She had a poster of Where’s Waldo? on the wall, presumably there to distract her patients from what was happening while they lay on the exam table. This was my third appointment, and on the drive over I had fought down rising waves of panic at walking back in to this room, with Waldo and her gloved fingers. When my physiotherapist had first recommended this treatment after months of physio exercises had failed to produce the desired results, I went home and cried. I called Dawn and told her I didn’t know how I was going to get through this. We talked about options, including anti-anxiety meds. In the end, I went to the appointments without meds, because lining up someone to drive me there and back in addition to the child care I already had to find for my younger son was too much to manage.
I have two kids, the second born by caesarian. After his birth I kept having strange pains in my abdomen, and I knew something was not right. It turned out I had scar tissue in my pelvis that had adhered my pelvic floor to my abdomen. No wonder all the kegels weren’t working. I was referred to an internal physiotherapist. Her job was to reach up inside me and break down the scar tissue. Yes, you read that right. I got to lie on a table and stare at Waldo while a stranger stuck her hand up inside me and ripped apart my insides. For a survivor of childhood sexual abuse there is pretty much nothing more triggering.
I had advocated for myself the best I knew how in advance of these appointments. I read the therapist’s bio on her website, and when I couldn’t find what I was looking for I called the clinic directly. “Yes, can you tell me if Jane* has trauma informed training?” The receptionist didn’t know, and said she would call me back. I was encouraged when Jane called me back herself. I explained that I was a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and I was extremely anxious about these appointments. She reassured me that she too was a survivor and that she would make sure that I felt as comfortable as possible.
It was hard, but I made it through the first two appointments. On the third appointment though, it all went horribly wrong. In the middle of the appointment, the practitioner started asking for details about my sexual abuse, and telling me about her own experiences of sexual abuse, all while her hand was firmly lodged up my vagina. I kept up the stream of conversation, trying to act like everything was fine, but my entire body was seizing up and my legs started to shake. Oblivious, she continued to talk as if we were conversing about the weather. I left the office in a daze, until I got to my car. Then I broke down. After I finished crying, I drove to the nearest fitness equipment store, bought a punching bag and set it up in my garage. My son came home that afternoon to find me in the garage, wailing on that bag.
Needless to say, there was no fourth appointment.
Cue epic depression spiral. I spent the next 5 months trying to figure out how to put myself back together. I shut down every part of my life that was not essential, so I could focus on my healing. I was being triggered constantly, experiencing body memories that were disturbing and made me feel completely powerless and helpless. One such instance happened during a chiropractic adjustment. Thankfully I have an amazing chiropractor, who held a safe space for me when in the middle of working on my shoulder I was overcome with a sudden feeling of terror, as though my life were being threatened. He sat next to me and handed me a box of tissues as I sobbed and asked repeatedly “Why am I so scared?”
I lived in fear that one of these body memories would be triggered in front of my kids. I didn’t want them to see me like that. I have tried to shelter them as much as I can from my trauma, past and present. I tried an online course in somatic experiencing, but found that it only made things worse. Thoughts of suicide, which had been blissfully absent for a few years, were starting to come back.
Eventually I found an amazing therapist who did sessions via Skype with me, and I started to feel like myself again. She uses a method of somatic therapy called Integration Based Stress Removal. She helped me learn how to release the stored trauma in my body, and I continue to use what she taught me every single day. I am incredibly grateful to her, and to my friends who recommended I see her. I finally have tools to help me have less PTSD episodes, and to quickly process the emotions as they arise so that I am not sent into a depression spiral or panic attack when a trigger comes up. That is huge for me.
Living with Complex PTSD is an ongoing balancing act. I think of it as living with a chronic illness. Sometimes things are going smoothly for a while, and then I have a flair up. When that happens I need to find new tools to help me manage. I have been in a good place for a few months now, and I feel like a squirrel, stockpiling nuts for winter. I am talking to my friends, setting up people to call when another flair-up occurs. I am practicing self care, and researching more about how trauma impacts the brain. I am working to become my own best advocate and researcher. There is no end point, no finish line. There are good days and bad days, good months and bad months. And a fire inside me that refuses to let the bad ones win.
Joyelle Brandt is a feminist artist, writer and speaker. She is the author/illustrator of Princess Monsters from A to Z, and co-editor of Parenting with PTSD, the anthology that this essay was first published in. Parenting with PTSD shares the stories of parents learning to manage the long-term impacts of Adverse Childhood Experiences, while breaking the cycle of abuse for their own children.
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