My Spirit Animal Is a Spreadsheet

Karen Prive

11 Dec, 2022

I joke that my spirit animal is an Excel spreadsheet. What does that mean?

Generally, spreadsheets engage the rational part of my brain, which I’m most comfortable using. There is no crying in spreadsheets.

Last week I talked a little about Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) as a tool that has helped me in my healing journey. One of the principal concepts in DBT is “Wise Mind” – living where rational mind and emotional mind overlap. If someone is too emotional, their reactions may be over the top; likewise, if someone operates only from the rational side they will probably lack joy and maybe even purpose.

For example, suppose I’m paying my bills and my friend Susie calls, inviting me to go out for dinner. My emotional mind will know that I love spending time with Susie, and I might ignore my bills (and my bank account) to drop everything and have a nice dinner with my friend. My rational mind might say that money’s tight right now and an expensive dinner is not in my budget, so I should turn her down. With either choice, one side of my brain is going to be really unhappy.

But what if I told Susie that I don’t really have the time or funding for dinner tonight, but maybe we could meet for coffee or dessert in an hour or so? With that Wise Mind compromise, both parts of my mind would be getting part of what they want. My bills will get paid, and I get to laugh and enjoy Susie’s company. I would get what I need and what I want.

If our heart is our best compass on the healing path, the mind – conscious and unconscious – is the territory to be navigated. Healing brings the two into alignment and cooperation, often after a lifetime of one hiding behind or being disregarded by the other.
Gabor Mate, The Myth of Normal

I’ve spent many years in spreadsheet mode, letting the rational part of my brain drive my bus. I don’t avoid emotion mind by conscious choice; it’s just that I feel a lot of old pain that I recoil from, as if touching a hot stove. For at least five years I’ve known crying was the next step on my healing journey – my depression is fueled by an emotional deadness resulting from that recoil.

Crying feels terrifying – truly life or death. When I was a kid, “I’ll give you something to cry about,” was followed by significant violence. When I feel sadness or hurt start to bubble up, a wave of numbness instead washes over me. I focus on a concrete task.

Or at least I did, until last month when the tears started to fall very gently and quietly down my face. I’m not sure what shifted, exactly, but I’ve started to cry. In the weeks since, I keep finding myself weeping for a few minutes at a time.

And spreadsheets no longer run my show.

Quirky Didn't Want to Belong

Karen Prive

8 Dec, 2022

In my earliest memories of being molested it was not a new experience. Still, years later I was shocked and devastated when my uncle admitted in court that he started abusing me when I was still a baby.

Renowned trauma expert Bessel van der Kolk defines developmental trauma as “exposure to multiple, cumulative traumatic events, usually of an interpersonal nature, during childhood which results in developmentally adverse consequences.” My uncle’s repeated transgressions as well as abuse I suffered from others, were the ongoing traumas that made me quirky.

Quirky sounds a whole lot less judgmental than developmentally maladapted. For example, my drive to connect with others – to belong – was seriously muted from a young age. When I started school, I was confused by the kids playing games at recess – I often just stood back, observing, and wondering why they wanted to have friends. I was much more comfortable working on assignments than playing tag. I wanted to be alone. I still do, pretty much.

Another quirk is that at age 51, I still have to consciously work at response flexibility. According to Gabor Maté, author of The Myth of Normal, response flexibility is “the ability to choose how we address life’s inevitable ups and downs.” He notes this capacity is seriously diminished in those with early trauma due to timing of brain development. To this day, I still have to be exceptionally mindful in order not to simply react to current events, with a fight or flight response (I’m usually a fighter). I have a hard time remembering to pause and choose an appropriate, non-fighting response.

One therapeutic intervention I’ve found helpful is Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, or DBT. Developed by Marsha Linehan in the early 90’s, DBT was created for people with borderline personality disorder, but has been found to be effective for other diagnoses, such as substance use disorders, depression and C-PTSD (see my recent blog entry, Trauma, Alphabet Soup and a Glimmer of Hope).

DBT teaches skills that fit into four helpful modules – mindfulness, distress tolerance, emotional regulation and interpersonal effectiveness. In “DBT Lite” these skills are taught in 12 weekly sessions, usually in a group setting, but some people find more long-term therapy quite helpful. I’ve been in a DBT group for several years, and find that the STOP skill – (Stop, Take a step back, Observe, Proceed Mindfully) is where my work is still difficult for me. To STOP I must be mindful; I must be aware in order to pause, giving me a chance to respond instead of react. STOP helps me develop better response flexibility.

When I can pause and choose my response to some situation, I am much less apt to engage in behaviors I regret. I might actually make a friend, and today, I want to do that. I belong.

Practicing Gratitude - A Way of Life

Karen Prive

28 Nov, 2022

So what if Thanksgiving was last week? It’s never too late to be thankful.

Gratitude need not be a one-night stand, but rather, a way of life. A robust gratitude practice is one of the best tools to cope with life and generate hope.

I start each and every day with a glance to the sky and thank the Universe for giving me all I need for the day ahead. I used to ask earnestly for certain things, but then realized that when I pray for specifics, it’s usually about what I want, rather than what I need. By saying thank you, I’m acknowledging my reliance on a loving energy that cares about me.

Some days I have doubts about that loving energy – remember, I spent my youth believing that God hated my guts, and that core belief has yet to fully fade away. That little girl inside isn’t so sure about the whole God thing. Yet I can be grateful anyway – even if I’m wrong, it doesn’t hurt anything!

Another trick I’ve used is the ABCs of gratitude. I list the alphabet down the page and start naming the gifts I’ve been presented. I’m grateful for art, and babies, and cotton candy. I double or triple up on many letters – especially when I start naming all my grandkids. This is a fun exercise to do as a group activity as well.

I close my evening with my 3×3 journal, where I name three things I’m grateful for from my day, three things I did right, and three things I kind of like about myself. I do not allow myself to repeat from the night before. For a bonus, I sometimes add one thing I learned that day.

“As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.”
John F. Kennedy

JFK reminds us that gratitude is a verb. I can talk a good game, but I need to DO it. For me, this means sticking with my practice, but also paying it forward. Giving back to people, community, or Mother Earth is the surefire way I can prove to the Universe that I am thankful for all I’ve been given.

A Frog Makes a Decision

Karen Prive

14 Nov, 2022

Step One: We admitted we were powerless over alcohol – that our lives had become unmanageable.

Step Two: Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

Step Three: Turned our will and our lives over to the care of God, as we understood him.

from the Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous.*

In Twelve Step programs, the first three steps are sometimes referred to as, “I can’t. He can. I think I’ll let Him.” Step One is about powerlessness and unmanageability – getting to the point where one feels completely hopeless about her situation. But then comes Step Two – believing there is hope – that a Higher Power of some kind – any kind – can help her situation. In Step Three, she steps out of her personal will and chooses to do what she believes her Higher Power wants of her.

For me, my first Higher Power was a counselor the state made me see. I was sixteen years old when I turned my family into the authorities for abuse. For two years after that I floundered, sometimes trying to do what I thought was right, and at others, being utterly hopeless. Sometimes the two overlapped – death beckoned and seemed like my best option.

There were failed suicide attempts, violent behavior, and tons of self-loathing. As a young person once translated to me, Step One means that you can’t stop, and your life sucks. Bingo. I was there. I kept trying to fix my own problem, though, because I was terrified to ask for help.

One day I was terrified not to ask for help. I wasn’t scared of dying – I was scared I would go on living the way I had been. I couldn’t manage the self-hatred, regrets, guilt and shame. I called my counselor and asked for help. I believed she might have an answer that would point me in a different direction.

But I was still scared. I couldn’t take her suggestions, and I argued with her on the phone. My own mind made me hit bottom that same night, and I surrendered. I called her back. I surrendered. I was ready to do whatever she thought was a good idea. I gave up the driver’s seat in my life, and that day marks the point that things started moving in a better direction.

It’s a warm day in a swamp. Three frogs sit on a log, basking in the sun. It is getting hotter as the sun beats down. Being too warm, one frog decides to jump in the water. How many frogs are left on the log?

There are still three frogs on the log, because our friendly frog only made a decision, and didn’t actually jump in the water. There is a difference between making a decision and acting on that decision. I made the decision that day to call my counselor, but I wasn’t ready to accept her help right away. I made the phone call, but remained on the log. My situation didn’t improve with a mere decision – I had to take action and actually accept guidance.

Asking for help is necessary – whether we ask from others, for from God, if we so believe. I cannot function very well with just my own resources. But even more vital than the asking is being open to try something new. Our friendly frog is going to cook in the sun if he doesn’t take action. So will we.

*The Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous have been adapted by dozens of other Twelve Step fellowships for use in dealing with issues including various addictions, growing up in alcoholic homes, and dealing with our emotions and behaviors. Go here to read all Twelve Steps.

Trauma, Alphabet Soup and a Glimmer of Hope

Karen Prive

24 Oct, 2022

When it comes to Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), some people immediately think of the combat veteran who may struggle sometimes decades after their battle experience. Yet PTSD can affect anyone who has experienced life-threatening trauma, such as crime victims or accident survivors.

Not everyone who experiences these traumas will develop PTSD, but those that do might experience symptoms such as flashbacks and/or nightmares related to the event, agitation, and hypervigilance. Someone with PTSD may be “triggered” by seemingly benign things in their environment that remind them of their trauma. A common trigger for a veteran with PTSD may be the sound of fireworks.

For some folks the trauma relates to ongoing abuse during childhood, resulting in an unofficial diagnosis of Complex PTSD (C-PTSD). The diagnosis is unofficial because it was not included in the 2015 revision of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual, or DSM-5; it also was not included in the updated 2022 DSM-5-TR. However, at this point C-PTSD is generally regarded as a distinct class of PTSD, with additional symptoms not usually seen in “regular” PTSD, including emotional dysregulation and an overall negative view of self.

I am officially diagnosed with an alphabet soup of psychiatric disorders, but I could easily be the poster child for C-PTSD. I experienced ongoing sexual and physical abuse as well as neglect starting in infancy. This continued throughout my childhood.

At sixteen, I was diagnosed with PTSD and major depression. I’ve been in treatment since then. In spite of ongoing therapy and a cocktail of medications, I still have flashbacks and nightmares. I am most often a laid-back, kind soul, but when pushed I have a seemingly uncharacteristically explosive temper. If you come up behind me and lay your hand on my shoulder unannounced, you will likely want to duck. I often live in fear, or am instead detached from my emotions.

I have experienced utter darkness and some of the most evil things that man can do to one another, AND YET I believe in joy and love. I take great pleasure in trying to help others connect to this same kind of goodness. I could do this simply by saying that life is good (isn’t there a t-shirt?), but the true power of hope originates in our mutual darkness. What’s more powerful – random hope, or hope with a story behind it?

Every single one of us – with or without a deeply traumatic background or official psychiatric diagnosis – has experienced his or her own darkness of the soul. Life is universally hard. From wherever darkness comes, we still have the choice of what we do. I would rather light a candle than simply curse the darkness,. Maybe I can share a glimmer of hope with someone else who needs the light.

Hero - First Sharing The Story

Karen Prive

17 Oct, 2022

Thirty-five years ago this week, when we were teenagers, my brother made an off-handed remark that rocked my whole world. In a conversation with our mother, he said he only hated one person in the world, and he was pretty sure I hated him, too.

Hate is a harsh word. Mom urged us not to hate, and I quietly reserved hate for the one who had abused me the worst – my uncle. When Rich uttered those words, something inside of me shattered. Until that very moment I’d never considered that anyone other than myself had been victimized by my uncle.

As it turned out, my brother’s remarks were completely unrelated – weeks later he noted he had been referring to a classmate who was bullying him. Had I known, I would have stepped in and thumped the bully. I was not particularly nice to my brother, but I was protective of him.

But I thought he was referring to our uncle, and these words were a call to action. I hated myself for not having realized sooner, whether it was my brother or any other child. I knew it was now my job to thump a different bully. An adult bully. One who had told me for years that if I told anyone what he was doing, they’d simply hate me for being a liar.

I loaded a gun that day. The simple answer was to take him out. I’d never felt such intense rage in my life. Ultimately, I unloaded the gun and put it away, sobbing from feelings I still can’t completely name. If I shot our uncle, I’d go to jail – and wouldn’t be able to protect my brother from my parents or the school bullies. He’d be alone in the world. I couldn’t do that.

In the coming days I tried to figure out what to do, but there was no right answer. I loaded that same gun a couple more times, imagining a tortuous death in pieces parts. Every time, I’d picture my brother facing his other tormentors alone. I couldn’t report my uncle – I didn’t know for sure what my brother had endured. How does a kid report a suspicion that someone else is being abused? I suppose you go to a trusted adult – preferably a parent – but my parents were part of the problem. I was lost.

I finally went to a school counselor and shared my own story, trusting that even though everyone would think I was lying there would have to be an investigation. Maybe my uncle would leave my brother alone. I was believed, and my uncle was arrested. While my brother’s remarks had been about a classmate, he was indeed being abused as I had been.

Reporting led to other arrests – there were other victims, and an interstate trafficking ring. Reporting was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. In some ways it was more traumatic than the abuse itself. The ensuing court hearings, community betrayal and family drama were devastating, but I did get some help. I am proud of myself for how I played this hand, only wishing I’d realized what to do before so many people were hurt.

Sharing our stories can let other know they are not alone, but also, it can be an act of heroism. We never know who or how we might help by simply telling our truth. Someone is waiting to hear what you have to say.

The Power of Humility and Faith

Karen Prive

10 Oct, 2022

“I do not remember a time when I didn’t consider suicide. I first attempted when I was six years old. Yet for of my life I hid these thoughts…. I was deeply ashamed and thought it was something I had to deal with alone.”
Thankfully I’m Not on the Front Page

I wrote those words to you last May, after a stay on a psychiatric unit. At that time a counselor encouraged me to think of my chronic suicidal thoughts as a type of addiction, much like my alcoholism.

Even once I wanted to stop drinking, I couldn’t imagine the life I have now in recovery. When I would try to put the bottle down I felt utterly raw, filled with rage and other emotions I didn’t like. Acting on these feelings I sometimes behaved worse than I did when I was drunk. I guessed that sober I’d end up in jail. Active alcoholism was a prison I knew and could navigate. With that idea, I’d always start drinking, at least until the drunk trouble was too much to bear and I’d try to stop yet again, with the same result.

It was impossible to view sobriety as desirable when it was unbearable. How did I make the leap to getting sober and chasing after recovery?

Dry, I committed a violent offense that did not send me to jail, but did ban me from my home. When I returned to the bottle I found no relief. I despised myself, drunk or sober. I asked my therapist what to do. I didn’t like what my therapist suggested – but did it anyway. I haven’t picked up a drink since the day I accepted help. It’s been over 33 years.

I took suggestions that were contrary to my nature. Pray? Yeah right! God hated my guts. Yet I prayed some very simple prayers (not to the God who hated me, but to the Universe at large), and was surprised that they helped. I took stock of myself and shared what I found with another human being. I asked that Universe to help me be a better person and set out to make amends where I’d hurt others. I eventually came to believe in a God that loves me and loves you too. I reached out to help others.

Helping others is just part of Step Twelve – the other part is to practice these principles in all our affairs. Which brings me back to, what if the same process that sobered me up would also work to relieve the crazy thoughts I have in my head?

These thoughts took over again in late August, and I asked for help. I called the Rapid Response Access Point (RRAP) and asked for a mobile crisis team to come. They sent me to the ER, because my suicidal thoughts were out of control. I was in the hospital for two weeks while my medications were changed. I’m starting to feel better.

I can’t help but think I’m in a similar place as I was over 33 years ago, when I couldn’t imagine what my life would look like if I took the stupid suggestions I was given, but I was desperate enough to try them anyway. Desperation breeds humility – but so can choice.

It’s not the same place. I know the power of humility and I have a very deep faith. It is time for me to be humble and move forward toward a life without these self-destructive thoughts.

If you or a loved one are having a mental health or substance abuse crisis, and you are in New Hampshire, call or text the Rapid Response Access Point at 1-833-710-6477, or call 988 anywhere in the US.

From My Closet to a Wet Noodle: Being Safe

Karen Prive

22 Aug, 2022

I used to hide in my closet. When violence erupted, I would bolt for the stairs, run to my room, step into my closet, shut the door behind me, use the rod to swing my body up to the little shelf in the back, settle myself into the corner and pull blankets over my head. My father – who’s arthritis slowed his ability to follow me – would know I was upstairs but never once in his rage could find me. He sometimes looked in the closet, and I would hold still and not breathe, willing him away. In the dark on that small shelf I was safe. Of course my heart was racing – it felt like life or death – but as long as I could be quiet and still I would not be found.

I had an outdoor safe spot too, that I would retreat to when I was desperate for quiet time. My parents told my brother and I we were never to play near the river, but as long as we weren’t caught it seemed safe enough. I stepped over the guardrail, avoided the spring water that flowed down the big rocks on the steep embankment as I navigated my way downward to the river’s edge, then followed the grassy stretch downstream until I reached a small area hidden by a canopy of trees. Rather than stones, here the riverbanks was carved out of mud. I would tuck myself into the moist earth, and unlike in my closet hiding place, here I felt totally safe. Not only did no one know where I was, but no one was even looking for me. I was a girl just quietly sitting in her cave, watching the water.

When a guided meditation suggests to imagine myself in a safe place, I almost invariably find myself back on the river’s edge, with the smell of mud and silt, the sounds of white water and the breeze passing through the trees. One therapist insisted I deserved a new safe spot – something better than a cold, damp cave – and I did find a bright pasture, but in my mind I still return to the river because my little girl feels soothed by the familiar surroundings, and empowered by her choice to find sanctuary in such a forbidden place.

I have adult safe spaces too – places that nurture my soul. This summer I’ve spent a lot of time sitting outside at my picnic table, umbrella spread wide open, tapping the keys on my laptop. Sounds of the crickets chirping, bumblebees pollinating the nearby flowers, an occasional friendly neighbor waving from the road – I soak up the sense of safety in my world. Other times I hide in my modest little library, sitting in my armchair surrounded by books. My bedroom is another safe space – a nest that feels secure, with gifted art on the wall and shared with my furry four-leggeds.

Another therapist encouraged me to mimic a wet noodle. Relax, he said. With each deep breath, relax even further. If fear was not warranted (which usually mine isn’t), just relax until you’re like a wet noodle. It’s hard to feel scared when your muscles are completely relaxed. Instead my underlying emotions surfaced. It is my sadness that scares me the most, but relaxed I could touch it. Imagine, having your safe space be your body!

All this said, I still find the sense of safety to be elusive. Most the time my amygdala still signals danger, which is likely why I absolutely treasure those safe spaces. Today I will breathe, and be the wet noodle.

I Was Keeping My Secrets

Karen Prive

15 Aug, 2022

On the surface, in high school I embraced my status as a mental health patient. I got myself a keychain that said “CERTIFIED CRAZY PERSON” and my nickname became Pinball, as I drunkenly bounced off the hallway walls. Inside, though, I hated myself.

Just a couple months into our sessions my therapist said, “I’m worried about you. I think you might be suicidal.” I snorted in laughter, and she demanded to know what was so funny.

Staring at my shoes, I quietly confessed, “I’ve tried twice already, since we started counseling.” She and I then had a serious talk, in which I committed to my safety and signed a contract. I didn’t tell her I didn’t care about the words on her silly yellow legal pad. I was desperate. Therapy wasn’t going to work. I was keeping my secrets.

But slowly, over years, the barriers came down and I started telling more of the truth. Yet there was one secret I continued to keep – that since I was a child, I’ve had visual and auditory hallucinations. I knew they weren’t real (most the time) but I was deeply ashamed of these symptoms. I was convinced I was broken beyond repair. Surely they locked people up for things like this. I would never tell.

More years passed, with new therapists and psychiatrists. I did eventually start sharing with my providers. I earned my college degree and found a job working with an investigator researching strategies to helps people with disabilities improve their financial well-being. My boss was incredibly supportive and encouraging, but even in this environment I would not open up about my mental illness.

I took a new job with more responsibility. I didn’t want to tell any of my friends, family or colleagues just how bad things were again getting inside, although I started being honest with psychiatrist and my current therapist. I finally was admitted to the hospital. Over a few years I was hospitalized over a dozen times, put on various medications, and had thirty-seven ECT treatments.

During one of my hospital stays an artist came onto the unit and we made masks of our faces, which we then painted to represent our stories. My mask was red for anger and lavender for softness, with a lightning bolt down the middle and eyes of different colors. These masks were later used in an exhibit at the hospital. I changed my Facebook profile picture at that time to a picture of my mask, and quickly my phone started to ping with texts and voice messages – Are you OK? Did something happen? Do you need help?

I realized the picture concerned my friends, but I didn’t want to take the photograph down. I pondered this dilemma, while my phone continued to ping, and came to a conclusion that scared the daylights out of me.

I’d been a mental health advocate for decades. I’d served on government commissions and the NAMI NH board of directors. Yet I’d never been willing to tell my story. I realized I couldn’t fight stigma while hiding my own truth. It was time to fess up.

I wrote about my mask – about how I’d made it while inpatient, and how I felt cracked down the middle because of my mental illness. I opened up about my depression and PTSD. I hit post.

And ping, ping, ping. People liking and loving my post. People saying me too, or my mom had bipolar, or my brother has schizophrenia, or I’ve felt suicidal before. The love started pouring in. And while it wasn’t all supportive, most were, and I ignored the ones that were unkind.

I didn’t stop there. I submitted an op-ed to the Union Leader about the ER boarding crisis for psychiatric patients, in which I shared about what it felt like for me to spend days in an ER, alone, in crisis, waiting for a bed to open up on a psychiatric unit. Gulp – it was published! Then I auditioned for This Is My Brave Concord in 2019, and was able to read my poem Homecoming on stage in that show.

I strongly believe in the power of our stories to heal each other. I didn’t trust my first therapist until she opened up and shared some of her trauma story with me – and was stunned that someone could go through such a thing and yet appear in front of me like a normal person. She gave me hope that someday I might function. My 12-Step sponsor gave me hope I could stay sober, and live a more normal life. And a lot of people with smaller roles in my life gave me bits of hope that added up into so much, that I could even start this blog.

There are so many ways of sharing your story – tell it, sing it, write it, dance it – just consider doing it. It doesn’t have to be about mental health. Is there something you’ve overcome? Sharing it may give another in your shoes some hope. And if you’re not ready right now, that’s ok. Just don’t slam the door shut. Be brave, spread hope.

“Homecoming” can be found on Invincible Hope here: https://karenprive.com/homecoming/

Moving Beyond Dialogue in the Language of Fists

Karen Prive

8 Aug, 2022

It was natural as a kid to lose hope. It seemed the adults around me were all brutal in some way or another. My parents were violent, my uncle abused me sexually from a very young age, and even the school nurse crossed lines she shouldn’t have. My world seemed so very dark. It’s no wonder I attempted suicide the first time when I was just six. I wanted control over my life, or death as it may be. I wanted power.

I entered kindergarten already able to read, right and do basic math, but I had no voice. I was selectively mute, and when I did try to speak at all, no one could understand what I had to say. I had very little practice in speaking, and consequently had a heavy lisp and a nervous stutter. When I couldn’t communicate with words, I spoke with my fists. I was well-versed in this language – it was spoken often at home.

Early power

Fists were a language of power. It felt good to get what I wanted. It felt awful as well – guilt about my opponent’s obvious pain broke my heart. I knew what it was to be in pain. I was responsible for making someone suffer, and that was unforgivable.

“Stop!” should have been a word of power. I wasn’t much on dada or mama, but when I learned the word stop, I randomly yelled it with gusto. Stop became the word of my childhood. It gave me a voice. Unfortunately it was rarely obeyed.

I was ten years old when I discovered the power of combining these tools. My father and I were working in the basement, surrounded by my uncle’s model train set, and the paints, stains and chemicals that were stored in this back room. Evidently I grabbed the wrong can, as my father lashed out and hit me hard. “Stop!” I yelled, as I swung back and landed a solid hook to his gut. He sunk to his knees, the breath knocked out of him. “Do not hit me again. I will fight back,” I warned, and then walked away.

The next time he hit me, we had a long dialogue in the language of fists. I never again won this kind of debate. Yet even on the losing side, there was a certain power in fighting back. I was asserting that I was worthy of better. While I may not have had control over what was happening to me, I was no longer going to accept that I deserved this maltreatment. Losing a debate was more empowering than accepting a monologue.

I followed that up by striking my uncle the next time he tried to touch me, and the abuse I suffered at his hands was greatly reduced.

Adolescent attempts at power

Unfortunately, years later I learned that he’d simply moved on to my younger brother. When I learned of this, it was hard to decide what to do. The part of me that speaks in fists wanted to settle the score with a fight to the death, but I instead reported my uncle. New power – asking for help. Counselors, school officials, police officers, state social services, courts – so may people were determined to render justice. It was weird having people on my side.

Shortly after reporting my uncle, I accidentally disclosed to my new counselor that I’d been in a fight with my father the night before. “Oh, you mean an argument,” she said, and I explained that no, it was a full-blown fistfight. When I described the blow by blow, she picked up the phone and called social services. I was temporarily removed from the home – foster care. I suppose that was power too – I told the truth – but it didn’t feel empowering. I felt disconnected and utterly lost.

I attempted suicide – I suppose, in a weird way, another kind of power. Except it was not a cry for help. I didn’t tell anyone what I was going to do, or even after, what I had done. I wanted to quietly disappear. The pain was too great. I wanted to end the pain. Now.

Finding my groove as a young adult, and beyond

After a few more attempts, I decided that God wasn’t going to let me out of this game. I didn’t think, God loves me, but rather, God hates my guts and wants me to suffer some more. If God was going to make me keep living, I decided I was going to have to live differently. There is power in this decision too. I got serious about stopping drinking, and eventually when I couldn’t stop, I agreed to go to rehab.

I got sober. I found support, and without alcohol and drugs in my system, I was also able to give therapy real effort. I started college, away from “home”, and while there were some fits and starts, I eventually was able to choose living away from my family.

When I started living on my own, without violence surrounding me, that was an act of personal power. I have choices. I have the power to choose things that nurture myself, rather than choosing danger.

My father became more mellow as he aged. He too gave up the language of fists, but for my psyche it was too late. I have a little girl inside me who was terrified of her Daddy, and while I have sort of forgiven him (another power!), I haven’t forgotten, and couldn’t trust his milder ways.

I could remain a victim today, but I try really hard to instead look for the way I can change a situation, or bring something to it in the name of love and healing. Love – oh love! – is probably the strongest power of all in my toolbox. That’s the language of the heart.

My WRAP Works Better When Its Shiny

Karen Prive

1 Aug, 2022

I can’t remember a time where I didn’t live with daily suicidal thoughts. I first attempted when I was just six years old; more attempts came as a teenager, as well as additional suicidal behavior as an adult. Still, I managed to talk my way out of any psychiatric admissions until much later in my life. At age 44 I found myself in my first psych ward, in desperate need of help. That stay resulted in my first round of ECT treatments – electro-convulsive therapy. I stabilized for a few months, and then my depression returned.

Over a three-year period I was hospitalized over a dozen times (in four different facilities), participated in four partial hospitalizations, underwent 37 ECT treatments, and tried a number of different psychiatric medications. During a stay in 2018 I was introduced to the Wellness Recovery Action Plan – WRAP.

WRAP was developed in 1997 by a group of individuals in Vermont with serious mental illness, including Mary Ellen Copeland, who were interested in creating a tool to help them feel better and get on with their lives. It is a document that individuals can use to create a plan for themselves to live a healthier life. Patients answer questions for themselves, like:

What do I look like when I’m well?
What daily actions can I take to maintain wellness?
What are my triggers, and how can I handle them?
What are my early warning signs that things are worsening, and what should I do?
How do I know things are getting bad, and what can I do?
What does crisis look like for me, and what can I do? What do I want others to do for me?

During that stay I thoughtfully recorded my answers for my WRAP. Most the social workers and nurses during previous stays had emphasized what to do in crisis, but this process was different. It gave me a road map of what I look like as things begin to unravel, and how I could respond.

I had other tools too – Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT), individual therapy, medications, and support groups. But I became much more stable when I took the WRAP seriously.

Last spring I wasn’t doing well and for the first time in over three years, I landed in the hospital yet again. My WRAP does not necessarily keep me well, but it did help me tell the truth to my providers when things deteriorated. That may have saved my life.

A rusted tool doesn’t work as well as a clean and shiny one, so I’m currently updating my WRAP. I usually do it every fall, but I didn’t last year. This made it harder to make decisions when I was in crisis. I don’t think clearly when I’m suicidal or hallucinating. I need to think through what I want before the crisis happens. I keep a copy of my crisis plan available for my husband, so if I do need some kind of intervention, he can provide direction to my providers.

Before I was hospitalized, I never knew about WRAP, but now you know too. If you want more information, go to the Wellness Recovery Action Plan website at: https://www.wellnessrecoveryactionplan.com/

There Aren't Spreadsheets in a Soul

Karen Prive

25 Jul, 2022

Psychotherapy often teaches concrete skills to cope with life’s discomfort, such as breathwork, acceptance, or communication strategies. These skills help keep me strong, like push-ups for my psyche.

Yet when it comes to my emotional life, skills alone are not enough. They do help me tread water. Treading water is not healing, however. Healing is deeper. Healing involves swimming – choosing a direction and finding a way to move.

Deep healing involves the heart – and work of the heart is of the soul. I can breathe with the best of them – in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four. Or In for five, pause, out for eight. All these numbers imply that I’m using a rational part of the brain. In fact, it is through engaging the rational brain that my emotional brain stops running the show.

I need more. I need heart, and it scares the daylights out of me.

I so fear my emotions that I joke that my spirit animal is a spreadsheet. Mind you, I love spreadsheets. They are powerful tools and I use them frequently. They are logical, follow lots of rules, and while the graphing functions may be colorful they are not exactly full of emotion. The rational part of my brain is very comfortable with spreadsheets, in a decidedly unemotional way.

Rarely easy, work with the soul is usually placed squarely in that place we would rather not visit, in that emotion we don’t want to feel, and in that understanding we would prefer to do without.
Thomas Moore, Care of the Soul

In the quote above, Moore generally asserts that to work from the soul, we need to explore the things that make us uncomfortable. Using my spreadsheet analogy, I have a tendency to avoid the discomfort, and to try and live with facts only. The emotions of my heart are thus disregarded. When I fully live in my spreadsheet mentality, I quickly descend into deep depression. My heart is empty; my soul, starving.

Lately I’ve been working on feeling one of the emotions I detest – sadness. I have not dived into my grief but have been simply worked on opening my heart to its presence. This has been kind of fun. I’ve been watching movies and reading books with sad scenes. I sit with it for as long as I can bear – at first, mere seconds, and then more. Then there are happy scenes too, and I sit with those feelings a bit as well. There are downs and there are ups – and oh, I do like the ups. In my depression I don’t feel ups. This is much more satisfying.

What is your soul craving?