So, today’s assignment was, as you guessed it, to take a shower. I have something tactile I can focus on to help ground me (Harvey the duck), I put music on in the background, and I turned the shower on. And then I stared at it for 20 minutes, freezing in a towel.
That will be fun to explain to Dr. Mandolin. I looked at the shower for 2/3 of the time I was supposed to be in it doing therapy chores, which I hate. Thing is, I have spent decades trying to get out of my head, and to get through this, I have to jump in it and wallow around. It sucks. So I stood there, talking to myself about getting in the damned shower. Positive self talk, doubting myself, questioning if my memories are really a crazy imagination, talking down to myself, and the list continues. Soon, I had distracted myself and was thinking about my pedicure, and as I was looking at my toes, I saw the bathmats and made a mental note to get new ones. Then, I realized I suck at remembering anything because menopause and cPTSD have conspired against me and I started humming to music.
You see, it’s one thing to experience trauma, whether it’s extended or a one-time event. Neither is great. Both leave an indelible fingerprint on your heart, mind, and soul. And your body. Once you are able to tell yourself you’re not in danger, common sense says that the brain should settle itself down. Maybe this is why I am not a psychiatrist or psychologist because I am clearly wrong.
It seems, since I am trying to navigate my diagnosis with eyes-wide-open, my brain has decided to be an asshole. It’s like it always serves up something new just when I think I know myself. So, all of the angst leading up to the shower forced me into the bathtub. I turned around, faced the basin of water, and just got in. I didn’t give myself any time to ruminate over the dread. Fuck you, brain.
Let me tell you, this ranks among some of the worst experiences I’ve had in recent memory. I had no time to get my distractions in order so I had work to do. Find razor, find soap, figure out which bottle of shampoo my daughter hadn’t used entirely, and get my facial cleanser. I was happy to realize I had some distractions. Then I was pissed off because it took me only 2 minutes to get everything ready to use. I have never put so much thought into a shower or bath…I just avoided them.
So, there I was. Naked in the tub. My dogs lying on the floor. Room silent. Hair soapy. I tried the mindfulness. I stared at Harvey in the shower across the bathroom (I had left him in there when I bailed for the tub). In a blistering moment of stupidity or ignorance, perhaps both, I decided to wash my face and then fully submerge myself to rinse off.
I dipped backwards in the water. Rinsed off my hair and face quickly and stayed still. Nose and mouth out of the water, head and body submerged. Forced silence. I could hear my heart beating. I could feel my pulse in my toes. Every droplet of water on my skin felt like it was piercing through me. Almost as if the irritability that has previously existed only in my head, moved to my epidermis. In a bizarre twist of events, my brain didn’t throw me into a panic attack. It decided to slow me down and my mind locked in on events from my past. Things that happened in the shower and in the bath flooded my mind.
I floated. Tears sliding down my cheeks and into the soapy water. It was another silent cry, the floodgates open but no noise. In that precise moment, I was naked in my skin, naked in my thoughts, and alone. All alone. In the body of someone close to 5 decades old, feeling the things I felt 35-40 years ago but was never allowed to express. I was, for the first time, sad. Crushed. Inexplicably confused.
When you are the victim of abuse or neglect or torment or shitty parents, you never really get the time to wallow. You don’t wonder why. You pull up your boot straps, buckle up, and wait for round 4,567 to commence, all the while planning your escape. And once you do break free, you flee as far as is humanly possible. Physically, emotionally, spiritually, intellectually. You get the fuck out.
In the process of growing up in a shitshow, I never had the luxury to experience or process my emotions. There is no time for sadness when living in hell. I am not entirely certain, but I think what I experienced today was grief. It overtook every ounce of my being, my thoughts, my spirit. All the abandonment, all the abuse, all the second guessing myself…I never grieved properly. Maybe it’s because I never knew I had something to grieve until recently. I just knew something was wrong, that I was broken.
As I floated, my entire body hurt, down to my toes and up to my eyelashes. But not a physical pain. An ethereal pain that is too raw for this world. It was the purest form of emotional and physical pain I have ever felt. It was as if every nerve ending on my skin was exposed. The pain was, well, exquisite. And not in a good way. It’s the only word that captures the untainted pureness of the emotion I was feeling. Alone. Naked. In my tub. Sobbing like a 10 year old.
The only thing worse than the experience in my head was the feeling on my body. It felt as if I was dying by a thousand cuts, sharp blades dancing over my skin to make me remember it all. With each slice, a new memory was free to show itself.
Just stab me already. This sucks.
