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.