Seeking the perpetual whirlwind: when the calm after the storm becomes the calm before the storm

I want to write, but I need caffeine.
and to cry.

and to learn to be content.
to let calm catch up with me.
instead of seeking the perpetual whirlwind.

I think I learned to survive by running headfirst.
You see, I couldn't run AWAY.

Away from what? They were drugging me, I'd learned to dissociate at a very young age (possibly from infancy) so I wasn't recording the worst of the memories. My body was feeling, and fearing and despairing but cognitively accounting for why would have left me insane. Never mind the grooming, coaching and outright brainwashing.

I lived my life on high alert never missing a thing, except THE things. I've been all but told there were neurosurgeons among them. If a neurosurgeon didn't want you remembering something, do you think you would stand a chance?  How about when you were 3, 6, 15?

If you want to be in my shoes try imagining this scenario.

I couldn't run AWAY because I didn't know where or what the trouble was? My birth-family and other perpetrators were experts in dismissing and demeaning us, for the littlest things. I remember being lined up between my brother's after my bio father had found and unfinished apple core in the yard, with our mouths open, so he could determine who's mouth the bite marks fit, and therefor had waisted the apple y not finishing it and be "punished." When I thought of this as an adult it seemed to me an absurd way to determine guilt, until it hit me that it was never about punishment or wrongdoing. It was about instilling fear and establishing dominance.

So I ran TO. things. Experiences, changes, places. When I was beaten, drugged, raped, tortured, I didn't... respond to it. I couldn't. For two reasons. 1.) It was my norm, and had been since birth and 2.) I didn't remember that anything had happened. I couldn't say "I'm not safe at night, my father comes in and rapes me." Instead, I spent hours praying and dabbing "holy oil" on the walls, doorways and windows to keep the demons out. The demons came to me in the form of the incomprehensible (given that we had no indoor cats) sensation of a cat jumping onto my bed when I was asleep, or falling asleep. A sensation that scared me terribly, but never caused me to turn around and look at where the cat wasn't.  Instead, I, for reason's my mind never required me to articulate, snuck out at night to leave and sleep in my neighbors carpeted storage shed. This I did with such regularity that he began to leave blankets and pillows there under the desk for whenever they were needed. Instead, I searched the yellow pages (remember those) for the numbers of, and cold called women's shelter's, without ever being able say more than "I think I need help, do you take kids?" They didn't, so I panicked and refused to answer any follow up questions. I couldn't, after all. I did not know what I was running from. So instead I ran to. I ran to school, to church, to friends houses (one's so regularly that they kept a bed ready for me). I ran to anyone who would give me the time of day. Instead, I ran to anyone or anyplace I thought could hide me, or keep me away  or buffer the possibility of being hurt for a little while, at least.

The result of all that running TO, is that, now (only just now) am I realizing that my habit of running to is, at it's core, also a running FROM.  Calm scares me. I crave it. Until I have it. And then, I always discover there is something just beyond the horizon begging me to come running. Let's have a kid, adopt a kid, become porn stars, move to another country, go back to school, go back to school again, hey, we never adopted a kid yet, that person looks like they need a place to live - we still have one unoccupied room in the house, let's move to China, let's get a divorce, No, I really like you, let's finally adopt that kid, I need a different kind of job, I need to go back to school, I really can't live with you anymore, the furniture needs to be rearranged, I'm a lesbian, I'm an artist, I want to go back to school, Let's adopt a kid...

All of those things, I genuinely feel.  Feel so strongly. But what's driving the urgency is that when things slow down my brain says "warning! warning! warning!". Because of a little thing called the cycle of violence, in which intimate violence is enacted in repeating phases of calm (called honeymoon) and escalating tensions (called tension building) to outbursts of acute violence (called explosion). What you will often see (remember I'm a social worker as well as a survivor) is this cycle spiraling in on itself with extended exposure such that the honeymoon period shrinks or becomes almost non-existent or only appears intermittently (such as after more extreme outbursts or external influences intruding into the cycle like medical or legal attention, a partner leaving and returning, a relative visiting etc...) and you left with little more than the tension building phase followed by explosion followed by the tensions building into the next explosion of violence.
Perpetrators of such violence are expert at intimidating their victims into believing the violence, rather than being a barometer of their internal workings, is caused by their failings. Add to that a child's developmentally appropriate egocentrism (the belief that the world revolves around, and can therefore be influenced by, the child) and you often get a child who's only mechanism of self protection is the illusion of control. The chid may not be able to stop the violence from happening, but they may be able to bring it on, and in doing so create an illusion of predictability.  Translation: Kaja's brain has been trained to interpret calm, even relative calm as a signal of violence to come. And, given my lack of viable options for most of the time of my abuse, what I learned to do in the face of that treat, is to enact chaos. I learned calm is the unpredictable time in which, not knowing where or what the next violence will come from or be, that I must run. Not away (from what, remember?) but TO. To something, anything. If it's a good thing, all the better.

The long and short of it is that now, when calm means I can sit down and do homework with my Brown-eyes or hunt Krëiks with Tousled: when calm means eating dinner together and catching up on paying bills; when calm means finishing that book or running errands so that Handsome and I can sustain the kind of life we have worked so hard to build for ourselves and our children, I must learn to fight the overwhelming desire to make it the time paint the living room, buy a dog, start a new company based on some great idea I know nothing about...

When things begin to settle down, for a change, and my heart begins to pound and my mind begins to race,

I need to write, put the kettle on.
Have a good cry.

I need to learn to be content.
to let calm catch up with me.
instead of seeking the perpetual whirlwind.

I must learn to believe in the calm after the storm, too.

Seeking the whirlwind: when the calm after the storm becomes the calm before the storm

I want to write, but I need caffeine.
and to cry.

and to learn to be content.
to let calm catch up with me.
instead of seeking the perpetual whirlwind.

I think I learned to survive by running headfirst.
You see, I couldn't run AWAY.

Away from what? They were drugging me, I'd learned to dissociate at a very young age (possibly from infancy) so I wasn't recording the worst of the memories. My body was feeling, and fearing and despairing but cognitively accounting for why would have left me insane. Never mind the grooming, coaching and outright brainwashing.

I lived my life on high alert never missing a thing, except THE things. I've been all but told there were neurosurgeons among them. If a neurosurgeon didn't want you remembering something, do you think you would stand a chance?  How about when you were 3, 6, 15?

If you want to be in my shoes try imagining this scenario.

I couldn't run AWAY because I didn't know where or what the trouble was? My birth-family and other perpetrators were experts in dismissing and demeaning us, for the littlest things. I remember being lined up between my brother's after my bio father had found and unfinished apple core in the yard, with our mouths open, so he could determine who's mouth the bite marks fit, and therefor had waisted the apple y not finishing it and be "punished." When I thought of this as an adult it seemed to me an absurd way to determine guilt, until it hit me that it was never about punishment or wrongdoing. It was about instilling fear and establishing dominance.

So I ran TO. things. Experiences, changes, places. When I was beaten, drugged, raped, tortured, I didn't... respond to it. I couldn't. For two reasons. 1.) It was my norm, and had been since birth and 2.) I didn't remember that anything had happened. I couldn't say "I'm not safe at night, my father comes in and rapes me." Instead, I spent hours praying and dabbing "holy oil" on the walls, doorways and windows to keep the demons out. The demons came to me in the form of the incomprehensible (given that we had no indoor cats) sensation of a cat jumping onto my bed when I was asleep, or falling asleep. A sensation that scared me terribly, but never caused me to turn around and look at where the cat wasn't.  Instead, I, for reason's my mind never required me to articulate, snuck out at night to leave and sleep in my neighbors carpeted storage shed. This I did with such regularity that he began to leave blankets and pillows there under the desk for whenever they were needed. Instead, I searched the yellow pages (remember those) for the numbers of, and cold called women's shelter's, without ever being able say more than "I think I need help, do you take kids?" They didn't, so I panicked and refused to answer any follow up questions. I couldn't, after all. I did not know what I was running from. So instead I ran to. I ran to school, to church, to friends houses (one's so regularly that they kept a bed ready for me). I ran to anyone who would give me the time of day. Instead, I ran to anyone or anyplace I thought could hide me, or keep me away  or buffer the possibility of being hurt for a little while, at least.

The result of all that running TO, is that, now (only just now) am I realizing that my habit of running to is, at it's core, also a running FROM.  Calm scares me. I crave it. Until I have it. And then, I always discover there is something just beyond the horizon begging me to come running. Let's have a kid, adopt a kid, become porn stars, move to another country, go back to school, go back to school again, hey, we never adopted a kid yet, that person looks like they need a place to live - we still have one unoccupied room in the house, let's move to China, let's get a divorce, No, I really like you, let's finally adopt that kid, I need a different kind of job, I need to go back to school, I really can't live with you anymore, the furniture needs to be rearranged, I'm a lesbian, I'm an artist, I want to go back to school, Let's adopt a kid...

All of those things, I genuinely feel.  Feel so strongly. But what's driving the urgency is that when things slow down my brain says "warning! warning! warning!". Because of a little thing called the cycle of violence, in which intimate violence is enacted in repeating phases of calm (called honeymoon) and escalating tensions (called tension building) to outbursts of acute violence (called explosion). What you will often see (remember I'm a social worker as well as a survivor) is this cycle spiraling in on itself with extended exposure such that the honeymoon period shrinks or becomes almost non-existent or only appears intermittently (such as after more extreme outbursts or external influences intruding into the cycle like medical or legal attention, a partner leaving and returning, a relative visiting etc...) and you left with little more than the tension building phase followed by explosion followed by the tensions building into the next explosion of violence.
Perpetrators of such violence are expert at intimidating their victims into believing the violence, rather than being a barometer of their internal workings, is caused by their failings. Add to that a child's developmentally appropriate egocentrism (the belief that the world revolves around, and can therefore be influenced by, the child) and you often get a child who's only mechanism of self protection is the illusion of control. The chid may not be able to stop the violence from happening, but they may be able to bring it on, and in doing so create an illusion of predictability.  Translation: Kaja's brain has been trained to interpret calm, even relative calm as a signal of violence to come. And, given my lack of viable options for most of the time of my abuse, what I learned to do in the face of that treat, is to enact chaos. I learned calm is the unpredictable time in which, not knowing where or what the next violence will come from or be, that I must run. Not away (from what, remember?) but TO. To something, anything. If it's a good thing, all the better.

The long and short of it is that now, when calm means I can sit down and do homework with my Brown-eyes or hunt Krëiks with Tousled: when calm means eating dinner together and catching up on paying bills; when calm means finishing that book or running errands so that Handsome and I can sustain the kind of life we have worked so hard to build for ourselves and our children, I must learn to fight the overwhelming desire to make it the time paint the living room, buy a dog, start a new company based on some great idea I know nothing about...

When things begin to settle down, for a change, and my heart begins to pound and my mind begins to race,

I need to write, put the kettle on.
Have a good cry.

I need to learn to be content.
to let calm catch up with me.
instead of seeking the perpetual whirlwind.

I must learn to believe in the calm after the storm, too.

Walking in my shoes : an exercise in insight and compassion.

Imagine...

You go to your Dr. and are told you have growth that will need surgery. It's benign but it should be removed and studied just to be on the safe side. They refer you to a surgeon, say you'll be in good hands. You meet the surgeon, he seems knowledgable, compassionate. On the day of surgery you sign all the waivers and consents, get changed, are hooked up to the IV with assurances of being well cared for and what to expect when you come to. You may be groggy and confused, but we will be here to help orient you, and in a few hours you'll be sore, but doing much better.

Then, right as you begin to feel the effects of the anesthetic taking over, your surgeon closes the door, leans over and says,

I'm going to fuck you so hard you're not going to know what hit you, and the best part is, you're not going to remember a thing.

The lights flicker, a machine beeps, a nurse laughs... you try to say something, move an arm. nothing. nothing. nothing.

You're dreaming. Someone's dropping boulders on you, but just as you begin to feel their true weight they burst into cloth water balloons leaking warm water all over your abdomen, sex and legs. You're at a park... at night for some reason. Or is it day but dark out? A truck rumbles past. Now you're on the truck laying in the back of it swaying with it's motion. It's definitely night and the air is cold. You're feet are cold. You hurt everywhere, especially in the stomach and between the thighs. You are in a mostly white room. Someone is talking to you. Patting your shoulder. You are crying. Another voice says, "Here (s)he is."
The surgeon's face appears. His features are calm and at once reassuring and confusing. "Hi there" he says.
"Did you have a bad dream?"
He pat's your shoulder again. "Well, everything went well. I think we got everything cleaned out. The cyst looks benign, but of course we'll send it to the lab, just to be sure and see if we can find a cause. I'll be back in a few hours when you are feeling a bit better, and keep you updated."

He taps the nurse on the arm with a file, presumably yours, "These guys will take good care of you" and walks out.

You can not keep your eyes open. You struggle to, but everything goes black anyway.

The next time you wake it is to the quiet beeping of your monitors, you're partner is quietly reading on their phone next to the hospital bed. You are wearing a differently colored gown. You hurt. Your mouth is dry. You hear the muffled evidence of the nurses going about there work out in the hall, caring for other patients.

What happened?

Indeed.

The proof is in the following hours, days, weeks, months and years. The evidence is within you, if not within your body, within your soul. For you to acknowledge or laugh off as a strong reaction to the anesthetics and narcotics. The truth is in your recovery and what it takes, in what works and doesn't work.

Who would you tell? Who wouldn't you tell? How hard would you insist if you were told over, and over again, that your experience is common and what you say happened is impossible? That there would be evidence, but there isn't. Would you request a rape kit? What if it came back negative? No one's DNA anywhere inside of you? Security camera footage was not on you much of the time, but also show's nothing suspicious. What do you do the next time you go to your Dr.'s? Was he/she in on it? Was it a dream? What do you do the next time you are told you need anesthesia (of any kind)? What do you do with your new obsession with sleeping with everything that walks? Or your total disinterest in your partner?

How do you proceed with living life?

Therapy : two years in (for the truly broken among us)

I'm learning...

i mean, i still fight back

but I stay.

I cry, I beg you to stop talking

I jiggle my arms and legs and arch my back

I hold my hands to my head and rock

and argue

of course

but I stay.

I stay with you.

I think you're telling me that I'm bad

to feel ashamed

and I do.

I hear the yelling louder an louder inside me.

just no, no. no!

my yelling.

but i hear something else too,

which is you.

I hear you over everything,

I hear you caring and seeing me,

even though i'm overwhelmed by all the past terror fusing into this moment,

even though you're about to kick me out for no one to hold

(not that i can tolerate being held anyway... i wish...)

so i stay.

I stay and feel what's to much to feel.

I don't exactly slam your door when I burst out of my seat.

because it's time. it's time.

not because i'm angry,

even though I am,

but because anger at you for kicking me out is the only way to leave

the only way to leave       so.

much.

pain.

in your hands.

but that's learning, right?

I mean,

you remember

incredibly.

how much worse i used to be?

what will you sacrifice?

I know it doesn't matter. I know I've nothing new to say. I know my words hold no special power by virtue of celebrity, or connections to the named previous tragedies (no more than any American). I know it's worse in a war zone. I know someone's said it louder and better and clearer and certainly many, many times before.
But I don't care. Because I'm angry.
and frankly
I'd rather not be next.
see the next
to lose a child
a boss
a friend
a mother
neighbor
or stranger who looks just like ( I swear) my sister's boyfriend's daughter.
I'm tired of watching it get closer
and closer
to home.
So here is what I'm willing to sacrifice
in the pursuit of
#nomoreshootings

1. My stock belief that a men's rights activist is almost certain to be profoundly misguided
           tell me sir, what you bring to the table.

2. My anger over the scapegoating of the mentally ill, which I'm certain is "othering" at it's core, but
           let's put it on the table, for the sake of even one less death.

3. My certainty that the NRA is trading lives for profit in the currency of fear.
            certainly there is room for you to prove me wrong.

4. My dismissal of anyone who has ever posted a meme about a gun not managing to run off and shoot someone on it's own.
             sure. point made. But now let's take it to the next level. let's please conversate

5. My inaction. I get it. preaching at facebook, crying to my husband, holding my children closer. all have done precisely nothing to stop the onward march of this perfectly preventable pandemic of violence and complacency.

Let's please be the next voice calling to #makeitstop

after all...

I'd rather not see the next one, be the next one, fuel the next one, resign myself to the next one.

and if I must

I'd rather die trying, even failing, than simply waiting

for the next one

#nonextone

On the topic of expeditions

Essay Poetry written fall of 2000 at the age of 16.

If I were to do an expedition, I would become the wind
I would sweep across the prairies and wage war with the mountain peaks.
Where fires burned I would breath on them and grow bigger and stronger and wilder with the rising heat. I would feel the pull of the moon on the wares and I would whip the froth of foam on every surfer's face.
I would moan and howl and cry out across the desert lands and purge the dunes for the crimes of those in prisons I could not knock down,
I would whip the hair back from the mourners face and streak their tears from their eyes straight to the ears.
I would be the furry for the meek and become silent, cease to be for the furious.
And I would remind myself to leave the lakes inside of roses.

brothers have nothing on us

           Brothers are great...

                   but sisters!

   sisters hold you legs while bear new life

sister's have seen when you never had a chance

 and sacrificed without ever telling you.

   sister's observe your every flaw

    and yet forgive your every sin.

  Only a sister can speak the harshest truth

                                                                                             in a tone that reassures

                                                                                    or wake you from troubling dreams
                                                                                 
                                                                                                  without a start.

                                                                                     it is our sisters who restore our faith

                                                                                                   in humanity.

                                                                                                        surely...

                                                                                  sisterhood is the sanctuary of womanhood