May We Dance Upon Their Graves

Incest Survivors, Spirituality and Ceremonies of Justice – the story of a woman living a rich, fulfilling life while waiting to dance on her sociopath father's grave.

Car Crash – or what PTSD is like – novel

Photocredit: Kel Patolog via Flickr

[Note: Since I first wrote this, this piece has gotten a lot of attention for being a really good way to explain to people in your life what it's like to have PTSD and Complex PTSD in particular and why there aren't any quick fixes. I hope it's helpful for you and your loved ones.]

I’m writing a novel as part of National Novel Writing Month (www.nanowrimo.org) and the following excerpt is what I wrote today on it.

The novel this year is about sociopaths, a people making sense of a past including child abuse, disconnection with nature and people trying to do the right thing in the face of it. I don’t know exactly what shape the pieces will take yet. I didn’t know last year at this stage iether really, but I suspect it will be more complicated this year. Last year was a simple time-travelling love story.

This is an installment of my novel, in progress. More pieces here.

Excerpt:

It’s like this.

Imagine you are a mother driving home from a family function with your nine year old daughter in the passenger seat. You have had one or two drinks but it was awhile ago and you decided you were okay to drive.

The night is rainy and you get into a serious car accident. You are thrown forward in your seat and injure your body where the steering wheel strikes you. Your daughter is killed. You are helpless, pinned inside the car, unable to reach her as she dies before your eyes, convulsing, screaming, blood coming from eyes and ears.

The experience is so overwhelming, emotionally that your brain can’t process it, can’t store it in the usual way. The information flows in to fast and too intensely to be properly filed in one place, all together. The sensation of the steering wheel and the pain in your abdomen gets put in one place, completely separated from the visual memory of your daughters face as she struggled and died. That memory is separate as well from the contempt in the voice of the rescue worker who asked if you had been drinking. That memory is separate from the lights of the semi high beams in your eyes which blinded you for a moment, contributing to the accident. The pain from your chest. The emotional pain of watching your daughter die. Your daughter’s last words.

Those snippets of memory, and hundreds of others from that night are stored in little boxes in your mind, with no connection to the other pieces. They don’t form a whole memory at all, and you have no ability to put them in the correct order or link them to one another. It is too painful and overwhelming when you try, so you don’t.

You receive medical attention but everyone drifts away from you after that and you move to a new place where no-one knows. You vaguely remember that your daughter died in a car accident, but don’t remember details. People think you are lucky not to remember any of it, and are relieved you have nothing to tell them. Knowing it happened at all is bad enough for them, and the uncomfortable look on their faces soon teaches you to not even go that far with them. You can’t tell anyone about what you do remember, because it feels like it was your fault. After awhile you seem to forget it happened at all.

Then one day you are riding the bus and someone pushes you hard, in your abdomen. Suddenly the memory fragment of the crushing sensation in your chest is triggered, which in turn has a connection to the box holding the emotional pain that you don’t know is from watching your daughter die. They both ‘fire’ in your mind simultaneously.

You feel the pain in your chest as if it was happening now, along with a loss so great and horrifying that you panic. There is no other information to explain what this is about. You freeze, ashamed, and people are well meaning but think you are crazy, or think you need a doctor. You think you are crazy too.

Later on, this type of thing happens again and again. Lights in your eyes trigger some part of the memory, or a particular phrase, or seeing a simulated car crash on tv, or seeing someone who looks like your daughter did, seeing a rescue worker in uniform, or being around your family members at the holidays, who carefully do not talk about what happened.

You feel anxious and fearful a lot of the time, but couldn’t say exactly why.

If you are lucky, you will be able to stand the sensation during the gift of memory that is a flashback long enough to put the pieces together a little and don’t try to numb it very often with drugs, or alcohol, food or work. You do remember that your daughter died, and you think that maybe this has something to do with it.

You find a therapist and tell her what you remember consciously, which isn’t much. Your daughter died. You were driving. The rest is a blank. One day you have a session after a particularly intense flashback. While telling her about it, in the safety of a non-judgmental relationship, you have another flashback that fits with the first and make the connection with what you already know. You realize that the lights in your eyes you’ve been having nightmares about are the headlights of the truck you saw that night. The next time you have a nightmare about them, you tell yourself this and it calms you down. The better you get at doing this, the less often you have these nightmares, and you gradually find you can look at headlights at night without feeling much panic. Eventually they are sometimes just headlights, unless you are having a particularly stirred up day.

One day, with a lot of support from your therapist, you get the courage to ask after the accident reports. You travel back to the town you lived, practicing deep breathing to keep from having panic attacks when you see familiar landmarks. The day you go to the station and get access to the report, you are terrified. Some of what is written is not exactly as you remember it, it is told from a different perspective. It reads like it happened to another person. When you read in the police station archives, that it said you’d indicated you’d had a drink at the party prior to driving, you become unable to read further and freeze. You run into the bathroom, find a stall and break into deep sobs in the police office. You hope no-one comes in and hears you, or worse, asks what is wrong.

However, the report helps because it gives you a framework to attach the snippets of sensation and memory that intrude into your consciousness or have been invited during therapy sessions. You find that they all fit at some place in the story, and you begin to have compassion for the woman who experienced this tragedy, that woman who doesn’t quite feel like yourself.

Now imagine that the situation is not a car accident, witnessed and documented by police, so you can check the validity of your memory fragments. Imagine that an incident equally horrifying or worse was perpetrated on you by a loved and trusted person while you were a child under their control. Imagine that there was no medical attention, even though you were seriously injured, and no one to help or tell. Imagine that it wasn’t a single traumatic incident’s worth of sensation fragments to piece together, but fifty, spread out over a decade or more. Imagine that as a result of the first couple of incidents, you had walked around in a self-protective haze for most of your childhood. Imagine that as a result, your brain didn’t bother to store the kind of information that provides context and meaning for these later traumas, but only the sensations of pain or horror. You are missing a large number of key pieces of several of the memories, meaning that without outside validation, you will likely never be able to explain or integrate them fully for yourself, make them whole and stop them from intruding into your life.

Imagine that your family members refuse to talk to you about what they remember of what happened, because it is too painful for them, or because they don’t want you to remember what happened, they blame you or they don’t want you to remember their part in condoning it. Imagine that they tell you that you are lying, making it all up, that you are crazy, either directly or indirectly. Or imagine that instead they say they believe you that this person hurt you, but don’t think it was a big deal and still spend christmas every year with the family member who hurt you. They expect you to do the same.

If you are lucky, you will divorce your family, get good therapy, and find some friends with similar experiences who understand and normalize what happened. If you are lucky you will have a spouse who becomes trained to hold you and calm you at night when you have nightmares, or if you have flashbacks during lovemaking, does not take it personally and learns not to touch you in ways that trigger the minefield of memory fragments. With luck and time, you connect the puzzle pieces you can, and develop what explanation you can for those you cannot connect. You learn, in the midst of the panic, to tell yourself, “this is abuse stuff” and that you are safe now, and most of the time that helps enough. If you are lucky and face it as square on, for as long as you can, then the memory fragments intrude less and less, and eventually they stop. You make peace with the mysteries you can’t solve, and protect yourself from further harm effectively.

You don’t tell most people about all this, as it upsets them and often they say stupid things that make it worse. They ask why you aren’t over it by now. They say “parents do the best they can with what they know at a time” or “forgiveness will set you free”. Their own experiences with minor wounds and misdeeds tell them that these are the truth, so they think it applies to you.

Friends you trust enough to tell how it really is are uncomfortable with the anger you have worked hard to feel and express, because turning it inside poisons you. They tell you that forgiving the sociopath who hurt you solely for his or her own enjoyment will magically make all the aftereffects disappear, forcing you to make the decision to tell them what naïve fools they are or just change the subject. Sometimes you want to ask them, “will forgiving the truck that hit you make the broken bones go away?”

If you are lucky, you will have some people in your life who never say these things, or you will soon have no friends at all. You learn not to tell most people things they can’t understand, which means that sometimes your behaviour is unexplainable.

Without being able to share the facts, it becomes impossible to explain in a compelling enough way to strangers, that unless they want to hold your hand, remind you to breathe, listen to you tell them the disjointed snippets of what you remember about being trapped and tortured in a small box, and comfort you afterward, all of which would actually healing, you simply cannot ride in an elevator today.

Some days you can do it with no more than some attention to deep relaxing breathing, and focusing on the elevator musak and the knowledge that you are safe and an adult. Doing this often enough will make things permanently better, but takes a lot of internal fortitude each time. However, you know from experience that if you do succumb to pressure and ride in the damn elevator (or whatever) when you’re not ready, you will pay by going numb for days, and spend days on high emotional alert and nights of nightmares. Because  they don’t or won’t understand why you have needs they don’t, people find you rigid and odd. They have no idea how courageous you are.

31 comments on “Car Crash – or what PTSD is like – novel

  1. butterflysblog
    November 8, 2010

    I absolutely fucking love this. Thank you for sharing, Warrior.

  2. Pingback: Post Round-Up: Cars and Lighthouses « Coming Out of the Trees (excerpts from my therapy journal)

  3. ivory
    November 21, 2010

    I absolutely, um, love this, too – like butterfly. It sings a song in a language many people can understand. Have you thot of putting it in the Blog Carnival?

    • sworddancewarrior
      November 23, 2010

      Thanks Butterfly and Ivory.
      I wouldn’t know how to put it in the Blog Carnival. Do you?

  4. Pingback: Memories of childhood sexual assaut – how are they different? | May We Dance Upon Their Graves

  5. kate1975
    March 2, 2011

    You are incredible. Yes, you are courageous. Thanks for writing this and sharing it.

    Good and healing thoughts to you.

    Kate

    • sworddancewarrior
      March 2, 2011

      Thanks, Kate. I’m pretty proud of this piece of writing.
      Good and healing thoughts to you too.
      SDW

      (For the record, I have neither been in this type of car crash nor have any issues with elevators. It’s just an example I used for the novel. However, the feelings and process of course are drawn from my own experiences. )

      • kate1975
        March 2, 2011

        Hi SDW,

        Just so you know, I understood it was fiction. I meant you are incredible and courageous for writing such an accurate piece about something that is so hard to describe and to do it so honestly and so perfect.

        Good and healing thoughts to you.

        Kate

        • sworddancewarrior
          March 2, 2011

          Hi Kate,
          When I first read your comment I wondered, then I figured you did, and then I figured that if I even thought that it was worth mentioning, not specifically for you but just in general. Thanks for the compliment! :-) SDW

  6. This is a very powerful piece of writing. Thank you for sharing it.

  7. Sophie Lhoste
    March 5, 2011

    Yes, that is exactly how it is. The disjointed fragments of memory, the inability to explain how we feel without giving details that are considered to be too much information, the freakish fears, the judgements even though we are being so brave just to breathe. Childhood abuse isolates us for years to come. Sometimes I think it’s the worst part of that crime.
    Thank you for such a beautiful and accurate description of something that is so elusive and difficult to explain!

    • sworddancewarrior
      March 6, 2011

      @Sophie Lhoste: Yes, exactly. That’s one of the things I hate the most, not being able to explain without people feeling it’s too much information. It’s my life, and if a tiny fragment is TMI, then most of what I’ve dealt with is off the table. I agree the isolation from society is one of the worst ongoing effects of the abuse. That’s part of why I wrote this. I’d like as many non-survivors as possible to read it, so they get it. My wife read it, and I’ve noticed some subtle changes in how she relates to me around the abuse (she was already good) that are really positive.

  8. mywordswerefaded
    March 6, 2011

    It is so sad that people are so easy to dismiss things that happened to other people, unless something similar happened to them or they’re told, in fictional terms, how it would be if something similar happened to them. This is a wonderful piece of writing, and I think most people should be able to relate in some sense if they read this.
    Thank you so much for sharing and putting it in to such understandable, relatable words.

    • sworddancewarrior
      March 10, 2011

      Thanks! That was certainly my intent. Non-survivors don’t usually get it, and it’s certainly very hard to explain in ways they will get without having the usual annoying responses.

  9. Kim
    March 10, 2011

    This moved me to tears….it so accurately describes something that is so difficult to explain. Beautiful. I’m glad you shared it on the Carnival.

    • sworddancewarrior
      March 10, 2011

      Thank you! I wrote it in part to explain more fully to my partner and brothers what complex PTSD is.

  10. Tracie
    March 11, 2011

    This is such a powerful piece of writing…and you explained it in such a way that someone with no experience of trauma could be able to understand what PTSD is. That is a writing gift, and it really does take a lot of courage to use that gift to approach this subject (even in the form of fiction!)

    Thank you so much for submitting this to the Blog Carnival Against Child Abuse!!

  11. Pingback: Primer for Partners of Sexual Abuse Survivors | May We Dance Upon Their Graves

  12. Pingback: Managing Cortisol Levels for People with Complex PTSD | May We Dance Upon Their Graves

  13. Faith Eve
    February 15, 2012

    Great analogy – it explains it exactly. So sorry someone felt it was oversharing. :(

    • sworddancewarrior
      February 15, 2012

      Thanks! I think it does too. It worked out. Talking about child abuse is always a risk / taboo breaker, but that’s why I do it, to make more room for it to be talked about and stopped.

  14. Karen
    October 23, 2012

    Thank you so much for this….this is about the BEST description I have ever come across for what PTSD is like…not only to heighten awareness for those who are not survivors, but also for survivors – so many of us (survivors) need these reminders that we are not losing our minds – there are logical explanations for the flood of emotions and feelings that can overwhelm us unexpectedly and the state of confusion it can leave us in. Thank You! Thank You! Thank You! I can’t wait to read your book!

    • sworddancewarrior
      November 30, 2013

      That’s really nice to hear. This is why I do this. We survivors need to support one another, and if I can find a way to help non-survivors understand, it makes it easier for us all. Nice to meet you, Karen.

  15. jonno02
    November 14, 2012

    My girlfriend was constantly abused by her father and brothers for her first 16 years of life. Since we started together I have struggled to truly understand what she went through. Your amazing writing has at last given me an insight to how she – and all victims of sexual abuse – cope with the memories. Thank you for opening a door for me so I can help her through this.

  16. Pingback: What not to say to survivors of childhood sexual assault… | May We Dance Upon Their Graves

  17. Debbie Lee
    July 13, 2013

    I can’t tell you how much this will help me… I have been searching for something my partner can read to help her understand what I am going through..thank you so much.

    • sworddancewarrior
      July 15, 2013

      Thank you for letting me know. This is why I do this. And nice to meet you.
      You are very welcome.
      SDW

  18. llel
    November 20, 2013

    Thanks for all the effort that went into expressing all of this, I know it cannot have been easy. I have recently uncovered a similar trauma. I believe I was around three years of age when this occurred. I have had therapy and group twelve step work in the past for addiction and issues related to being abused by two other serial pedophiles. Since I was in my early twenties I have been dealing with this. However this time I am in my mid-forties and am shell-shocked by an uncovered trauma. I am also seemingly at least as disturbed, and possibly more, for the implications that this has for my mother’s mental health. I have at times believed she was borderline but now I am seeing her as sociopathic or full on dissociative identity disorder. Also I now believe I have an alter, which is something in the twenty plus years of dealing with this issue I have never even suspected. I am literally shell-shocked right now and I am trying to gather the courage to call rape crisis and get some support for what has been revealed to me. I continue to run across your blog entries online so I believe something is leading me here again and again. I am very sorry for the pain you have experienced, here is hoping we can hold and comfort those wounded children within us.

    • sworddancewarrior
      November 21, 2013

      There are also 12 step groups in some places for sexual abuse survivors. This was a good one for me: http://www.siawso.org/

      I want you to know that I am well. I am happy. I have a good life and people who love me. I’ve healed what happened to me. I’m now a good mother to myself, even though at the beginning it felt like that wouldn’t be enough. You can be well and happy too.

      I don’t see my mother any more. She’s very needy, doesn’t take responsibility for her part in what happened to me (which involved covering up the rapes, making her a criminal accomplice). It seems to me that you will have the easiest time healing if you also cut your mother free and focus on yourself.

  19. Pingback: Help for Partners of Childhood Sexual Assault Survivors | May We Dance Upon Their Graves

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