, I participated in a book club discussion about Peace with Trees that was hosted by a friend of mine. I knew no one else in this book club and I didn’t know what to expect. It was the first time I had discussed my memoir with a group of people and the experience was amazing. Much of the feedback I have received early on in my book’s journey was from family and friends, and though I appreciate hearing “your writing is wonderful” and “I loved your story” from people I know, I was super curious what people who don’t know me at all thought. Thankfully, their feedback was the same as what I’ve been hearing, which is every writer’s dream.

One woman who sat next to me said something that struck me. She mentioned that she loved that my memoir was easy to read and that she didn’t have to refer to a dictionary at all. Though I am college educated and can hold my own in a game of Scrabble, I can’t say with confidence that the vocabulary I use in my writing matches what’s typically found in articles within The New Yorker. I also can’t say that choosing to present my story in a simple, easy-to-read manner was necessarily a conscious choice. However, as someone who doesn’t care for overly graphic descriptions or using fancy schmancy words for the sake of sounding fancy schmancy, perhaps my natural way of writing favors ease over complication….mid-century modern over chotchkie-filled Victorian, tomato soup over vegetarian 15 bean stew, beach vacation over Disney….you get the picture.

As someone who has struggled with PTSD, ease is something I value.

At a PTSD support group gathering that I went to last year, someone mentioned how reading books can be difficult because certain words or descriptions have triggered him. Many in the group agreed. I can totally appreciate that. I tend to avoid reading books and watching shows and movies that have a lot of violence. That was a consideration I had while writing Peace with Trees, and knowing that likely I’d attract a dual audience—those with PTSD and those without PTSD—, I went slightly out of my comfort zone in describing the moments that followed my dad’s accident….emphasis on the word slightly.

I thought of this when that woman at the book club noted my writing style, which made me think of something uncomfortable that happened over an email exchange the week before. I friend connected me to a writing coach who wanted me to talk about my writing and publishing process with her clients. We were to hold this event at a local wellness center. The owner of the wellness center suggested posting the event on their calendar. The writing coach noted that doing so may attract people with PTSD to learn more. Initially I agreed to do an event that combined both audiences, but I had second thoughts knowing that the two audiences have very different needs. We compromised and agreed that my PTSD talk could be a good lesson in speaking to one’s platform for the writing clients. We then went a little back and forth with the event description, with my final description beginning as follows:

“After developing post-traumatic stress disorder from witnessing a tree fall on her father in 1997, Susannah has been living peacefully with her PTSD since 2011.”

My description drew a favorable response from the owner of the wellness center. The writing coach took the liberty of editing it and suggesting we use or don’t use whatever we want. Her’s started off like this:

“When she was twenty, Susannah watched a tree crush her father.”

I don’t need to include the full text from each description, but know that the first sentences from both set the tone for how each one reads.

For those of you who have read Peace with Trees, you know that the tree didn’t actually “crush” my dad. Though I could have simply explained that, especially since I value doing things with ease, what was more important to me was conveying to this writing coach that when it comes to my events I am extremely careful when it comes to the words I choose in all of my messaging, and the last thing I want is for words to trigger anyone. I also noted that even with all of the work that I have done on myself, that sentence even triggered me a bit. I though about that support group where we shared how reading a book can be challenging. I thought about those I’ve connected with online who have shared with me that leaving their home is difficult. I thought about the audience member who walked out of my last event because I touched a nerve in her, which thankfully later I learned was a good thing. I deeply appreciate the increased sensitivity many experienced with PTSD. I can relate to that. It was that important to me to briefly explain to this writing coach why I wasn’t okay with using her version.

I had hoped she would agree with using my version and we could proceed, especially since she initially said we didn’t have to use it, but instead she wrote what seemed like a defensive email that graphically described several of her own personal traumas. She said knew PTSD intimately. I could not get through that portion of the email, not because I didn’t have compassion for what she’d experienced, but because the vivid detail was not something I wanted as part of my psyche. I also found it unnecessary for what we were trying to accomplish—writing copy for a flyer. I didn’t know how to respond because I didn’t know if her response was genuine, passive aggressive, a cry for help, trying to one up my trauma, trying to one up my writing style or something else. What I did know is I didn’t want to hurt her with however I responded. Because she ended her email acknowledging that our writing styles were so different that she preferred to bow out of the event, I chose to say that I was sorry she had made that decision.

I’m not saying that I’m more righteous in how I communicate with my audience. I’m not saying how she writes is wrong and should be corrected. I think what’s most disappointing is her choosing to walk away. However, the bigger lesson here is words have energy. I sold a copy of my book to someone yesterday and I watched her read the back cover. I saw her reaction to reading, “she stood on the front porch of her childhood home and witnessed a tree fall on her father during a fast-moving thunderstorm.” Her gasp conveyed to me that the energy came across.

On the shock spectrum, I’m never interested in inducing a response that’s any bigger than a gasp.