Survival Tactics - Peeling Away the Layers

Peeling away my built-in survival tactics has been and continues to be a life-long process.

Although I didn't know it at the time, I used many survival tactics as a child. During adulthood, I became aware of numerous ways in which the "child me" ensured my continued existence: denial, dissociation, inability to feel, stepping in as the family mother, etc.

I am certain that the exact mechanisms that save our lives as children, harm us as adults. Recently, I was amazed to learn that the very rhythm of my life is part and parcel of one of my childhood survival tactics. But, I'll get to that.

Undoing life-long mechanisms is a very difficult undertaking. Awareness is the first step, but even when we become aware, it is hard to let go.

As I've peeled away each method of survival, I've thanked the child me for keeping us alive and reassured her that the adult me can "take it from here." Twenty years ago, denial was the first to go. I say that as if it happened overnight. On the contrary; I spent more than ten adult years in denial. Not denial over the facts: daily beatings, burning my 10-year old hands, thrown down the stairs, stabbed with a fork, etc., but rather, "Is that really so bad?"

As a dependent child, denial protected me from that which was too painful to bear. As an adult, denial kept me in harms way. I had to "shake myself" free from denial in order to protect myself from further abuse and to heal. Ridding myself of denial opened the door to validation, expressing my anger, and moving from victim to survivor.

Then, another hidden survival tactic revealed itself: dissociation. As an adult, dissociation not only covered up the pain of my past, it was such a intricate part of my make-up that it also masked painful situations in the present. Pain has a purpose; it warns us of impending injury and is a useful resource for protecting ourselves.

I dissociated for twenty-five years before I learned about this part of myself. Today, I can identify the day when, at ten years old, I laid the groundwork for dissociation. For some reason, I could handle my own abuse far better than helplessly watching as my brothers were beaten.

One day, months after my mother married my step father Ed, for no apparent reason, he unleashed his rage on my sweet and innocent five-year old brother Randy.

The harsh command, "Grab 'em, Randy" thundered through the kitchen. Little Randy immediately complied, bent over, and grabbed his tiny ankles. I watched with horror as the blow cracked across my baby brother's small behind. Randy jumped, screamed with pain, and grabbed his burning buttocks.

Ed turned on him with renewed fury, and informed him he had just broken the new rule of letting go of his ankles without permission.

"Just for that," Ed screamed in undisguised rage, "you'll get two more," and with that hauled off with the heavy wooden paddle, hitting him again. Little Randy flew across the kitchen and landed face first on the cold linoleum floor in a dark corner of the room, crying but still holding onto his ankles. Ed grabbed my terrified brother around the waist while Randy's hands remained locked around his ankles, set him upright, and administered the second blow.

I stood trance-like without moving a muscle, unable to help, powerless to prevent the next beating. I imagined myself safe in my room, away from the scene of the pain.

As the daily violence escalated, this dissociative groundwork morphed into "fugues" where I unknowingly disappeared to an unknown place. These "fugues" continued into adulthood whenever I experienced unbearable pain.

Once I learned about my dissociation, I spent years letting go of this old method of keeping the pain at bay.

Once I stopped dissociating, I went about the hard work of peeling away another survival tactic - not feeling. I learned to stay present with my emotions, rather than "powering" through the pain. This meant something new for me. Rather than ignoring my feelings, I sat with my anger, depression and sadness for days or months on end in order to resolve my circumstances. I was in very unfamiliar territory.

For instance, I dropped my familiar "tough guy" persona and mourned past and current losses. This change allowed me to "deal" and affect changes in my life rather than "suck up" an ever-increasing and suffocating mountain of pain.

At times it sucks to feel pain in a "normal" way. It also feels "freeing" and healthy. The past few years have brought relief to feel unencumbered by my past. All my hard work paid dividends in that I feel empowered to safeguard my own well-being.

Imagine my surprise when a new survival tactic reared its head and bit me in the ......

This survival mechanism is the part of me I call "computer girl." Of course, computer girl has her roots in my childhood. There was no one to take care of us and bring the much-needed order and cohesiveness into our lives. I learned to ignore my body, while I "powered through" and did what ever it took for my psyche to survive. After all, when your body is ravaged by abuse, it is accustomed to a normal state of physical pain and stress. So, computer girl took over and has continued to rule my life.

From the moment I wake up each day, "computer girl" boots up and races to organize my every movement, project, and all of the responsibilities I have collected along the way: I have to do this.....and that...and this...and this... work, home, family, friends, writing, recovery...This is how I can solve this problem at work....churn, churn, churn...This is how I can create this system at work..churn, churn, churn, This is how I can write this...churn, churn, churn...don't forget this appointment, that social event, resolve this...churn, churn, churn, etc.. until I go to bed.

Finally, at the brink of total exhaustion, I have to listen to my body. Am I tired? Run down? Stressed? Affecting my health? The answer to all of these questions is, "Yes!"

It's time to find a new rhythm for my life; to bring my mind and body into sync. I've had to tell computer girl - the wounded child - that she can still use her organizational skills, but she can no longer be in the drivers seat. The "adult me" is going to take control and care for us both. Computer girl is resisting.

It is a very uncomfortable process to listen to the body I've ignored all my life.

As I struggle to peel away another survival mechanism, just as before, I want instant results. But alas - change takes time.....

Dealing with Dissociation

A fellow survivor recently asked me how I dealt with my dissociation. I thought I would share my answer here. Of course, this is just an outline for a very complicated process:

It took a number of years for me to get a handle on my dissociation. The first step was to simply become aware that I dissociated.

Because I had dissociated since I was a child, the emotional disconnect felt so normal to me that I didn't even know that I experienced "altered states" until a therapist pointed it out to me.

After my counselor helped me identify times when I dissociated, I learned that it had a certain recognizable "quality," just like a dream has a familiar feel to it.

The clinical definition of dissociation is a disturbance or alteration in the normally integrative functions of identity, memory, or consciousness. In children, this may occur following physical abuse or trauma.

Most abuse survivors I have talked to have said that they have trouble "feeling," or that they have become "numb." Dissociation can manifest itself to many different degrees and in many different fashions; therefore, it can simply mean an inability to "feel." For me, when the pain became "too much," I became "trance like." My gaze became transfixed to one unknown spot and I disconnected from my feelings and surroundings. I could hear what was going on around me, but I couldn't "respond" to words, noises, or actions, because my emotional self "disappeared."

When I was a child, dissociation "saved my life." It was my survival tactic. If I had to feel that which was unbearable and unending, I would have most likely gone insane. Dissociation protected my sanity at a time when I had no one to help me.

Long after I grew up, I learned that the very mechanism that saved me as a child, harmed me as an adult. I couldn't protect myself when I was young, but I could and should as an adult.

I often stayed in "harmful" situations because I unknowingly dissociated rather than reacting to pain and safe-guarding my own well-being. If we listen closely, pain is a useful resource for protecting ourselves.

Once I realized that I did indeed dissociate, that the "emotional absences" were harmful to me, and that they prevented me from healing, I made a concerted effort to "re-wire" my responses. This of course takes a great deal of time.

Whenever I felt the "quality" that comes with dissociation, I began to "pull" myself out. I shifted my eyes away from that far off "blank stare," and forced myself to remain present with my surroundings. If I was with someone safe, that meant saying, "I'm struggling with keeping myself present and not dissociating."

If I was not with someone safe, that meant leaving or re-directing myself by whatever means necessary to "stay present." I'd also like to note that my symptoms of dissociation and PTSD often overlapped as I was trying to deal with my childhood abuse.

Learning to recognize and prevent these "trances" consistently took a very long time. In this way, I learned to redirected myself from dissociating, and stay present with what was happening, but I didn't yet learn to "hold" my own feelings.

It took a great deal of therapy to create an environment safe enough to "hold" my feelings and to resolve them with self-compassion and love. At first, I was so out of my comfort zone, I felt like I was feeling my away around in the dark. I kept asking my therapist, "Is it normal to feel this way?" I had no frame of reference.

Just like with any healing, we don't just turn on a switch and suddenly "feel" everything. It would be too much. Our psyche can only take on so much pain at once and our minds guide us through the process in baby steps as we are ready to take on more feelings. (See "What? I Can Feel This?")

Sometimes, it felt like I would never get to the other side, but I did, and it feels more rewarding than I ever thought possible.

What? I Can Feel This?

Not being able to feel is a common malady for abuse survivors. When I first delved into my recovery, I was frustrated with my inability to feel. Denial was one of my survival tactics. I pushed my anger, and grief down so deep, I was numb to my own pain. One of the first things I remember feeling was sadness that I couldn’t feel.

As I started healing, I began feeling. Slowly, I created safe environments to honor my pain and little by little, I stopped dissociating. My feelings didn’t turn on like a light switch one day. It was more like a dimmer switch over a period of many years.

I had conflicting emotions about learning to stay present with my pain. Pain isn’t fun. I was definitely out of my comfort zone while dealing with the agonizing emotions that I had always kept at bay. At first I wondered, “Can this be good?” Yet, it became apparent to me that it was good. Authentically honoring my pain eventually put much of the past to rest.

Pain has a purpose. It’s a warning that something isn’t right and we need to pay attention. For the last few years, I have felt empowered by letting my emotions guide me. Contrary to the past where I “powered” through each hurtful situation - which only served to allow more harm - I began using my pain as a useful tool to protect myself from injury.

For me, the up side to being able to cut off my emotions was that I always prided myself at being great in a crisis. Whether it was my five-year old daughter who fell off of her bike and broke her nose, my ex-husband who cut through his thumb with a skill-saw, a fire, or a car accident - while other’s around me panicked and became frozen with fear - I dissociated from my feelings and went into logical action mode. I didn’t feel the event at the time or afterwards. I just “powered” through.

All good things must come to an end. Okay, I realize that dissociation isn’t a good thing - but sometimes things that aren’t good - seem good.

In spite of all my work at staying present with the pain of past or current mistreatment, I still kept my emotional reaction to crisis turned off until the crisis was over. Rather than not feeling the crisis at all - I began feeling the crisis - after the fact.

Yesterday, for the first time, I felt the crisis while it was happening. Okay, I know this is more progress, but – Yuck!

One of my employees had an accident yesterday (I’ll call him Jessie). He unintentionally stuck his hand into a food processing machine while it was operating. Everyone was in a panic, and as usual, I went into crisis mode. Jessie was in agony. He was light-headed, chalk white, and sweat poured from his face. He needed immediate care. Rather than waiting for an ambulance and then waiting in a hospital emergency room, I drove him to the Occupational Emergency Service's about a mile from the plant.

We wrapped his hand in a towel and loaded him into my car. In route, I called ahead to warn them of our impeding arrival. Blood oozed everywhere as Jessie peeked at his hand underneath the towel and whimpered, “Will I lose it? Please help me, Nancy.”

I have him a reassuring glance and said, "We'll get you some help. Don't look at it, and breath deep."

Then it happened. My emotions started creeping in right in the middle of a crisis! What? I can feel this? I fought to control my emotions.

As soon as we arrived at Occupational Services, they whisked Jessie past everyone in the waiting room straight back to a room full of doctors and nurses who worked efficiently and compassionately. At one point while the doctors worked on his mangled hand, they told Jessie to look away and breathe deep. I fought to ignore my stress and my feelings of empathy for Jessie. I breathed with him while he squeezed my hand to cope with the pain. For the first time in my life, I became light-headed. I was completely taken by surprise! With my free hand, I reached for a chair, feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable that my emotions had gotten the better of me. Then I realized – this is okay. It’s just new to be fully present in the midst of a crisis.

All those years of not feeling gave me the facade of being tough. Yet, in reality, it was being tough enough to deal with the demons of my past that allowed me to feel this crisis.

I know I can still keep my head in an emergency. But I feel it now too. I did see Jessie through X-Ray, pre-op and surgery and fortunately, his prognosis is very good. I left exhausted, but feeling more whole than ever before.

Tunneling Out of the Prison in My Mind

I stood frozen, facing my brother’s window, feet glued to the grass beneath me. I knew what was coming.

First there came a terrifying crash and a loud thunk, followed by horrifying sounds. It didn’t seem possible that the noise came from a human being. Rob screamed! He screamed from his gut—deep guttural, low, raspy and raw sounds. He was in agony! He sounded as though he was dying. I never have forgotten those screams.

The howling sounds of outraged humanity told the story I would later piece together from a bruised and beaten Rob. Ed had blown into his room with hurricane force, reached for Rob, pulled him down and threw him headfirst from his top bunk. He then lifted him off of the floor and repeatedly smashed his head against the wall before he whirled him around to hit his back against the sharp corner of the aquarium stand. When Rob tried to escape, Ed chased him around the room, hitting him in the stomach and wherever else his flailing fists could connect.

Finding it unbearable to witness any more of my brother’s agony, I put myself into a trance. I remained standing still beneath the window and let the world drop away. I was in the middle of a big void. That’s all there was — the void and the endless screams; that room and those sounds. – From “Heal and Forgive.”

Whether it was my own abuse or witnessing the abuse of one of my brothers, I often dissociated from the pain. Sometimes the very mechanisms that protect us as children – harm us as adults. Dissociation prevented me from feeling and healing from the pain.

My child-mind had to banish that which was too painful – just to survive! My adult mind could only take on so much pain at once. Each time I accepted the reality of my mistreatment, my mind delved deeper into the pain – healing at a deeper level.

It took many years for my mind to move from denial to the reality of my abuse. After a period of adjustment – my mind was ready to go deeper.

Each time I tunneled through a new level of healing, I thought I was going crazy. I’d ask my therapist, “Am I going crazy?”

I wasn’t crazy. What happened to me was crazy! I was feeling the craziness of it all.

Sometimes, the tunnel can be murder! Each time I hit a deep patch of healing, I didn’t think I’d survive. Yet, each time I’d emerge to the other side, stronger and healthier than ever before.