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.

I Thought I Was Symptom Free After 14 Years With PTSD

photo credit: Image 1:27

I developed PTSD in 1997. I thought I was symptom free since 2011 until I was working with an editor on my memoir. My editor also happens to have PTSD and has written about her experience in various magazines. She assisted me a lot in my publishing journey, but where she helped me the most was when she’d point out areas in my manuscript where she didn’t understand my actions at the time, or perhaps how I had described my behavior. It forced me to look within, to better understand why I did what I did, and the running theme that lingered with each section that didn’t resonate with her was unresolved anger.

I thought I was a positive person. I had no idea anger still lingered within me. In the weeks and months that followed my traumatic experience, I found myself screaming at strangers who “did me wrong,” which usually meant they accidentally overcharged me or they didn’t mean to bump into me. The anger would explode out of me as if it had been contained by a bubble and a simple mistake caused it to burst. It felt beyond my control. In hindsight, it was misdirected anger I had over what had happened and it lived just below the surface of my being. At the time, anything could have set it off.

It took me years to be able to get good at recognizing the feeling and to train myself to make a better choice. Eventually, I no longer experienced rage at mundane mistakes, and I thought I was on my way to leading a life with a positive mindset. Then my editor pointed out those sections of my book that didn’t make sense to her, which made me think deeper. To my surprise, I was still angry….angry over missed opportunities, angry that my early twenties weren’t fun, angry that I had to put dreams on hold for a long time.

I am so grateful my editor’s remarks directed me towards this one symptom that I hadn’t faced. There were moments along my journey to living peacefully with PTSD that looking back still irritated me a lot. There were people, not related to my trauma, I had villainized in my story without giving them any redeeming qualities. The truth is none of these people were bad to the core, yet I had depicted them as being awful with no redeeming qualities. Once I reflected deeper and imagined myself in their shoes, I was better able to meet them where they were at and recognize that my unresolved issues still caused me to look back at these memories with anger.

 As I rewrote sections of my memoir and began to own my behavior, I let go of the guilt and shame that came from acting and feeling the way that I did. As I released that burden, I noticed the positive outlook I thought I had got brighter. I saw more beauty each day. I felt more excited about my friend’s accomplishments. Colors seemed brighter, sounds more musical. I found myself visualizing new and exciting dreams for my future that made me want to get moving faster in the morning.

As peaceful as my life is now, I am amazed that I continue to discover more layers to my PTSD, and how releasing those seemingly subtle layers makes each day even better.

The Difference Between a Flashback and a Bad Memory

Photo by Prixel Creative

As a writer and public speaker who aims to bring hope to those with PTSD, people often share with me stories about their traumas and their effects. The sentence structure is typically the same; “This bad thing happened to me and then later on something related to that bad thing happened and it made me think about the first bad thing so now I have PTSD.” 

I follow up this statement with this, “That’s awful. Were you diagnosed by a mental health professional?”

“No,” is what typically follows.

Usually I suggest people do that, especially early on so that they can learn tools for coping with PTSD, something I wish I had done twenty years ago when my PTSD developed. I’m often met by resistance with this suggestion, which makes me wonder if perhaps they feel they don’t need help from a professional or what they’re experiencing is not that serious.

I think these kinds of conversations have arisen thanks to PTSD becoming familiar. Twenty years ago when my journey first started, PTSD existed, but it wasn’t talked about like it is today. Thanks in part to veterans needing assistance after returning from the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, plus the numerous natural and man made disasters that have occurred, our society has been forced to learn more about PTSD. In that need to know, information gets misunderstood and PTSD becomes as common as a buzzword.

I remember people posting on social media that they were experiencing PTSD after the 2016 presidential election. Then months later during the Super Bowl when the Patriots came from behind in a stunning turn of events, friends of mine posted how this was reminding them of the 2016 presidential election and they were experiencing PTSD from that night. Then an article with “PTSD” in the titled popped up on LinkedIn, though not a single sentence in her article substantiated anything related to experiencing PTSD. I’ve seen social media posts about being startled by something like a fire alarm and feeling PTSD as a result, and when I suggest to the person posting that they take care of themselves, often the reply I see is “well, I don’t really have PTSD….I suppose I shouldn’t have said that.”

News flash….none of these examples actually relate to PTSD. 

As my contribution to helping stop the misuse of PTSD, let me explain the difference between a flashback and a bad memory as simply as possible, which seems to be the basic misunderstanding of what PTSD is really all about. A flashback feels like you’re actually re-experiencing a traumatic event, whereas a bad memory is merely a reminder. Flashbacks are a symptom of PTSD. Bad memories are not.

I’ll give you an example of a bad memory that may appear like a flashback that I recently experienced. I was cleaning my windows at my house, and as I sprayed the cleaning solution on the window, I got a whiff of it’s odor. Immediately, I remembered washing outhouses at Girl Scout camp. I hadn’t thought about Girl Scout camp in decades. I loved Girl Scout camp, but one component of camp was a chore had to be done every day. Our group was divided into smaller groups and those smaller groups rotated doing these chores. Outhouse cleaning involved going to one of the outhouses at camp, cleaning the toilet seat, restocking the toilet paper and filling the water jugs and replacing the soap for hand washing. Because camp was during the summer, the smell was awful. As I sprayed my windows, it reminded me of the smell of the cleaning solution that we used to clean the toilets and memories of cleaning these outhouses came to mind. However, I still felt the same as I continued cleaning the windows.

Now allow me to explain a flashback. My worst one occurred during an unusual October snowstorm in New Jersey in 2011, fourteen years after my initial traumatic experience. My husband and I were sitting in our living room without power. I was reading a magazine using the last bit of light that refracted from the overcast sky. After about ten inches of thick, heavy snow fell around our house, I heard that sound that immediately took me back to my traumatic experience. It was the sound of a tree ripping apart. As a large tree that borders our property with our neighbor’s fell, I felt like I was back on the porch of my childhood home re-experiencing my traumatic event. I went into panic mode. My heart rate increased, my hands started to sweat and I barked at my husband a mile a minute. I also shook a little and I felt a constant undertone of anxiety that sometimes peaked for a week. Thankfully after seeing a therapist a few days later, that’s been the last flashback I’ve experienced. 

Does this help you better understand the difference?

Quiet

Photo courtesy of Brimstone Creative

During my last vacation, on day one I found myself sitting on the beach staring at the fronds on a nearby palm tree. I noticed their shape, the way they moved with the breeze, the light that illuminated between them. Even though there were so many other things I could have been doing that I love, such as swimming and snorkeling, all I wanted to do was stare at my surroundings. Though I wasn’t wearing a watch, I’d venture to say that that palm tree took my attention for at least 15 minutes.

Right up until we left for vacation, most of my days were rather noisy. Like most people probably do, I squeezed in a lot of work beforehand so that things wouldn’t be waiting for me when I returned. Normally, I have a work/life balance that keeps me feeling productive and joyful at the same time, which took me years to figure out and I’m so grateful that I have. Because many patients wanted to see me before I left, and because I wanted to accommodate them, my days were longer than usual. Add on top of that the effort I was putting into my writing career and other business ventures, plus packing, bill paying, cat boarding and all the other things I like to have in order before going away, I had significantly more tasks crammed into long days than normal. My strategy was to rest on the plane since I knew I’d be exhausted by that point.

I didn’t think those days were particularly noisy per se, because the tasks I was doing I do on a regular basis, but just not all at once. It wasn’t until I sat on that beach and stared at nature did I notice how much my mind was craving quiet. For months, I was looking forward to seeing the fish and coral as I snorkeled, which I like to do every day I’m away. In that moment, I wasn’t interested in doing that. I didn’t even want to think about anything, not even what activities I wanted to do while on vacation or what book I wanted to read. I didn’t even want to think about when I wanted to leave the beach to get ready for dinner. All I wanted to do was stare at nature and admire it’s beauty.

I remember when my PTSD was at its worst and my mind felt very noisy from flashbacks, anxiety and general life stressors that usually come from transitioning into adulthood. Because it was 1997 and society didn’t talk about PTSD like we do today, it never occurred to me that spending time outside looking at nature may be helpful.

So regardless of whether or not you have PTSD, if your mind is feeling noisy, I highly encourage you to go outside and sit in nature. Look at the things around you. What sounds do you hear? What does the fresh air feel like as you breathe it in? Are you able to do this without thinking random thoughts? If not, are those random thoughts helpful or distracting? If they’re distracting, can you commit to a consistent practice of observing nature and see if you can attain that quiet mind you’re seeking? 

An Open Letter to the Students of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School

photo courtesy of Prixel Creative

It’s been nearly a month since February 14th, and I’m specifically choosing to refer to that day simply by its date and not what happened, not for the purpose of ignoring or diminishing what occurred that day but so that those of you who are struggling the most aren’t stressed by the words I write.

While I titled this as an open letter to the students of your high school, who the media have highlighted as the force that will finally produce the change in gun control laws that our country desperately needs, who celebrities and people of influence have praised for your courage, sharpness and articulation, truthfully this letter is not for all of you. This is for those of you who are afraid to go to sleep at night because you can’t imagine having another nightmare. This is for those of you who don’t feel like you can ever step foot in your school again. This is for those of you who feel ruled by your anxiety all the time. This is for those of you who are haunted by random flashbacks from that day. This is for those of you who might be wondering why February 14th is affecting you seemingly more than your fellow classmates and you wish it wasn’t. 

You….I’m writing this for you, and I want you to know that you will be okay.

How do I know this? I was 20 when I developed PTSD. I won’t get into my traumatic experience because you don’t need to read and be exposed to more trauma. I’m now 41, and I’m okay.

I’ve been okay since 2011, which means that I dealt with symptoms on and off for fourteen years. I have a lot of hope that you won’t suffer nearly as long as I did because our society knows a lot more about PTSD than it did back in 1997 when it started for me. As weird as this may sound, up to that point the only exposure I had about PTSD was watching Brenda Walsh develop it after being robbed on Beverly Hills, 90210. Seriously. The internet was in its infancy. There was no such thing as texting. The ability to spread information was not what it is today. Back then, people didn’t know about PTSD as much as we do today.

Today, we have so many different therapies, from counseling to riding horses to surfing to painting. There’s hiking excursions and yoga retreats. There’s connecting with others through social media and there’s MeetUp groups. And these are all designed to help not only people diagnosed with PTSD but also their family members, their friends and anyone else experiencing similar symptoms.

These resources came out of necessity, because people like me didn’t have these when we needed them. We created them ourselves. I had to find my way out of my disorder, and thankfully I did, but it didn’t have to take me fourteen years had I had the resources that are available now. It doesn’t have to be that way for you either.

With effort towards taking care of yourself as well as leaning on those who want to help you while they manage the balancing act of supporting your growing independence that comes with being your age, you can move through your symptoms. I get that it may seem like you can’t see see yourself having a day without symptoms. Right now, that’s normal. That will ease up.

As I’m hoping you can tell from my letter to you that I am here to help you, but undoubtedly I am not enough for what you need. When you are ready, there is a large community of people who understand what you’re feeling and what you’re going through. That community will help you when you are ready and will listen whenever you need to be heard. 

And we will never lose hope that your life will be amazing and created by your design, even if you can’t see it now and even if you want to run away from thinking about it.

We got you.

Symptom Free After the Storm

Last Friday, the area where I live experienced a bomb cyclone. As someone whose PTSD resulted from a storm, any kind of weather event with the word bomb in it doesn’t exactly sit well with me. I decided to stay home that day and keep myself occupied with things I enjoy doing, namely cooking, writing, puzzles and reading.

Initially, the forecast predicted a lot of rain and 1-3 inches of snow in the afternoon. When I looked out the window at 8:30am and saw that the snow was falling fast, thick and heavy, I knew Mother Nature had other plans.

I noticed how the snow stuck to trees and utility lines and it reminded me of the October snowstorm of 2011. That was the first major snowstorm Mike and I experienced in our home in Randolph, NJ, and naively we had been excited about hunkering down and watching the snow cling to the colorful leaves that remained on the trees. We ignored the warnings that snow on these leaves would lead to falling trees and limbs. That excitement quickly turned into fear, damage to our house and no power for nine days. I suffered the worst flashbacks and anxiety since my PTSD first developed in 1997. Those symptoms and others lingered until I saw my therapist. 

Up until that 2011 snowstorm, any kind of severe storm put me on edge, and many times I’d experience flashbacks to my traumatic experience. Thankfully, I managed to move through this past bomb cyclone completely symptom free. This was the first major storm where I was able to do this.

And though I was reminded of that October snowstorm, I didn’t feel like I was reliving it.

How did I get here? For years, I was extremely vigilant about storms and hollow trees. When springtime came, I’d think of it as “thunderstorm season” and that I just needed to get through the first few storms and I’d feel better, like riding a bike for the first time in a while. Even though I was highly functioning and very good at hiding my symptoms, the life I really wanted to live didn’t manifest until I put in the effort to get better, which didn’t happen until I started writing my book in April of 2013.

Before writing Peace with Trees, I could tell someone about my traumatic experience with shakiness in my voice. Having written my story over a dozen times, I can now stand in front of large groups and walk people through my trauma, my symptoms and how I moved through them.

And thanks to that effort, last Friday was just another day, even though we lost power and a tree fell on our property. Amazingly, Mike and I didn’t even know this tree fell until we looked out the window the next day. Had I not written my book, I’m certain my symptoms would have flared up significantly because of this storm.

Delos

photo courtesy of SV Delos

About a month ago, my husband Mike was watching videos on YouTube, and he clicked on one of the suggested videos. Immediately he was hooked watching a group of people sailing towards St. Helena, a small island in the South Atlantic Ocean. He had never heard of St. Helena, and watching this group film themselves doing their ordinary activities in an extraordinary setting was the kind of escapism that drew him in. A few days later he showed me the video and I became hooked as well. Since then when we learn that the latest episode is uploaded we get excited and can’t wait to virtually go on the adventure with them, whether it’s hiking up a volcanic mountain to exploring historic landmarks to scuba diving with sharks to everyday life on their sailboat.

The YouTube channel is called Sailing SV Delos. Currently, there are six people living on the boat, two of whom are brothers, and they’ve been sailing around the world for several years. Their unconventional lifestyle is an excellent reminder that life should be about experiences and enjoying what our amazing planet has to offer. Mike and I often note that our minds seem calmer after watching an episode, which is why I recently shared one of their videos in the Peace with PTSD Facebook group as well as on my author page.

The episode that I watched today made me deeply appreciate a decision I recently made to go vegetarian. Most episodes are rather light and fun, but at times they consciously bring up important issues people need to consider. While on a fishing trip for an annual contest at Ascension Island, the crew did not catch a single fish. Afterwards they filmed a conversation with the local husband and wife team that took them fishing, and they learned that the waters where they were fishing were once (and possibly still are) ravaged by sport fishing. I consider myself a rather aware person, but I had no idea that sport fishing was even a thing. 

What is it exactly? Simply this….it’s people fishing for the biggest fish they can find for the sake of being able to say they caught and killed the biggest fish. In some cases, these fish are used for food, but many were catching these fish and killing them and tossing them back into the ocean. Sport fishing off Ascension Island became popular thanks to the large sized tuna and other fish people would catch, some of which can take twenty years to reach their size. 

If sport fishing is so popular in these waters, then why did this experienced crew have no luck? It’s hard to know why. Unfortunately, there aren’t enough experts to know exactly what’s going on and those who are experts can’t figure out if the fish migrated elsewhere or if the population has depleted, but the feeling is that the latter may be the reason.

This episode got me appreciating that I am able to live healthfully without animal protein. In this case, it made me feel good about being able to do my part to help improve the fish population that sadly people have taken for granted. I also greatly appreciate that there are others who rely on fish and animal protein to survive. An important food source for the people who live on Ascension Island is fish, and the crew of Delos rely on fishing for food while they make their long journeys over vast oceans. Their activities are hardly damaging the planet.

Though this may sound odd, but part of me wonders if maybe these fish populations were traumatized from sport fishing and in order to survive they migrated elsewhere. I’d like to hope that but I am definitely not a pollyanna to the realities of what humans are capable of doing to life on our planet. Research has shown that animals can suffer from PTSD, so perhaps these fish are suffering as well. Either way, I think we all need to be a lot kinder to life on our planet in any way that we can.

I also think that everyone should be watching Delos.

Firsts

Have you ever started something that you've never done before, and even though you have no idea what you’re doing, your actions feel right? You feel incredibly passionate and fired up about what you want to achieve and the fire inside of you outweighs the fear of being stuck in figuring out all of the ‘how’s. Always these experiences come with a lot of "firsts". The first time you do this or the first time you do that....and because there are so many firsts, many of them don't get done perfectly, but you keep going anyway because you feel so aligned and excited about what you’re looking to achieve that perfection doesn’t matter.

“We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down.” 

~ Kurt Vonnegut

Now more than ever I have felt like a student of this lesson. My writing experience before starting my book—ZERO. My self publishing experience—even less than zero.

Kurt Vonnegut said it best, but before I ever read his quote, the image I frequently got while on this writing journey was running through fog. I kept running because I knew it would lead me to my goal, even though I’d trip on a tree root, or smack myself against a wall or stumble into a puddle.

Despite the tripping, the smacking and the stumbling, I kept running through the fog, knowing more obstacles would appear without much warning because I trusted I could still get up, fix my wounds and keep going.

And while I am so grateful my book is in readers hands and I’m receiving incredible feedback, all of which was my ultimate goal, developing my wings has been one of the greatest gifts from this lesson.

And the best part of all is they’re not even close to being done.

I remember so many firsts after my traumatic experience. First nutritious meal. First night’s sleep without nightmares. First difficult situation where I handled myself better. If you have PTSD, do you know what I’m talking about?

And if you’re still struggling, can you appreciate that you’re a work in progress and your wings are so much more developed than they’ve ever been?

With that in mind, can you make the effort to do those firsts that your gut is telling you to do knowing that they’ll lead you to a peaceful place?

What's With All the Flowers?

by Jennifer Potter, guest blogger

Ever since grade school, my mom was really cool about letting me paint on whatever I wanted to, like my bookbag and my bedroom walls. Naturally, I painted flowers.

If you looked at the margins of my school notebooks, you'd see vines and flowers and leaves.

Why flowers? I had no idea. They were just what came out of my hand. About a year ago, the significance dawned on me.

Like so many others, life has not been an easy path for me. I'm no stranger to anxiety and depression, beginning with panic attacks as an 8 year old. BUT, art has always been my way of escaping to something more beautiful.

And art usually equaled flowers, right?

About a year ago, a strand of my hair fell onto the bathroom counter and landed in a perfect spiral. It looked EXACTLY like the spirals in my loose floral paintings of late. It stopped me in my tracks - I wasn't having a great day - and I instantly saw the parallel between the spirals on my canvases and the spirals on my head.

I love flowers and nature because of their consistency, their reliability, their quiet assuredness. Flowers and nature don't lie. They don't rush. There is a divine blueprint for them.

And when that spiral of hair landed on the counter, I realized there was a divine blueprint for me, too. Maybe I was more than the lies I'd been led to believe by society and people close to me. Maybe I was a beautiful creation with a divine blueprint, too.

All this time I'd been painting flowers without knowing why - just letting them come out of my hand for years. I started crying tears of knowing. The flowers were there to tell me that I was not a hot mess. I was as beloved and perfectly created as the flowers in nature.

All the flowers. My God winks for decades, patiently waiting for me to recognize their significance. I'll keep being a cheerleader for them as long as they'd like to keep coming out of my hands. 🙏

I recognize this may sound a bit out there, a bit woo-woo. But it's the magic and spirituality of intuitive art that I love the most. Thanks for indulging me by reading this far.
Xoxo Jenn

For more about Jennifer, visit her website by clicking here!

Receiving

photo courtesy of Angela Waye

Ever have challenges receiving? You might have read that question and wondered what the heck that means, so let me ask it again in a different way. When someone says, “you look nice today,” do you say respond with a thank you or do you throw away the compliment by explaining you forgot to brush your hair or you complain about your appearance or perhaps you even go so far as to completely discredit the compliment by saying you think you look like crap today. 

It’s okay to admit you have trouble receiving. You are not alone, and though I do not have any scientific evidence to support my belief, it is my observation that most people have some level of difficulty receiving.

Receiving goes beyond compliments. Do you have challenges receiving money from someone, even if you didn’t earn it? Do you struggle with receiving gifts for no particular occasion? And probably the most important question for anyone who has PTSD—do you have trouble receiving help when it is offered?

That was absolutely me. 

When someone saw me struggling with my PTSD when it was at its worst, I would have refused help. I would not have received advice, suggestions or even an ear for listening. 

Having moved through that dark place, I can see what it now looks like when someone is struggling and help is being offered but it’s not being received. It’s like a chisel and hammer chipping away at an incredibly hard, thick surface that we don’t know how it will break open. It’s frustrating for the person who wants to give, but the person who needs to receive help is the one that misses out the most.

Receiving is a part of life and critical to the circulation of good energy throughout the planet. When you receive, you aren’t being selfish. Rather, you are continuing the movement of that energy, and if it helps you to personally develop, grow and improve your life, don’t you think that might also help others out too?

It is ok to receive. Say it to yourself if you need to. It is ok to receive. Say it until you feel aligned with those words.

Time Does Not Heal All Wounds

We’ve all heard it….time heals all wounds. It’s a simple saying we usually learn early on in life, perhaps during our childhood when we felt sad after a friend moved to another state and an influential adult offered comfort and hope by explaining that time would make the pain go away. I’ve heard it at wakes and viewings while people offer condolences to those who are grieving—give it time. For those of us who live with a mental disorder, how many times has someone said to you, “in time, you’ll feel better,” while you’re feeling symptoms and you’re struggling to move beyond them? As someone who lives with post-traumatic stress disorder, I can tell you I’ve been told these phrases by well-meaning people hundreds of times, and I hate to say it but their advice is completely off.

Time heals all wounds is one of the most deceptive sentences in existence. Back in 1997 when my PTSD developed, I had hoped that time would heal my wounds, but as days went by, I quickly realized the pain remained. As a result, my early twenties were less about spending time having fun and more about watching Game Show Network while curled up in my black leather bean bag chair. Though I remained highly functioning by not missing any college classes or assignments while holding down a part time job, which became an easy way to convince myself that I was doing better than I really was, the comfort I craved from the noise that randomly popped up in my head determined what I did with the rest of my time. During that time, there was no healing happening.

That time was spent napping for hours, watching old episodes of Press Your Luck, eating microwaved macaroni and cheese, staring off into space and hearing laughter outside my window as groups of fellow students passed by. It was not spent bar hopping, partying, going to music festivals, staying up late into the night having deep conversations with friends, going out on dates or having fun and living life.

Even though I had spent that time searching for comfort from the anxiety, flashbacks and anger that were not a part of me before my trauma and caused me to wonder who I was and what my life would become, that time did not heal my wounds.

Thank goodness I learned early on that this phrase was a great big myth. My pattern of waiting for my symptoms to go away was derailed when I signed up for a college course that, unbeknownst to me, included yoga. I had done yoga before my traumatic experience, but I hadn’t practiced it since. Those first few yoga poses took the edge off the noise in my head within minutes. By the end of the session, my breath was deeper, I stood taller and the weight I had carried with me from my trauma felt a lot lighter. I knew I needed to do yoga every day.

Years later, I experienced the same thing after receiving my first therapeutic massage. Then again after acupuncture. Then after writing. Running. Hiking. Cooking. Nearly every new activity that I learned to love came with the benefit of making me feel better. The more I did these things, the better I felt. Now over twenty years later, I have a lot of tools that I rely on to help keep my mind in as peaceful a state as possible. All of these things I learned over time, but time wasn’t what healed my wounds. My effort did.

Effort is everything. In 2011 I had my biggest relapse of symptoms. It was the first time I sought out a therapist, which I had avoided for years. I had many excuses: I didn’t want to spend the money, I didn’t think I needed it, I didn’t want to be diagnosed with a mental disorder, etc. My therapist noted that the effort I had put into the activities are what helped me live a good life with PTSD up to that point. Since that session with that therapist, I’ve been symptom free. I’ve also lived happily knowing that if my symptoms should return I know the steps I need to take to find my way out of them. I also understand that making an effort to go to a therapist is more valuable that I first acknowledged.

I can totally appreciate that depending on where you are with your PTSD that it may be hard to hear that making an effort matters. If someone had said to me while I was sitting in my black leather bean bag chair that I needed to make an effort in order to start living my life again, I would have told that person they didn’t understand and to leave me alone. I’ve been there, so you can’t tell me I don’t understand. I do.

Time does not heal wounds. Effort does. If you’re waiting for the clock to magically make you feel better, you’re going to be waiting a long time. I missed out on a lot of fun because I wasn’t making an effort. I’m grateful that I turned things around for myself.

Dreams

This photo of Chichen Itza, taken by my husband while we were on our honeymoon, hangs on the wall behind me where I sit at my desk at my acupuncture practice. It’s not there to be prominently displayed like I have the rest of this photography throughout my office, all of which is much nicer than this piece. It’s there to serve as a reminder to me to never give up on a dream.

Some back story….a few years after our honeymoon, we returned to Riviera Maya, Mexico. We decided to take a tour of Coba, which was the only ruins in the area that you could still climb, and which the tour guides frequently mentioned that officials may soon stop people from climbing its steep staircase in the near future. Once we arrived, I looked up from the base and felt really small. I began to climb and quickly became nervous by the smoothness (and slipperiness) of each step. Some steps had deep cracks. Some were missing entirely. Some had gravel. Some seemed loose. Most, or perhaps all, were uneven. It didn’t help that I was wearing sandals and a skirt. I got about halfway up and decided it wasn’t worth it to continue. As soon as I got back to the bottom, regret began to build, which I masked at irritation at my husband for not helping me climb to the top, even though it wasn’t his job to help me and I’m the one who made the decision to stop. Unfortunately, I dumped a bunch of disappointment onto my husband, which needless to say I later realized was misdirected disappointment that should have been towards myself. By the time I realized this, we were already on a beach nearing the end of our excursion.

Have you ever given up on a goal and been so upset at yourself for doing so that you can hardly think about it? Even though climbing Coba was never on my bucket list of major life accomplishments like earning my graduate degree or opening my acupuncture practice were, it nagged at me loudly as if it was every time I thought about it.

There’s no eloquent way to put this….giving up on goals sucks. As a child, I often thought about elaborate adventures and big dreams, including growing up to be a butterfly, I think I was born this way. When I developed PTSD at age twenty, suddenly an immense desire to remain safe and comfortable overwhelmingly outweighed my desire to dream. Goals became smaller, and the big ones like I had when I was a little kid that were actually attainable seemed insurmountable.

After walking away from climbing Coba, which was such a small goal compared to others I’d had, I’d had enough. I decided that I was no longer going to give up on goals and that I would see things to completion no matter what it took.

It just so happened that around this time I had decided to write my memoir. The idea was whispering to me frequently—that sharing my story of how I found my way out of my PTSD symptoms while grieving the loss of my father and finding a new life purpose may inspire others to do the same. At this point sixteen years later, I had learned how to find peace with what happened and create a life by my design, not one that I fell into and floated along without a conscious decision. I didn’t have any examples from anyone who had learned to live a happy life with PTSD, so my hope is that my story will be the example that people are looking for.

Though I didn’t intend to write most of book at my acupuncture office, it quickly became clear to me that doing so would allow me to be more productive as well as keep the energy that at times I was dumping onto the keyboard out of my home. I wasn’t even a thousand words in when I thought of Coba and how there was no chance I was going to allow myself to not complete this dream. Up went the photo of Chichen Itza. Why not Coba? Because Chichen Itza was no longer climbable for many years when we visited during our honeymoon, but if it had been, I highly doubt I would have made it to the top given that it appears much scarier than Coba. I’ll never be able to climb these stairs, so to me this image was a gentle reminder that dreams have a deadline and I should never give up. Though this seems silly, I also really liked that at the top it looks like a smiley face, also reminding me how wonderful the view is upon completing a goal.

I’m really looking forward to next week, January 25th to be specific, when my book Peace with Trees will be released and when I can celebrate the completion of one of the biggest dreams I’ve ever given myself. Like I say in my acknowledgements to everyone who has ever shared their PTSD story with me—never lose hope that your life can get better.

Worth noting….a little over a year ago, we returned to Mexico. A different excursion that included visiting Coba was offered and we decided to go back. I had decided that I was going to climb to the top. Because it was later in the day and the stairs had baked in the sun, it was harder than my first attempt. However, I held onto my will and I made it to the top with ease. Thankfully, I had made it back down to the bottom before someone else in our tour group had tumbled down about a third of the way. Fortunately, and miraculously, he wasn’t hurt.

Surrender

Last night I went to my first yoga class in a long time. I’ve been doing yoga on and off for the last twenty-three years, but because I got into running and life became a bit busy, my yoga practice fell by the wayside for the last couple of years. Lately I’ve been experiencing some shoulder tension and tightness thanks to too much time on the computer, and even though the release of my memoir is a very exciting time, it comes with some stress from learning how to get my book in the hands of as many people as possible to making publishing decisions I’ve never made before to strengthening the belief I have in the lessons my book provides against the insecurities that come from exposing some big, personal stuff….something I’m sure many who write experience. It’s no wonder I’ve been wanting to do yoga for the last few weeks.

Sure yoga is exercise, but for me it’s always been a practice that has brought me peace of mind. I was lucky that I had the opportunity to do yoga not long after I developed PTSD. In anticipation of potential, unexpected stress that may come with the release of my book (for example rough reviews, lower than expected reception, etc.) I decided my New Years resolution would be to go to a yoga class once a week. Like many of us do as a way to hold ourselves accountable while seeking support, I put this resolution on Facebook. Within minutes, a friend mentioned a class to me, which happens to be the class that aligns perfectly with my schedule. Last night was the first class.

It’s funny how when you step away from an activity that you love that it seems different when you return. I was expecting my mind to quiet immediately and for it to be easy. This was not an advanced yoga class at all, but it was one of the hardest yoga routines I’ve ever experienced. Tree pose on my right foot felt impossible but easy on my left foot. My hamstrings have never felt tighter during downward dog. Sweeping down into a forward bend my right and left sides felt so different that I thought I was going to tip over. I could not get my right arm straight when I was in plank pose. Just when we were told to lay on our backs I thought finally…shavasana….only to be told that we were going to do bridge pose. These were once easy for me to do, and as I got into bridge pose I lamented to myself how much my body felt out of alignment.

Then we moved into a twist on the floor where I could stretch my right arm out and away from my body. That’s when the magic happened. Deep inside my shoulder, likely within my rotator cuff, was the main culprit to my tension. It held the stress from writing, from editing, from researching, from wondering, from worrying, from questioning, from doubting and from all the everyday tasks sprinkled inbetween. As I breathed deeply, I felt a deep stretch within one of those muscles, and it spread down all the way to my fingers and all the way down into my lower back. With this release came these thoughts….

The reception of my book will be what it will be.
I cannot control the outcome.
I can only control my effort.
What I’ve done is enough.

Sometimes in attaining the goals we care so much about we get caught up in wanting to control everything, but the truth is there is very little we have control over. At this point in my book’s journey, there’s very little for me to control….I have to allow myself to surrender to its own path, not the one I have in my mind.

However, what I can do is sit in gratitude for what writing my story has done for me, and also be thankful that my new yoga routine will get my body back in alignment.