Around 5 years ago, something happened that so triggered my trauma response that, even though I had been actively healing for more than a decade, it threw me into a tailspin that entirely capsized my life. I can say that for 5 years it has taken all my strength and attention and focus to merely control my fall. It started slow and then picked up speed so that I couldn’t continue to pretend on the outside that nothing was wrong. There was no way to stop the descent. It took all I had to remain alive while I plunged deeper and deeper. In some ways it felt as though I was hurling myself down, but I had no control. And, like sailors on a stormy sea, I began tossing things overboard to stay afloat. The cargo wouldn’t matter if we all ended up at the bottom of the ocean. So I purged and minimized and tried everything I could think of to just stay breathing. From the outside, this looked like self-destruction.
This deep plunge forced me to face my ultimate fears much faster than I could. The terror overwhelmed me and I clung desperately to whatever I found would float. I made some wonderful decisions and some not so great ones. But when you’re hurtling down, down, down at 100km/hour, you don’t have a lot of reaction time. At that pace, every decision must be made quickly.
I honestly believed I would never reach the bottom. Actually, I fell for so long that I forgot I was falling at all. The wind whipping past became my new normal. Every morning the doom clouds covered the sun, obscuring my vision. I couldn’t describe what was happening – even to myself. And I began to believe I would always feel this way. I was trapped in an alternate reality where nothing I tried had any effect.
Then, without a thud or a splash, I reached the bottom. It was so subtle and slow that I didn’t even realize I had stopped my descent. Only as I began crawling upward did I become aware I was no longer plunging down. It was such a beautiful and forgotten feeling – not falling. Suddenly, I became aware that I hadn’t been falling apart. I had simply been falling. I hadn’t known what was happening. I hadn’t been able to see what the trigger had been or that there had even been one. I was too busy grasping and gasping and flailing to know what was going on. Only on the bottom, five years later, could I look back and begin to piece together the truth.
I don’t love being vulnerable right now. I have been misunderstood and misjudged (even by myself.) I don’t want to give anyone an opportunity to not believe my story. But I will share it. I will shout it out loud. Because there are others out there who are falling. Even now they tumble head over heels, screaming and clawing and grasping. And they don’t know there is a bottom. They don’t know they will survive and climb back up. They don’t know they will ever feel solid earth beneath their feet again.
I’m here to tell them to believe it. I’m proof that the falling doesn’t last forever. It stops. And the impact isn’t lethal.
I’ve faced many kinds of demons – the biggest being my fear of fear itself. That terror ate away my life from the inside. It roared and snarled and loomed. But it wasn’t all-powerful. It subsided. I survived. And now I know I can survive. Terror talks a big game, but the wounds it imparts aren’t deadly. There will be scars, but I’ll always carry the undisputable knowledge that I am stronger than the thing I fear most. I will be afraid again, but I won’t ever believe it can kill me. I have learned a lot about fear’s smoke and mirrors.
For the last two years, all this fear and grief and shame began to manifest also as physical illness. My body battery would die every day just from the effort of minimal existence. If I tried to push back, to reclaim ground, the exhaustion got worse. I had no choice but to learn a new skill – self compassion.
For two years I have practiced resting. I learned a lot about intentional repose. I learned to listen to my own body. Finally. It took 24 months to prove to my self that I will finally listen to what I need – that I will take care of me. I learned how to not betray myself. I don’t always get this right, but now I at least know what it feels like. I have experienced it. All the quiet helped me to hear my own voice. It’s a little sad to me that I had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, to a place where I would be confronted with just me – no background noise or external validation to hide behind. I was so scared. I worried I would hate her – that she would hate me. I didn’t know that wasn’t possible.
I’ve finally learned how to protect and care for the only one who has truly been entrusted to my sole care. I’ve learned how to ask her how she feels about things, and to listen to her warnings that certain situations will be too much.
In short, this massive trigger greatly sped up my healing process. I don’t recommend it, but I can acknowledge the benefits. I survived it – but possibly only because of the amazing people-gifts who surrounded me. The ones who, even though they didn’t understand the invisible battle I was fighting, stayed close and, simultaneously, gave me space. They bore my withdrawals and patiently waited, happy to welcome me back when I emerged dusty and weary. I don’t write about these dear ones to honour them or shame others, but to shine a light. Many are falling and wrestling as I did. There is much invisible pain in our world. If I can catalogue a little of what I experienced, we can all better understand how to bolster up those who find themselves plunging deep. We can learn how to tend the wounds of the battle-worn. We can learn how to override what we know about how life usually works, understanding that, for the traumatized, things are different.
Now that I’m finally not falling, I’m really excited to have the energy and drive to do some of the things I’ve been missing. Yesterday I wanted to go for a hike/run through the woods. I wanted to jump from rock to rock, navigating tree roots and mud holes. I knew I wouldn’t be able to go fast or far, but the desire to do it at all was so incredibly refreshing. We chose a wooded trail and started out. My asthma showed up, but I continued. (It’s interesting to note that my “exercise-induced asthma” started when I was a child, specifically during the years of my abuse.) I decided we would go one kilometer in before turning around. At the one kilometer mark, my sweet hubby, who was tracking it on his running watch, stopped to let me catch up. He motioned for me to come quietly. There were two bluejays playing in a tree just there at the very spot we planned to stop. Just for me! I know I don’t need any confirmation that I’m on the right path – I can feel it. I know I will always be on the right path by listening to myself, truly caring for her with all my strength. But it was so beautiful to receive that gift, perfectly timed. It gave me a boost of energy and confidence and I decided to go a little further. When we got back to the car, I was exhilarated. I’m still wondering at how good I feel, and that gives me hope. I can finally return to my life. I have new skills and knowledge, and a deep confidence that, with myself by my side, we can face whatever the future holds.
Something Deeper 
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