PTSD Working Notes Entry 1

I don’t know how many of you know that I have been interested in learning psychology for the purpose of studying PTSD. It seems as though most current research is trying to find a cure-all method that will work for the majority of people. I read a book by Malcolm Gladwell titled Outliers: The story of sucess. It explained a few things that got me to thinking on the topic of interest.

The book talks about how language can account for some of the reason most Asian cultures are better at math. It talks about how the way the culture relates to power structure can have something to do with why some planes crash. It talks about how seemingly random advantages in sports can come down to arbitrary cut-off dates in the little leagues.

I got to thinking about those factors.

PTSD, to me, seems to be the subconscious trying to boot or delete information that doesn’t fit into the mind’s neat little picture of the world. Because the person is not dealing with the stimulus consciously, the subconscious is mulling it over. Your subconscious is what holds the constructs that have built “you” so it makes sense that it would need to work out the problem.

It has to do with how we learn. There are two ways we learn that I want to talk about, through repeated exposure or through cortisol responses to “life” threatening stimulus. I will likely go into these ideas in a later post.

What is perceived as normal to any given person has a lot to do with where they came from, who was there with them and their capacity for abstract thinking.

I wonder if there are a set of factors that could be determined about a person that could identify what kind of treatment is likely to work for individuals.

For instance, people from high context cultures are going to be less able to express clearly what they are going through both because of the power differential and because they naturally communicate through subtext. Also, many high context cultures are also community oriented which means it is likely that for people from those cultures and/or cultural backgrounds being in a support group with peers is likely to be more effective than one on one therapy with a psychologist.

Be Honest, I can take it.

I learned something about myself this week.

I hate being lied to.

It is the ultimate insult if you think about it. They don't care about destroying the relationship. This is a natural consequence of lies. Worst case scenario they never see you again, in calculating that cost, they determined you were expendable in their life. You are not valuable enough to tell the truth to.

In making up the lie, they rarely say it outloud and listen to their own voice. Usually, lies are made up on the spot and are never very good. But they don't respect you enough to give you a believable one. Essentially establishing that they don't believe you are smart enough to figure out their lie.

I felt there was someone in my life who didn't respect me. That person's behavior reinforced it continuously. A matter came up that I became aware of and it was that person's responsibility to tell me my resources had changed. Only, the didn't tell me. I let it go until it came time to need the resource and I asked about it.

This is the second time in the last week this person has told me what a coincidence it was that I ask about that very thing as they were just working that issue. The person proceeded to over detail the response with unneccessary information. Information I knew to be a bold faced lie.

I felt the adrenaline rise in that moment. I needed to say, "your pants are on fire and here is the ash to prove it."

Only, I can't say anything. It was something they didn't have to lie about, a simple one sentence answer would have communicated the only part I needed. this person has control over an aspect of my life. I am not afraid to stand behind my truth telling. The thing that concerns me most is I am not sure what else this person will lie about to save their skin and whose cost is it going to be at? For me the consequences are not that great. For others who are under this person it could prove detrimental to their career.

But the thing I hate the most about when someone lies to me is what it does to me. I get that people lie to protect themselves. In this case I am pretty sure that is the cause of the choice. I know that many liars will insist on their lie even in the face irrefutable evidence. But what it makes me do, and this process I saw like it was onstage in front of me, I lose all of the rationality that gets me through the day and I focus on destroying the lie. I look at the holes, I look at the angles until I figure it out and I destroy it.

I don't like that my heart does that. Because destroying the lie sometimes destroys the person who told it. I hate that it makes me so mad. I hate that it takes control of my life like that. So, today I am choosing to grow. I said it to someone I care very deeply for this week. It is not what lying to me says about how they feel about me that matters, it is how I react to it that determines who I am. And who I am is entirely in my control.

I choose to be a person who sees that this person's lie is likely more about their insecurity than it has anything to do with me. I know they lied, they know they lied but of the two of us I don't have to carry that lie with me. So I am choosing to lay it down.

What does it mean to lay down a lie?

It means I realize that the consequence of that lie will catch them. It will compound with other lies and will eventually crush them. I take no delight in that. Someone tried to crush me once for a perceived wrong and it feels very desperate. I don't want anyone else to endure that. It is not my job to punish that person.

I just need to do everything I can to be truthful.

Nothing is going my way

She says, "Momma, I'm scared." Yesterday, she was just about out of her mind with boredom when one of our neighbors came for a visit. They had been playing upstairs. Another kid came over for a while. He left. We feed the first kid. About 6 bites into dinner, the second kid comes back and lures the first kid out the door with candy. Xyla is upset. So we talk about the dynamics. I tell her it wasn't right for the second kid to take the first kid away. There are just too many factors to navigate here. But I let my daughter get a feel for validation. Today, she writes me a note. The note says the same thing she has been saying since our talk yesterday. She doesn't like it when friend 2 takes her other friends away. So I tell her that right now she has a choice. She may continue to feel that way or she may choose to forgive friend 2. I tell her that if she makes the other friends choose her or each other she should be prepared to lose two friends. If she chooses to forgive, I will go with her to talk to friend 2 about what is happening. She decides to forgive but she is scared of the confrontation. I told her everyone is. But practicing this skill will help her be good at resolving differences. Not only that but she will learn how to stand up for herself, which is very important. Tonight, she starts thinking about all the points she wants to make. Tomorrow, we go talk to friend 2 and his mom. Pray that God gives us restorative words to help bring friends back together.

When the Hawk Strikes

I read an article today that railed on the common core math and the teacher who taught it not being able to see that 5+5+5 gets you the same answer as 3+3+3+3+3 and both are correct to the process asked for in the instructions.
 

I completely understand the frustration. Yesterday, for example. Going over Xyla’s math for the day I noticed a “wrong” answer that was a matter of semantics. There were two dogs drawn in the box. The question said, “How many feet do the dogs have?” Xyla answered 4. This was marked wrong. I know I should let it go because getting into an argument with the teacher about what kind of question is asking for situational awareness and which is asking for a sum is kind of a pointless battle. But just so I can write it down and get it out in public. The question should have been “How many dog feet are there?” Because if you look at it technically, Xyla was right. Each dog does only have four feet and the question didn’t really ask for a sum total of dog feet.
 

Then we met another challenge. Part of Xyla's homework is to read a passage and then answer questions about that passage. I am not going to pretend to understand my daughter at every turn but the more I learn about her, the more I like her. When she got the last question on this work page different from what I expected, I asked her about it.

 
The story was the Three Billy Goats Gruff. The first two goats trick the troll on the bridge promising he will get a bigger meal if he waits. The largest crosses, troll tries to collect, goat pushes troll off the bridge. The moral is supposed to be "Don't be greedy." So after the reading the first question was, where were the goats headed? The middle two questions were similar. Last question was, "Was it right for the goat to push the troll off the bridge?" She emphatically writes, "NO!" Not certain she understood what was being asked in the question, I asked it out loud, she says no it wasn't right. Not being one to leave this alone I ask her why she decided that. She said because it is mean to push anyone off a bridge.

 
I guess it is to be expected that they will teach moral reasoning by asking the kids to form and deliver an opinion from something not specifically mentioned in the text. But I want to know from the teacher's perspective, what is the answer key answer here? I ask that because the answer's wrongness is subjective.

 
While the pushing could be considered justifiable because, in fairness, the troll was trying to eat him and his brothers. However, I can't say Xyla is wrong. I mean, the first two goats deceived the troll and the third goat solved the problem with violence and went on about his day like he didn't just hurt someone. We are talking some Goodfellas BS right here. This is an “eye for an eye vs. turn the other cheek” dilemma and I am interested to know which they are teaching my kid. If they teach turn the other cheek, we move to California, if they teach eye for an eye, Texas.

 
Now, I can be accused of putting too much thought into this but this kind of argument played out in my community this week. One lady “rescued” a dove that was being attacked by a hawk. She wanted to know where to take it to get it care. It is a Eurasian Collard Dove and an invasive species. One guy was super crass and suggested she break its neck and eat it. While everyone else seemed to be trying to tell her where to take it so it can be rehabbed.

 
All I keep thinking is, if she takes it wherever she decides is worthy, they will likely smile nicely at her and take the bird. As soon as she is gone, they will probably put it outside to see if it will fly off on its own. If it doesn’t, they are likely to put it down because it is an invasive species.

 

My community thinks that “hawks are bad” because they are predatory and the dove is peaceful and innocent. Truth is, the number of doves may drive out other native species of bird and predator or not – the hawk has to eat, too. He just happens to eat other birds. The hawk eating the invasive species is not necessarily a bad thing. The community thinks the hawk is bad not because the hawk is bad but because they sympathize with the woman who has an emotional attachment to a bird she sees every day. The emotional attachment, peacefulness, terror, etc. those are all human emotions we place on the situation. We do this because of Disney. Just because some character is being delivered as “bad” doesn’t mean it is, it might mean you just don’t have enough of the story to make a decision. Which explains the entire genre of the anti-fairy tale. The stories where the author tell the tale from another perspective. Can you say When the Clock Strikes?

 

I don’t like the way the crass guy handled it but he was right. It is a measure of what is valued more. What has more value is usually measured by community standard (the woman’s sentimentality for the dove) and not reality (the cycle of life). If you do a side by side comparison of the characters of the Gruff story you might feel the way Xyla does about pushing the troll off the bridge.

 

Troll – lives at the bridge, eats other animals. Is hungry and maybe has some cognitive delays if he is so easily trickable by the goats.

 

Goats – do they have a right to eat in the pasture on the other side of the bridge? Isn’t deceit and assault also bad behavior?

 

We want to think that the assault is justifiable because the big goat was “defending” himself and his brothers but what if he wasn’t. Have you met a goat? These goats could have been bullying the whole neighborhood. Going house to house taking things that weren’t theirs. Speculation aside, I like the idea that my child thinks that all life has equal value. Her goldfish is just as important to her as her cousins. That is something that may change over time but for now, even though I am pretty sure the teacher will say it is wrong, I am not going to correct Xyla on this one. Being able to see things another way is a valuable skill. Now that I know she can think that way, I am going to encourage her to use it. There are college students who can't defend their answers intelligently but my 2nd grader can. She might be a brilliant writer someday.

Upsetting the Balance

This is one of those days I wish I had the support to be a stay at home mom. Yesterday was Columbus Day so I had the day off. Xyla did not. I decided to see how much I could get done after I drop her off and before I have to pick her up.



I know I have my best ideas early in the morning. (Most of the time between 2 and 4 am.) So it wasn't shocking that I found that I would be able to get a lot done between the hours of 5 am and 8:40 if I were a stay at home mom. That's two full loads of drying laundry with at least one load making it into drawers. That is time for cooking breakfast as opposed to breakfast in a box. That is getting one kid and myself ready for the day. Getting up at 4 am would afford all of that and enough time to workout and shower. Though I would likely have to wear my hair curly but that would be ok with me.




After delivering small child to school and the bell rings, I jumped in my car and started my day. I allowed myself to be horribly side tracked but it only cost me $25. Then I took my car for an oil change. If I had stayed on track, I would have been able to wash the other two loads of laundry, pick up after the kid tornado that swept through my living room with the neighbor boys and my daughter as F3 force winds and her toys and papers as debris.




I made it home in time to cull all the papers that were living on the freezer, liberate the freezer burned foods that had been trapped there because of the living paper stack and move the plants around so that we had room to use the kitchen table as a kitchen table. I got the dishes done and had a plan of what to make for dinner.




I picked up the small child and we completed her homework before 4pm. That gave her time to play and eat. If I had more time at home, I could do those things that make our space livable that I just don't have time to do right now. We would have ample time to learn Spanish as a family.


Sadly, I don't have this kind of time every day. While it seems insurmountable - I am certain that I can figure out how to get it all done as a working mom. I guess I will just have to start getting up at 2 am to figure it all out.




*smile*

Independence Day

It started a few weeks ago and it isn’t consistent every day. She started to walk into her before school care room without even trying to give me a hug. She wanted to learn to wash laundry, she wanted to learn to wash dishes. Last week she even asked if she could comb her hair on her own for the first time.

We constantly have this conversation about she isn’t ever going to have kids, she doesn’t ever want to get married, she doesn’t ever want to leave home. But that divide is already in progress. I told her, you don’t have to do any of that right night but if you decide at some point that you want those things, I will be ok with it.

This lead to a conversation about what happens to her if anything happens to me. In typical Xyla style, it soon turned to what will happen to me if she dies first. So just to throw it out there for her peace of mind, who wants custody of me? (Just kidding. Mostly.)

It is hard for me to describe to her that I am trying to help her develop skills to manage life at the same time, I can’t imagine life without her in it. It’s that joy and sadness thing that so many empty nesters tell you about. You work hard to make sure they are self-sufficient but then they don’t need you anymore. Can’t have it both ways I guess.

There is no real moral here. I just kind of wanted to document the moment I knew she was starting to grow more independent.

Burning One Down

My daughter had just fallen asleep. A difficult task considering the sweltering Oklahoma heat in July. She was sweating heavily because my central air had finally given out. A situation I was dreading but couldn’t do anything about. I kept checking her temperature obsessively just to make sure she was ok. My checking likely contributed to her fitful slumber. Her temp was climbing ever so slowly. I don’t know when it got to my action point because it is really hazy. I took my floor fan out on the porch and plugged it into the socket outside thinking somehow I would find cool air.

I went back inside the house and picked up my baby. I stood on the porch swaying back and forth with the oscillation as if that was going to help. The fan was only pushing warm air across the porch. It was over 90 degrees in the middle of the night.

I kept going over my life and thinking about the things I should have done differently that could have prevented this moment of desperation. I realized trying to change that show was fruitless so I started to pray. I prayed for comfort and control over my daughter’s rising temps. I kept trying to get her to drink more water whenever she would wake up but even that was warm.

Then when I was done praying I decided everything had to change.

Ev-ry-thing!

Last night I was going through some papers I have been dragging around with me for several years. My family knows the ones. The ones I was obsessed with ordering and reordering and scanning and reading and researching and . . . and . . . and . . .

I have been through some things that might make a good novel someday. Though you’ll likely not believe much of it. I was getting rid of most of the instructions and regulations and intentionally vague directives. The rest I am having a hard time letting go of. The rest represent four of the hardest years of my life. It is literally my baggage. Well, my box-age.

It is a printer paper box full of every shred of whatever I thought even remotely relevant to my fight. It isn’t light. It has been pushed around my living room so I can vacuum so many times I can't count. I have stubbed my toe on it. It couldn’t live in my closet because that was also full of things I didn’t have time to go through and get rid of. So my box-age sat in my living room for everyone to see. Anyone who knew what it was tried to ignore it.

I had people actively asking me to give up but what was in that box was a matter of life. I was as desperate to change every shred of paper in that box as I was determined to cause my life to change that night on the porch. It has a tendency to consume. We have all met those people consumed by some cause they can’t let go of. We have seen people destroyed by the thing they are dragging behind.

Early this year the rock wall gave away. When it did a flood of changes came with it. It was so shocking the way everyone expected that since I had prevailed I would instantly give up my box. I can’t for a variety of reasons.

First, it has been with me for so long. There is a certain amount of comfort in the things you have control over in your life. Reorganizing, sorting, adding to and taking away from that box was the only thing I could control when it seemed everything else was in a vortex.

Second, the water has rushed by and largely soaked into the ground but some part of me can’t believe it is all over. I guess I am holding onto the box just in case I need it to preserve my life again. Like there is still a deluge that lurks behind the wall I have come through. Usually described as paranoia.

It was so hard for so long, it is difficult to think it was over so quickly and I came out alive on the other side. The other side likes to move on like nothing ever happened, like I was never drowning. In a way this box is the only way I know I wasn’t crazy, I really endured that. If I get rid of the box all memory of what I went through only exists in my heart.

I have other baggage as well. Anxiety from relationships, a certain amount of traumatic stress that resurfaces because of my career. Someone I met this year who I look to very much helped me to see that I can let some of it, possibly all of it, go. A month or so ago I looked at one of those bags and thought, “hmmm. This isn’t useful and it is hurting me to keep ahold of it. Let me set it down.”

I set it down and walked away. Every now and then, I start to feel the anxiety but I remind myself that I set that bag down and I need to leave it where it is. It is a work in progress. Eventually, I want to let the others go as well. I want the work to start in a tangible way with my box-age. Truth is, even if I keep the box, I am the only one who will know and I don’t really want to rehash it all again. I can’t move forward in a positive way if I feel the pain every time I look at it. And no one can console me over it. So I need to destroy it so it can be distanced from my memory as well.

I want to burn it page by page in a fire and watch it rise up and disappear.

Things have to change.

Things have to change.