Hope Is Real, Take 2

Karen Prive

15 Nov, 2023

At 8 am on November 15, 1987 I found myself sitting in the high school office conference room, surrounded by my parents, my brother, my guidance counselor, a social worker from Vermont Social and Rehabilitative Services, and two detectives from the city police department.

I had done nothing wrong and neither had my brother.

I had, however, told the school psychologist about my uncle sexually abusing me over the course of 12 years. I had done so because I thought my little brother might be experiencing the same thing.

He was.

I thought if I reported it, no one would believe me, but they’d have to investigate and maybe that would make my uncle stop.

They did believe me, and they did investigate.

My uncle was supposedly a pillar of the community – a veteran of two wars, a disability advocate, and the longtime state commander of the DAV.

He was also involved with the Boy Scouts.

The investigation quickly mushroomed into a much bigger deal, as the police uncovered a child pornography and trafficking ring. A number of men were arrested in three states.

I was told I was a hero, but I didn’t want to be one. I sure didn’t feel proud of myself. I was embarrassed and ashamed, and seeing the case all over the news didn’t make me feel any better. I wanted to crawl under a rock and disappear.

But that day, 36 years ago, we sat in the conference room, while our classmates wondered why the cops were questioning my family. To this day, I don’t have words for all the rotten emotions I felt. Less than a month later I attempted suicide. When it didn’t work, I tried again, and again and again. I had no hope.

Like previous November 15s, today I spent a lot of time reflecting on my path. So much has changed. I’m not a teenager anymore. I trust my therapist today. I no longer think God hates my guts. I have (step)kids of my own, and grandkids, that I love to pieces. I still struggle sometimes, but I ask for help.

I still carry that old shame inside of me, but beside it is also a realization that I was brave. Courage isn’t the absence of fear, but rather moving forward anyway. I really was a hero. So was my brother, in choosing to tell his story too. We protected other kids from fates worse than our own.

Today I know hope is real. It lives inside of me.

My very first Invincible Hope post was called, “Hope Is Real, and It Lives Here.” Read it here.

If you are thinking about suicide, help is available. In the US, call or text 988. Please don’t fight these thoughts alone.

Opening My Heart to Reconsideration

Karen Prive

7 Nov, 2023

As a kid, I hated dolls. They were boring – Tonka Toys were much better – they moved dirt, even. But I was still gifted Tennis Barbie. As an angry, traumatized child I tied Barbie up, ripped her head off and stole her tennis racket. Rural kids in the 70s didn’t have therapists. We expressed ourselves through our toys and imagination.

Yet when the Barbie movie came out this year, I wanted to see it – before everyone was talking about it. How could a Tonka-loving girl admit she also wanted to see Barbie? I shyly reached out to my best friend – by text – and asked her if she was interested in seeing it with me.

Barbie explores feminism in all its glory and its limitations. I laughed. I cried. I spit out my soda. It appealed to my softer side and my harder side and everything in between. Who knew? I love Barbie!

19^th century philosopher and psychologist Herbert Spencer said, “There is a principle which is a bar against all information, which is proof against all arguments and which cannot fail to keep a man in everlasting ignorance – that principle is contempt prior to investigation.”

I have been guilty of this contempt. Before I got sober, I had developed a misconception that 12-Step programs were all about studying concepts through lectures and workbooks. I knew no workbook was going to help my drunkenness, so I would not go to AA. Yet I could not get myself sober, no matter how hard I tried, and eventually I consented to rehab.

Once admitted I was dismayed to discover the program was based in 12-Step recovery-based. Sigh. I knew this would fail. I only stayed because I’d burnt my bridges and had nowhere else to go. My parents had disowned me. My friends were fed up with me. Even God hated my guts. I decided to stay in rehab until I could find a different plan.

It turned out that from the day I accepted help, I haven’t had to drink again. That was over thirty years ago. It’s a plan that still works for me – do the footwork but ask for and accept help along the way. And while there have been a couple of workbooks along the way, they’ve been far and few between. Most of what I’ve learned has been through connection with other people who have gone before me.

My heart had been closed to many concepts such as 12-Step recovery, a loving Higher Power, asking for and accepting help. That refusal to believe kept me active in addiction even after I knew I needed to stop using alcohol and drugs. Herbert Spencer was talking about me.

Today I look for where my heart and mind is closed, and then try out new things – like going to see Barbie.

And going to the Taylor Swift Eras Tour film. Yup, I saw it. I took my friend who is a Swiftie. I thought of it as a generous move on my part – something nice I could do for someone I love. A few hours invested in our friendship.

I didn’t exactly convert to Swiftie-hood, but I left realizing why young women love her. Her music is empowering, even if it has a pop beat and is all girlie and stuff.

I’m a prude – I admit it – and Swift’s sexy struts and moves make me uncomfortable. But I’m reminded of my generation’s Swifties – the Madonna Wannabees, with their rubber bracelets, neon colors, and heavy make-up, singing songs that made older generations squirm. Madonna’s music tackled real subjects that were previously glossed over, like teenaged pregnancy. Her songs gave voice to what young women were going through.

As I sat in the theater watching Taylor Swift on the screen, I realized that I was not there for my friend, but for me. I had contempt prior to really listening to her lyrics. Turns out, I love the song Anti Hero, and found a few other songs quite powerful too.

As humans, we tend to try to stuff ourselves into neatly labeled boxes, and then live our lives by these predetermined assumptions. Sometimes we do this on a deep level that really restricts our growth, such as those years when I couldn’t stop drinking. Other times contempt shows up in a silly but more accessible way – such as my disparaging Taylor Swift as a bubble-gum pop diva.

I’m a tough old bird, who still loves Tonka Toys and playing in mud. I also love Barbie and Taylor Swift.

I love ice hockey too, because this is where both my tough and softer sides exist in unison. I love a solid check, or even an all-out brawl – empty those benches! But I also admire the dance the players do on the ice – they can skate so smoothly with beautiful grace. Before I watched a hockey game, I had contempt for that as well.

Next time you’re trying something new, open your eyes to what you can appreciate about the experience. Try not to be closed-minded, but rather, open your heart to it. You might find out something new about yourself!

Depression and My Ten Percent Solutions

Karen Prive

31 Oct, 2023

Depression is a dark, heavy cloak that I cannot shed. It sticks to my back – and my heart. Sometimes its weight lightens, but it never seems to disappear. I’ve worn it since I was a small child.

According to the National Council for Wellbeing, nearly half of Americans will experience a mental illness in their lifetime. Depression is the most common diagnosis. Some folks who have a depressive episode are able shed the cloak and never don it again. Others – like me – chronically struggle.

Occasionally a well-meaning friend will suggest a new medication, diet, or therapy to “cure” my illness. I would love to just be happy. Really. Yet while I don’t embrace depression as my companion, I have found some degree of acceptance about the burden. I’ve given up on finding a cure. Instead, I try to live well despite having depression.

My therapist and I recently discussed 10% solutions – skills or exercises that can reduce the weight of my cloak. Our discussion was hopeful, validating and empowering. I may not be able to cure my illness, but I can still make choices that help me feel a bit better.

Here are some of my 10% solutions:

Journal. I love to write, and sometimes when I start writing about my thoughts I discover things about myself I hadn’t yet realized. Journaling is a way to get in touch with my inner experience in a much deeper way.

Meditation. I’m no guru, but I do meditate regularly, in a variety of ways. Most of us struggle to simply clear our minds and sit quietly, so don’t let that discourage you. I started with guided meditations. I also find that moderate exercise and meditation can go together – for example, when I swim laps I focus on the rhythm of my stroke and my breath. See a previous post, Meditation: Guns, Rehab and a New Nudge.

Eat regularly. Hangry is really a thing. When I skip meals or even snacks, my mood is more unstable. I’m not going to attack the next person who says hello, but when I’m hungry my emotions and thoughts are much more negative.

Sleep. A nap can sometimes help adjust my outlook on things.

Bathing. Showering is not my strong point, but a quick shower is better than no shower at all. A long soak in the tub is even better – candles, soft music, a cup of tea and a bath bomb all make it a self-care experience.

Animals. My sweet Gracie loves to go for a walk, and while I don’t want to go, it is often good for me to get outside. My feline furries often will cuddle with me when I’m depressed, and it’s good to have the love. I am comforted with my favorite stuffies too.

Connection. I regularly get together with my friends for meetings, support groups, meals, or events. I am not fond of phone calls, but love texts and messaging. I share with my husband every day. If I’m really struggling, I can reach out to a crisis line such as 988.

One day at a time. Depression and anxiety can go hand in hand, so I try to focus on what’s right in front of me today. I can make big goals but try to break them down into smaller ones and just focus on the part I can do today. When the day seems unbearable, I break it down smaller – one hour at a time, or even a minute.

Limiting exposure to news. I do care about what’s happening in the world, but frankly, I can’t stomach politics or warring nations without concluding it’s all hopeless. I check the news online once a day to keep up with world events, but when I’m very depressed I avoid the news as much as possible. I also belong to Facebook groups that share only good stories, such as The Goodness Challenge.

Hobbies. When I got sober it was suggested that I find a hobby. I thought that was stupid advice – macrame wasn’t going to keep me away from a drink. Yet years later I find comfort in cross-stitch, coloring, reading, jigsaw puzzles and card games. These activities help focus my thoughts on something other than hopelessness.

Advocacy. I can often use the darkness of my weighted cloak to connect with others. My story gives me legitimacy in the eyes of others who struggle. Every time I share my truth it heals a bit of the shame that still lives inside of me. I can share one-on-one or in a group, online or in-person, or even on a public stage.

Finally, a word about medication. Meds haven’t cured my depression, but the right medications help me function enough to work on the rest of these 10% solutions. Without medication my depression is so severe that I see and hear things other people don’t experience, and my thinking becomes really distorted – a mild psychosis. Therapy becomes much less effective, as do the rest of these tools.

If you also wear the cloak of depression – or have any other mental health condition – I encourage you to develop your own list of 10% solutions – things that can help you improve your day no matter how low you might feel.

It Is Enough to Do My Best

Karen Prive

24 Oct, 2023

I have a problem.

I set my bar very high – I tend to demand perfection from myself, and most often fail to meet my goal. Even when I do achieve something amazing, it doesn’t even occur to me to celebrate – I just move on to the next task.

I don’t expect perfection from anyone but me; in fact, I am over the top in recognizing others’ victories.

My high self-expectations have nothing to do with thinking I’m better than anyone else. Quite the contrary! My perfectionism is very shame-driven. My wounded self is sure I don’t measure up, and the only way to redeem that inner awfulness is through perfection.

So how do I manage this need to be perfect? I’d like to share some ideas that are helping me to recover a bit.

I was gifted a coloring book with gentle inspiring sayings (I love to color – very meditative – but jeesh I wish I was better at staying within the lines). The very first page said, “It Is Enough to Do My Best.” I filled it in with bold colors and posted it across from my bathroom door, so I see it several times a day. Left to my own devices, when I try hard and come up short I tend to beat myself over the head with a giant baseball bat. The bright bathroom sign reminds be to put the bat away and be proud of putting my best foot forward.

On the other hand, a friend recently shared her philosophy: Anything worth doing is worth doing badly. At first I was horrified when she said this – why set the intention to do anything badly? But she went on to explain that she’s able to keep functioning through her depression by applying the badly intention. If she’s feeling unmotivated to shower, for example, she does it half-heartedly, without washing her hair, and sometimes just for a couple of minutes. It is better to take a 2-minite shower than no shower at all. True!

To build on this concept, I have a family member who got through college with the motto, “C’s get degrees.” Mind you, my own GPA was short of perfection at 3.967, – no C’s for me. Yet my loved one received her degree too! Watching her inspired me to try new things without having to be perfect . I started Invincible Hope without waiting to perfect my website – because it was more important to actually launch rather than to wait for perfection.

Today I am happy to simply be a work in progress. In spite of my inner perfectionist, I can try to relax into being just another bozo on the bus.

Poking Holes in the Walls

Karen Prive

2 Oct, 2023

Because of my trauma I erected steel walls all around me. What happens at home stays at home, and my silence was nearly complete until I realized more than just my wellbeing was at stake. When I turned my uncle in, I was protecting my brother. It was far too late for me, I thought, because my brokenness was beyond repair. My journals from that time speak of utter hopelessness – my life seemed ruined.

(It wasn’t.)

I hid the facts of what happened to me, but the walls were even thicker around the inner experience of my trauma. No one could touch that pain. When the state sent me to therapy, my new counselor tried her best to poke a hole through the walls, but they wouldn’t budge. I certainly wasn’t going to help her. My thoughts and emotions were terrifying creatures, to be avoided at all costs.

Ironically, it was booze that broke through. I was drinking heavily by age fourteen, and daily by sixteen. After a particularly difficult therapy session the pain was banging hard on the steel, and the inner noise was deafening. I went home and took to the bottle, hoping to drown my turmoil. Evidently it didn’t work – blacked out, I poured my soul onto paper, writing of things I never wanted to share. Then I did the unthinkable – I mailed it to my therapist.

She greeted me solemnly the next week, handing me my letter and suggesting I read my words aloud. It was my handwriting all right, but I didn’t remember sending her anything. The words were desperate. I wrote of my brokenness and despair. I was sure that protecting my brother had been my life’s purpose, and felt I’d failed. Suicide felt like the only answer.

I sat in silence for a bit, refusing to say another word. She expressed concern for my safety, and asked if I could stay safe. Yes, I said, although I didn’t mean it. I wanted to die. I wanted the pain to stop, the noise to end. She pulled out her yellow notepad and drafted a safety contract. I signed it, but it meant nothing to me. I’d already attempted suicide. I would again. If the booze hadn’t have betrayed me, she’d know nothing of my intentions.

Scary stuff.

I went home and instead of trying to kill myself, I got drunk and wrote another letter. Thus became my new pattern. Over the course of the next several years of therapy I was rarely able to speak of my secrets, but I wrote. Years later my therapist presented me with the letters I’d written – three large binders full!

Letter by letter, I broke some holes in those steel walls. I was letting my therapist in.

In Invincible Hope I write a lot about those inner experiences, and you may think I’ve completely torn those walls down. That’s far from the truth. I’ve simply poked some holes in the walls, so now they resemble bars rather than solid steel. I still have a deep need to control the flow. I can reach through now and touch your heart, but I still struggle to let you touch mine. Shoot, I sometimes struggle to let myself reach through those bars.

But like a prisoner with a need to escape, I keep shaving the steel, hoping to break through.

Just this week, I realized that I could work on those walls my whole life, and might never break through completely. Perhaps the only way out of this self-imposed prison is to love myself.

These days I believe in God’s love and try my best to extend love to all I encounter. Except, of course, myself. Towards me, I am judgmental, perfectionistic, and unforgiving – all opposites of God’s standards. Yet if God loves you, He must love me too.

When I was first getting sober years ago, one of my regular meditations was a chant, with the words: I am a child of God. He’s looking out for me, and He wants me to be happy, joyous, and free.

I think it’s time to chant again and remember that if God thinks I’m worthy of love, perhaps I can try to live that too.

I think I just poked another hole in my wall.

Grateful to Still Be Here

Karen Prive

11 Sep, 2023

On Friday, September 8 I participated in a press conference where New Hampshire Governor John Sununu proclaimed this week to be Suicide Prevention Week. I was honored to share a little of my story as part of this event; here is the text of my speech:

Thank you Susan, Governor Sununu, and all of you for your commitment to suicide prevention, today and every day.

I cannot remember a time when I did not have thoughts about killing myself. I first attempted suicide when I was just six years old, and as a teen followed this with more attempts. I’ve been in mental health treatment since I was an adolescent.

Medications, therapy and support groups help a lot – I’ve had periods of relative stability and have been able to achieve many of my goals. I’m in a long-term marriage, and am a beloved stepmom and Grammy. I earned my accounting degree and worked for years in research administration. I’ve published poetry, essays and stories.

But even with treatment I’ve continued to struggle with depression, complex-PTSD and suicidal thoughts. 2022 was particularly rough. It wasn’t because anything bad happened – I had no major losses, was spending a lot of time with my friends, working at a job I loved and doing meaningful volunteer work. I was still slipping further into depression, and seriously contemplating taking my life. I had a plan and was really scared. It was time to ask for help.

In April of 2022, I told my therapist what I was going to do, and with my permission she called the NH Rapid Response Access Point. I had the number handy – before 988 simplified things, I’d programmed the number in my cell phone as #RRAP so it was one of the first numbers in my contact list. I actually read it off to my therapist. We told them together what was going on, they asked us a series of questions, and they sent a mobile crisis team to the office. We also called my husband, who arrived shortly after the mobile crisis team. The team was kind and compassionate, and were able to convince me to go voluntarily to the hospital. My husband took me to the ER and within 48 hours I was admitted.

While I was inpatient the doctors increased one of my medications, which caused me to have tremors. Soon I went home. I thought the tremors would subside as I got used to the new dosage, but over months they instead got worse. I was shaking so badly that I would spill my beverages, and I was embarrassed when people asked me if I was ok. Meanwhile, the suicidal thoughts were getting even stronger. Like other times when my depression was severe, I began to hear voices. I wanted to stop taking my meds entirely, because I felt they were poisoning me.

By late August of 2022, the thoughts had become unbearable. The voices were telling me to die. My case manager visited and noted that I wasn’t ok. I told her about the voices. She asked me how she could help, but I shrugged. I felt like I was beyond help. Soon my husband was there too, and we decided together that I would call NH Rapid Response.

The counselor on the phone wanted to know if I could stay safe at home. We talked on speaker phone so my husband could participate in the conversation. He was really concerned. We talked a bit about various skills, but my anxiety was going up and the voices were getting louder and more insistent. I quietly asked if she could send a mobile crisis team.

The team was dispatched, and while we waited my husband locked up the knives and other dangerous objects. Two men came to the door – a clinician and peer. The clinician led the conversation, again trying to find a way for me to be able to be safe at home. I answered his questions as honestly as I could, but was struggling to stay present while my mind was trying to hatch a new plan.

The peer spoke up. “On a scale of 1 to 10, how strong are your suicidal thoughts?” I told him they were a nine, and he firmly stated, “Oh, no. I don’t like that number.” Things changed after that. The peer was able to convince me to go to the ER. They called the hospital and told them I was on my way, and my husband brought me there.

As I sat in the hospital, the insanity continued to escalate. Inanimate objects were saying they couldn’t wait to dance on my grave. Things were growing out of the walls. I hatched a new plan of how I could kill myself when I got home. I had lost my mind.

While I was inpatient this time, I went through a significant medication change, and by the time I went home the tremors and hallucinations were gone. I was better able to handle my suicidal thoughts.

There’s no doubt in my mind that calling the NH Rapid Response Access Point has saved my life. RRAP and mobile crisis teams were phenomenal with me. I’m grateful to still be here – to be a writer, an advocate, a wife, a stepmom, a Grammy and a friend.

If you a loved one are having thoughts of suicide, help is available. Across the United States you can call 988 for a mental health or substance abuse crisis. In New Hampshire, you can also call or text the Rapid Response Access Point (RRAP) at 1-877-710-6477 or chat with them at https://www.nh988.com/.

Big T or Little t: Healing is Possible

Karen Prive

4 Sep, 2023

Being a trauma survivor is not unique – it is universal. According to the Center of Family Justice, 20% of Americans are sexually abused in their lifetime (by self-report; given that many do not report their abuse the number is suspected to be much higher). The National Coalition Against Domestic Violence reports that 30% of adults have been physically assaulted by an intimate partner. 7% of Americans have served in the military, many in battle. And according to a Gallup poll, in any given year 2% of Americans report being the victim of a violent crime. Maybe you’ve experienced some of this trauma.

But so-called lesser events can be just as traumatic. Bullying is rampant in our schools and can leave deep wounds. So can unexpectedly losing a loved one or watching someone die slowly from a long illness. Being fired from a job can be devastating, as can homelessness. Accidents are another form of trauma.

Then there’s trauma with a quiet, little t – not so much what happens, but what doesn’t. Have you gone hungry? Maybe your parents were neglectful, or maybe one parent (or both) wasn’t in the home, because of divorce or legal troubles.

My trauma may be different than yours, but we have all survived through difficult circumstances. You don’t have to have experienced physical, sexual, or military violence to be traumatized. In some ways the drama of my childhood makes it easier. The bruises, broken bones and other consequences of abuse make it simple to label Trauma with a big, ugly capital T.

But comparing traumas doesn’t help. Trauma reactions don’t necessarily get worse with more dramatic stories. Sometimes those little t traumas are stickier. Have you ever invalidated yourself by saying you shouldn’t feel bad, because something wasn’t that big a deal? I sure have.

Stop.

Your trauma, whatever it was, is valid.

Don’t compare yourself to others in a way to belittle what happened to you. Would you ever treat a friend that way?

Trauma survivors – that is, all of us – sometimes are harsh on themselves. It’s time we treat ourselves with the same love and compassion we show others.

The fact is, it’s not about what happened to us. It’s about how we reacted to what happened, and the emotions we still carry from those wounds. It’s about where we are on our healing journey.

Be gentle with yourself, and embrace your own healing.

The Universal Streaky Truth

Karen Prive

22 Aug, 2023

A preacher put this question to a class of children: “If all the good people in the world were red, and all the bad people were green, what color would you be?”

Little Linda thought mightily for a moment. Then her face brightened and she replied, “Reverend, I’d be streaky!”

I tried so hard to be a good kid. I ate my vegetables (OK, so my favorite food was spinach, but it was followed closely by hotdogs), I opened the door for people, and I got good grades. I tried to behave myself, unless I was very, very angry. And I was angry a lot.

Despite my love for spinach, bad things kept happening. Being polite didn’t stop the abuse. I was convinced I was bad to the core, and God hated me, all evidenced by the violence in my life. Surely God wouldn’t let things like this happen to a good kid, right? I was determined to prove my goodness, but the abuse continued to happen.

When I was ten, I changed tactics. One day when my father hit me, I turned around and landed a fist in his gut. He doubled over in pain and surprise. “You will never hit me again, or I will fight back,” I told him. I did, too, and sometimes I fought dirty. I knew it was “bad” but being good hadn’t worked.

As it turned out, being bad didn’t work all that well either. I rarely had the upper hand. I hated myself for fighting, and for hurting my father. I labeled myself bad.

But like little Linda, I was actually streaky.

So was my father.

One of the things that time has given me is a general sense of forgiveness. Now I can remember there were good times too. While we were camping when I was six, Dad taught me to shoot. For my birthday party when I was seven or eight, he surprised me with a new bicycle, which he taught me to ride. When I was a young teenager, he gave me the keys to the car and let me drive. Even bigger, when I was born, he announced that he was going to be a better dad than his own father and was no longer going to drink.

My grandfather was intimidating to look at – and a violent drunk. I was well into adulthood before I realized that my father’s behavior was learned. He had set out to be a better parent than his father, and for all I know he may have succeeded. I know my grandfather was a very angry man.

For many years I could only see my father’s brutality. There was no room for his good side. There is nothing that will take away the violence, but today I can remember he was streaky.

In that process comes the ability to see I’m not all good nor all bad either. I’m just streaky.

A Lake, Some Loons and a Shift in Perspective

Karen Prive

15 Aug, 2023

Last week I had the pleasure of attending a women’s 12-step retreat. Mind you, the idea of coming together with seventeen other women doesn’t sound like much of a retreat to an introvert like me, but two of these folks are my closest friends so I made the hour-long journey, albeit with an anxious heart.

Geneva Point Center is a 200-acre summer camp and conference center on the Moultonborough Neck on Lake Winnipesaukee. Our group’s lodge was so close to the water I could hear from my bed the gentle waves lapping the shore.

Yet I arose early the first morning, unable to sleep as my anxiety deepened. Why was I here? What could I learn? What did I have to offer? Questions and doubts flooded my brain, quickening my heart. Trying to avoid my fears, I scrolled through Facebook. It didn’t work.

I dressed and left my room, retrieving a cup of coffee from the common area. I then settled on the porch next to one of these unknown women, quietly sipping my joe and soaking in the view of the water. Early morning fishermen (and women, I am sure) were already out in their boats beyond the small island that lay in front of us. The sun was burning off the morning fog. Songbirds were chirping, and loons were calling. It was a chilly morning, but I was comfortable in my shorts and t-shirt.

Shutting my eyes, I relaxed into the questions. With curiosity, I asked the Universe, “Why am I here? What am I supposed to learn? Please show me what to share.”

I continued with my meditation, setting my intention for the rest of the retreat, but open to guidance in my purpose. Soon the answers came, with a stirring of recognition in my soul as I heard other women sharing their truths.

I need connection with others, no matter how much of an introvert I am. I need connection with God, who I often hear when I listen to people. I need time to myself, as well, to open myself up to receiving. Yin and yang.

As I sit at home tonight writing, I am outside listening to the crickets and the falling acorns, alone, but with the intent of sharing a small part of what I learned with you. Again, I asked the Universe to guide me, and so I am relaxed and peaceful. May you find some of what I have.

Self-Love Is the Magical Process

Karen Prive

31 Jul, 2023

Healing from trauma is painful.

It is hard to fully accept the brokenness that stemmed from all that happened to me. I spent a lot of time pretending that I was fine, and that it was the rest of the world that was wrong.

Mind you, what happened was wrong, and was not my fault. But healing from my trauma is fully my responsibility. No one could heal for me, even if they wanted to.

The abuse and neglect I suffered left me with deep emotional and spiritual wounds. I felt – and sometimes continue to feel – that I am worthless. I sometimes don’t believe I deserve the air that I breathe.

Healing involves naming shame for what it is, and approaching it with love. For me, it is not a one and done proposition. I heal in little pieces.

Why am I asking you to willingly dive into your shame and your pain? Because that is where your answers lie: underneath all the muck that makes you feel you’re unworthy and not good enough. If you allow the shame and regret to remain buried, they will poison you from the inside out. This is how dis-ease is created. Ease is freed when we dis-entangle who we are from who we think we are and the feelings we’re feeling. We have to dive into the hurt so we can alchemize it.

Andrea Dawn, Introduction to “No Mat Required”

I resonate with these words. I have a natural tendency to avoid the pain of my experiences, through various forms of numbing. When I was younger it was with alcohol and self-harm. These days I don’t drink, but I can naturally numb, spending hours scrolling through Facebook or distracting myself with lots of “positive” activities, such as working, volunteering or even a heavy social calendar.

My shame demands attention, like a toddler having a tantrum. Indeed, she wants her momma self to soothe her, and the longer I avoid the shame, the louder it gets.

This shame might appear as self-doubt or even self-hatred. It might appear as suicidal thoughts. It might appear as a stomachache, or anger at my husband, or utter exhaustion.

In the quote, Andrea speaks of “alchemizing” our hurt. What does that mean?

The Oxford Dictionary defines alchemize as to “transform the nature or properties of (something) by a seemingly magical process.” For shame, this magical process is self-love. Therefore, healing our inner wounds works through radical self-love.

Some might be wondering, what about divine love? God’s love is indeed great, but when I’m in shame’s grip I cannot accept God’s love into my life. I cannot connect. I’m not deserving or even think I’m evil. Shame is such a powerful poison that it blocks out the sunshine of the spirit.

Yet when I allow myself self-love, it is like opening a door to love from the Universe. When I see myself fully, and honor what I see – the good, the bad and the ugly – the light can shine in and alchemize that shame. It is transformed into something beautiful, and I am left feeling much more comfortable in my own skin.

Self-love is the healing, magical process.

Inner Peace - a Gift of Adulthood

Karen Prive

24 Jul, 2023

Scrolling through Facebook isn’t necessarily a bad thing. You may have even found this post that way. I spend some time every day on social media, looking for posts that inspire me, or at least bring a smile to my face. It’s part of my self-care. Find the good and ignore the rest – and don’t scroll incessantly.

This week I stumbled across a beautiful meme including the quote, “Healing can be so hard when your inner child wants love, your teenage self wants revenge, and your current self only wants peace.” I could relate! I wish I knew who wrote this, but Soha Rehman quoted it.

As soon as I read these words, my heart softened into a degree of self-forgiveness – an emotion inherent to healing yet seemingly foreign to my nature. I try to practice being gentle with myself, but I tend to carry a baseball bat into most self-interaction. This is particularly true when I reflect on my past.

Your inner child wants love.

I tend to blame myself for things which happened in my childhood, even though I rationally know the abuse was not my fault. Currently in therapy I’m face-to-face with my self-blame. We’re looking at it, and I realize most is misplaced. It’s been a painful process. I’ve carried this burden for a half-century, believing that somehow my need for attention brought violations. If it was my fault, I had some control over the situation and didn’t have to face my utter powerlessness.

Yet that inner child wants love – and she always wanted love. When I tore off Barbie’s head and begged my mother to fix her, it was because I was craving attention. I knew Mom’s reaction was not going to be kind, but she did pay attention. I was seeking love, but I received suffering. I kept trying anyway.

Your teenage self wants revenge.

This phrase is especially true for me – I sought revenge even as a pre-teen. I started fighting back when I was just ten years old, when I decided that even if it made things worse, I wasn’t going to simply accept a beating ever again. My father hit me, and I hit him back. I knew what was happening wasn’t right and I wanted to do something about it.

After he was charged with sexual abuse, my uncle was allowed to remain on house arrest with exceptions for medical appointments and such. When I’d see his brown minivan around town, I’d become enraged and run him off the road. Soon my need for revenge went on overdrive and endangered every local soccer mom – I was running all minivans off the road. After all, it might be him.

I settled down as I got older (and sober), but when I look back it’s been hard to accept this kind of behavior. I don’t want to be the kind of person that runs around scaring soccer moms. Yet developmentally, it was natural at this stage to want revenge.

Your current self only wants peace.

My core adult self just wants serenity. I want to accept the things that are beyond my control, and live a life based on my values rather than my reactions. I desperately want to heal, so I do the work.

Part of the work is to realize there are many distinct selves that ride the bus named Karen – but that my core adult self needs to be the bus driver. Would you allow your four-year-old daughter to drive your family vehicle? I don’t want to let my inner four-year-old drive either. Given that my teenaged self runs minivans off the road, let’s not give her the keys either.

If I am to have the peace I want in my life, I need to make sure my adult self is in the driver’s seat. I can supply the love little Karen needs (or seek it from trusted sources). If I’m hanging onto resentment and plotting revenge, I know teen Karen needs some attention too. I can take care of my inner demands, while remaining serene.

Inner peace – a gift of adulthood.

I Had It Right When I Was Little

Karen Prive

17 Jul, 2023

Failure is inevitable.

Now hear me out. I was a determined little kid who believed I could do anything if I practiced and tried hard enough. This served me well – I learned to skateboard. I learned to juggle. I learned to ride a unicycle. Yet I failed at all of those things – repeatedly – before I actually was able to do them.

Mind you, there were other things I failed at repeatedly without ever being able to succeed. I desperately wanted to fly, but no matter how often I jumped out of trees and off the roof, I never was able to be like Superman. It was impossible. I was tilting at windmills.

But there were fun things I did accomplish. I didn’t give up on my first, third or even fourteenth failure. I kept trying.

Sports fans get mad at me when I say that baseball is about failure – but think of all the chances you get to hit the ball! In fact, Francis Vincent – then Commissioner of Baseball – said:

“Baseball teaches us, or has taught most of us, how to deal with failure. We learn at a very young age that failure is the norm in baseball and, precisely because we have failed, we hold in high regard those who fail less often – those who hit safely in one out of three chances and become star players. I also find it fascinating that baseball, alone in sport, considers errors to be part of the game, part of its rigorous truth.”
Francis Vincent – from a speech given at Fairfield University, April 1991

When I was little (and learning about baseball), I naturally exhibited determination and resilience. I kept trying until I mastered my desired skill. I think these traits are inherently human to little ones – after all, we didn’t learn to walk without falling down a few times.

At some point as we got older, failure scared us and we stopped trying. I certainly stopped jumping from heights – landing hurt! I became convinced that my earlier belief was false – I could not do everything I wanted to do, no matter how hard I tried. As time went on and I “grew up” more and more things felt impossible. Sometimes I didn’t even bother to try.

Such is the dilemma of being an adult. Sometimes we’re so scared of failure that we refuse to even attempt whatever it is that we want to do. Or, if we do try, we are turned off at the first failure.

Francis Vincent would urge us to try again – we have three strikes before we’re out, and that’s just in one appearance. We’ll have more chances to bat.

In school, softball was my game. I was a damn good catcher and a bit of a slugger. But one day when faced with a fast pitcher, I couldn’t discern quickly enough whether her pitch was going to be a strike. I simply froze and watched the pitches cross the plate in front of me. My coach was furious. She told me to swing anyway. I thought it was a stupid idea, but feared my coach, so I shut my eyes and swung my bat.

Not only did I connect, but the ball hit the fence and I ran for a triple. It was worth trying.

Another example: I went to UVM after high school, but only completed two years. I wasn’t that great a student and, while I didn’t flunk out, I couldn’t get the scholarships I needed to continue. My parents wouldn’t co-sign the loans and I couldn’t afford it on my own. It took me over twenty years to return to school, because I wouldn’t step up to bat. Yet I finally did get my degree, graduating top of my class – while working three part-time jobs and parenting my step-son. I knocked the ball out of the park.

We’re going to fail – the trick is to remember that failure doesn’t have to be the end of the story.