In the Ocean, Outside My Window

In order to change, people need to become aware of their sensations and the way that their bodies interact with the world around them. Physical self awareness is the first step in releasing the tyranny of the past. -Bessel A. Van Der Kolk

Opening up OneNote to journal feels foreign to me. I often think about how little I've been writing lately...since last December really. It's been nearly a year of feeling like I'm in the ocean - brief moments of staying afloat, feeling the sun on my face, and filling my lungs with air; otherwise pulled under by one thing or another, struggling to surface and come up for air. Though they are short lived, I cherish the moments when I feel like I'm floating.

Within My Window, Floating in a Pocket of Sunshine

I often wonder what feels normal to others because my life seems so abnormal. More often than not, it feels cold, isolating, and lonely. Anxiety, paranoia, fear, and hypervigilance dominate my inner world most of the time, which leads to reasoning with and therapizing myself throughout the day.

Apologizing for my demeanor has become a regular occurrence - one that leaves me feeling embarrassed and ashamed. My window of tolerance is pretty narrow, which leaves the door wide open for dysregulation, leading to intense states of hyperarousal and hypoarousal. Quite frequently throughout the day, others unknowingly catch me in moments when I've already crossed the threshold to dysregulation. In those moments, I'm fighting to stay present; I'm quickly becoming blended with parts and losing myself.

It doesn't take much for me to go from being pleasant and smiling to withdrawn and stomping around, grunting in frustration, snapping at others, yelling, throwing things, isolating myself, or crying. Hyperarousal is a state that I often find myself lost in. There's a cluster of parts who lead me there, and one part in particular who seems to get stuck in the eye of the storm. This part has gone by many names - starting with the Hothead, on to the Meter Rising, followed by Crusty Crispy and landing on the Crusty Crab (inspired by SpongeBob, of course). For the past 10 months, it has felt impossible to appease and balance the needs of the Critic, Fawn, and the Crusty Crab.

Despite drowning in that which has yet to be understood and expressed, I have remained consistent with attending therapy weekly and support group twice a month. Showing up is only half the battle though. The weighted shackles of trauma pull me deeper into that cold abyss where hypoarousal, depression, and dissociation are second nature.

When I'm pulled under and sinking fast, I lack the motivation to do the work that helps me see everything from above to figure it all out. When I don't do the work, I feel frozen. It can feel impossible to find the words to share in therapy and group, which makes it all the more challenging to see anyone socially outside those structured settings. I sit before friends and family, full of things to share and wanting to connect, but often remain silent. I know that I need more quality time with my people, but I don't know how to provide enjoyable quality time when my demeanor is often anxious, fearful, and withdrawn or unpleasant and crusty.

In Internal Family Systems therapy, when we want to better understand a part of ourselves, we approach it much like a casual interview. I like to think of it as an intentional conversation with a friend. Throughout the day, I'm going through this interview process with myself, speaking internally with one or more involved parts, which almost always involves the Critic, Fawn, and the Crusty Crab.

As I learn to become aware of sensations and the way that my body interacts with the world, I've noticed some patterns.

When I feel the Critic breathing down my neck, belittling and berating me, it causes Fawn to become overwhelmed and disregard the needs of self in order to appease everyone else, which quickly brings out the Crusty Crab. This transition from being within my window to dysregulated happens faster than I can comprehend. The Crusty Crab, fueled by irritation and anger, inevitably blows their lid, setting everything ablaze in a fiery state of hyperarousal. This state of panic promptly invites Avo to diffuse the situation. Avo gets the pipe, putting out the internal fire, and brings everything down from a chaotic 10 to a manageable 6. As this decompression process happens over the span of an hour, give or take, feelings of embarrassment and shame linger in the distance, which bring the Mediator, the Analyst, and the Fixer. The Fixer, keeping busy with quick tasks, often has to stand in until the Mediator and the Analyst are satisfied with their analysis and interpretation of the events that unfurled. This analysis ultimately points out who, externally, was on the receiving end and is in need of an apology for all that was unpleasant. Throughout this process, the Nail Biter anxiously bites my nails and picks at the flesh surrounding them, until they hurt or begin to bleed. This is one of the most uncomfortable states of being that I know and find myself in often. Being a small child, the Nail Biter doesn't know how to compose herself during stressful or anxiety provoking situations, but she knows that something is wrong. Her main way of communicating to the rest of the system is by causing minor pain that will hopefully bring attention to the fact that there is inner conflict in need of intervention and mediation. In her own way, she is calling out for help from older parts who can take action. All throughout this process, I remain outside of my body, unaware of how I am speaking to others and acting until the knowing feeling of embarrassment creeps in. My little parts don't do well with embarrassment; as soon as it's felt, it's like one of them starts tugging on my pant leg, begging for help to not feel that way. Embarrassment is the initial feeling that brings me back into my body, allows awareness to unfold, and causes me to apologize to those around me. This apology is often done with a frown on my face while talking in a hushed baby voice. This sudden timid demeanor makes me feel as if I've been transported back into my child self, confused and not understanding how or why any of this is happening. During or after the apology, guilt and grief creep in like a thick fog, an overwhelming knowing that I am indeed a grown adult who should know how to better compose herself.

It is in these moments of embarrassment, confusion, sadness, shame, guilt, and grief that the Mediator reminds me: I have complex PTSD and a dissociative disorder. I am having normal reactions to the abnormal things that happened to me. I cannot expect myself to hold myself with better composure when my window of tolerance is so narrow and the space between parts is so vast. Doing the work, noticing these patterns - detailing them and understanding them - is what will allow my window of tolerance to expand over time thus creating more space for me to operate in without becoming dysregulated and blended with parts beyond recognition in the moment.

After acknowledging the reality of it all, exhausted and overwhelmed by how much work is still ahead of me, I often recoil into myself and become a shell. I begin to sink and shut down, settling into a frozen state of hypoarousal.

A drawer full of cards, all purchased with intended recipients, never signed and addressed. A message drafted, but never sent. A connection made, but a date never set. An intention shared, but never met. A conversation started, but quickly left.

My mom was talking to my Uncle on the phone the other day, and he mentioned how he wishes he could talk to me more. He understands that I'm busy, but it saddens him that he only hears from me about once a year. I think about texting him at least once a week or sending him pictures of our garden, but never do because I have yet to respond to the last message he sent me that went unanswered.

My friend sent me a message recently wondering if she had done something wrong because I never responded to her last message from a year ago, and she really hopes that she didn't offend or upset me. I think about her every day as I drive by her apartment, wondering how she is and longing to see her, but never reaching out.

I can't even tell you how many times one of my oldest friends has called or texted to hang out over the past few months, and every time I say no because I'm feeling withdrawn, even though internally I'm screaming "YES! I desperately need you!"

I scroll through my messaging app, going back months to find something, and along the way see the overwhelming number of texts that remain bold - waiting to be opened, read, and responded to.

One voicemail sat in my inbox for over 2 years before listening to it. For those two years, my thumb would hover above the play button, shaking, until I'd inevitably lock my phone and walk away, unable to play the message. Once I finally listened to it before a therapy session, I was in tears because it was someone I love dearly calling to wish me a happy birthday.

I see you reaching out. I'm there within reach, but it feels like I'm sinking with my hands tied behind my back, and I can't reach back to grab onto you. So often throughout the day, I'm thrust outside my window of tolerance, which makes conversation and interaction with others feel impossible, even unbearable at times. I would love to be someone who's thought of as reliable, but it pains me to say I really don't think that I am.

An incoming text or call causes instant panic; an invisible but glaringly apparent expectation to show up and be real in the moment - to be present in body and mind, and respond as such, despite my current state and whatever triggers may arise. I watch calls coming in until the screen goes black. I swipe away notifications as quickly as I can. I leave messages and voicemails unopened until I feel mentally and emotionally prepared to respond in a way that allows me to feel like I'm actually showing up and not giving a fake answer. No matter who it is or what the intended connection was, the window of time I spend in avoidance and isolation is painfully apparent. I count the days, weeks, months, and years it takes for me to lean into connection with each individual person in my life. This disconnection and inability to overcome anxiety, fear, and paranoia leaves me feeling guilty and ashamed, which drives me further into avoidance, isolation, and dissociation. The Space Case.

In my life, getting together typically involves a shared spaced, an activity, and discussing random things - sometimes with tiny sprinkles of sharing the challenges of real life. Aside from running my business with my wife and owning 5 pets, it feels like my life revolves around mental health, parts work, trying to manage C-PTSD symptoms, and work through trauma. I'll typically talk about the business or my pets in conversation with others because I don't know how to talk to people about mental health and recovery if it's not something they openly discuss themselves (which most people don't). I'm comfortable mentioning therapy and support group in conversation, but those comments rarely lead to further discussion. For someone who invests so much into recovery and healing from trauma, not acknowledging these things in conversation can make the entire encounter can feel fake and unrewarding, even isolating. That's when I feel like I'm invisible or not real…like I really am alone in all of this, which is why I often choose to avoid connection with others altogether. After ignoring, numbing, and running from my inner world for so long, I would rather be acknowledging my reality alone than remain silent about it while surrounded by people. It's a flawed protection mechanism of the system - one in which I am trying to improve. One thing I've learned from Brené Brown is that true connection and belonging cannot happen without vulnerability, showing up, and letting oneself be seen.

I often share in therapy and support group how difficult it's been to write lately. It's not that the thoughts aren't there - it's that I don't know how to put the right words down and trust that I won't be criticized or shamed for sharing them. This deep distrust towards the world, from within and those in relationship with me, is defeating and discouraging. I spent the first two years of trauma recovery writing endlessly for hours. I started a blog as a safe space to share my thoughts and progress through recovery because I didn't know how to talk about it otherwise. I've found that as time goes on, misattunement with others is becoming increasingly apparent, making it all the more challenging to feel safe in being real and sharing. Even though I know it would help me to do so, I've avoided writing for months at a time, and have shared very little in conversation with others. This is the first time I've been able to put the jumble of thoughts about disconnection, isolation, and avoidance into words on a page. The Writer. This is truest way I show up.

Beneath the surface, I struggle to untangle myself from the criticism and shame I feel coming from within, from parts who are trying to protect me from further harm. These parts don't realize that I'm an adult, no longer in harms way. They think I'm still that helpless little girl, who needs to do what she's told, stay quiet, and keep the secret. The Mediator sits with each of these parts and shares their realities with the Writer, who assigns words and meaning in ways the others cannot easily do. The Writer knows the benefit in putting words on the page, giving voice to and externalizing things that have otherwise remained silenced and locked away internally. Putting words on the page creates more internal space, self-awareness, self-acceptance, and inner comfort. Each word, written and read, releases me, ever so slowly, from that criticism, shame, and fear. It frees up space to trust myself and lean into connection with others.

Sharing the reality of our lives - beyond the surface - is crucial in fostering meaningful connection with others. Each of our individual realities are made up of thoughts, feelings, emotions, and experiences; they are big and small, and happening to us all. When we withhold any part of that reality from ourselves or others, it begins to create a gap in our relationships. With each missed opportunity for connection, choosing to withhold rather than to share, that gap becomes visibly wider, perhaps shaking the foundation that the relationship was built upon. If we don't know, really know, what's going on in the lives and minds of those we love, we aren't able to show up for them or support them in the ways that they need. We fall out of sync and become misattuned to the needs of another, and vice versa.

Feeling unheard or unseen when you're physically surrounded by people is one of the loneliest feelings in the world. So often people start a conversation asking, how are you? But I find that this question is often a social expectation more than a genuine inquiry, so I immediately start encounters with most people in my life pretending. How many of us say "I'm fine" when we're clearly not? Not many people know how to continue a conversation when the answer to this question is anything less than fine, especially within the first few minutes of getting together and beginning a conversation. I'd bet that's why most of us say we're fine when we're not. Feeling alone in those moments can be brutal.

In reality, I wish I could answer this question truthfully every time I'm asked, but I begin to panic.

Do they actually want to know how I'm doing, or are they just being polite? Is this the right time and place to answer that honestly? Will they ask me again later if I give a short answer or is this my one opportunity to share? Do they have the capacity to hear my real response? Will they lean into what I share, or will they say one thing then change the subject? Will they say something insensitive? Will they see that I'm trying to show up and be real with them?

The majority of my days feel chaotic and difficult to manage, which means the Crusty Crab is often the one to greet those I come in contact with - uncomfortable (and often unpleasant) honesty or socially acceptable fineness are the responses I hesitate between in social settings. Because I've done this my entire life, socially acceptable fineness is the autopilot response that kicks in before I can really even consider honesty.

When I find myself floating in a pocket of sunshine, feeling social and upbeat, I'll do my best to socialize and answer questions with honesty in regard to my mental health. I revel in those moments before the sunshine quickly fades and I feel myself being pulled under again. Those are the days when I think about and most miss the ones who have unanswered messages, the ones who have reached out time and time again to see me but haven't, the loved ones who want to hear from me but are met with silence.

I suppose I'm writing this now to express the abundance of things I feel about my absence in the lives of so many people. I want to show up. I want to be there. I want to laugh with you. I want to cry with you. I want to be angry with you. I want to feel all the feels with you. I want to celebrate with you. I want to share with you. I fear that people think I don't care, when in reality I care so much - it's just that I don't always know how to surface and stay afloat long enough to be present with you.

Any time in therapy when my therapist asks me to do an art exercise, I stare blankly at the array of colors I see before me. My heart begins to race. Unless I'm within my window - floating on the surface, able to feel the sun and see the blue skies - the colors don't feel right to me. When I was at Target last month, I walked down the art aisle and found a charcoal drawing kit. I smiled so big, picked up the case, and said "I'm getting this for myself."

My world is filled with hard dark lines, smudged charcoal, and dusty shadows of something more that can't yet be seen in full view.

As I find new ways to soften those lines and express what I'm feeling inside, I find the inspiration to write returning to me. I remember how amazing it feels to share my true self with the world. I remind myself that this, these words, just might allow myself or someone else to see me or themselves a little more clearly.

I think one of the most difficult things about recovery or healing of any kind is that when you first start sharing with people, especially your loved ones, they hear your struggle and it's in their mind for a short window of time, but they don't know how to acknowledge it. They don't know what questions to ask or how to ask them. They don't know how or when to talk about it. As time goes on, it feels as if they've forgotten about the importance of it. They check in less, if at all anymore. Unaware of the challenges you face through doing the work, they may no longer acknowledge your progress and growth. Perhaps they treat you like you're "better" or like nothing was ever wrong to begin with. Day after day, you continue to fight an invisible battle that's weighing you down, perhaps even drowning you. Unless you choose to include others in the path you're on through conversation and sharing - making the uncomfortable, comfortable and unknown, known - people may treat you like you're still the same person that they always knew. They don't realize that your hands are still covered in charcoal and that you haven't yet found the colors.

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Cristianna Hancock - Within My Window, Floating in a Pocket of Sunshine - Charcoal on Paper with Sunlight Refraction