Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and grieving go hand in hand. Part of PTSD recovery is processing through an intense and complicated grief process.
Case in point: on Easter Sunday, I realized that I had not been hugged throughout my childhood.
I mean completely trusting. Safe. Secure.
My husband and I were watching a TV show where a daughter ran to her mother and they threw their arms around each other. The mother was on her knees, gathering the seven-year-old little girl in her arms. The camera focused on the mom’s face and then the daughter’s face: peaceful, tender, and completely trusting.
I looked at my husband and said, “I don’t think I was hugged as a child. Not like that.”
“Well, duh,” he said.
This made me laugh. “Yeah, I know,” I said. “I’ve never been a hugger. But I don’t think I have realized this on a visceral level.”
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PTSD Means Your Body Remembers
It doesn’t surprise me that I hadn’t made that connection between my brain and body about hugging. I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder created the disconnect that helped protect me from years of trauma. The result is dissociation in my brain, where I don’t remember people or situations or events. I have blocks of time that I simply have no memories. I also may have flashbacks or nightmares where some of these memories show themselves.
Meanwhile, my body is what one massage therapist called, “Tighter than a brick shitbox.” One of my personal goals is to have the muscles of my shoulders relax completely. I have no idea what it feels like to have shoulders that are not knotted and hard as rocks. I am always on guard, hypervigilant and scanning for threats in my environment. Anxiety is an undercurrent, tensing my muscles until they ache.
This type of muscle memory is like working in your yard and being surprised by a snake in the grass. Now, I have had a snake (non-poisonous) race towards me – I don’t think I’ve ever run that fast in the opposite direction. A snake in the grass is no laughing matter. The next time you work in the yard and see a coiled hose that resembles your little snake buddy, your body is going to jump and act as if it is a snake. That’s the muscle memory of PTSD.
My body remembers the constant threat of danger and violation from those who were supposed to love me and care for me in healthy ways. Even though I have not been in direct threat for more than 25 years, my body remembers.
PTSD Recovery is a Gift for Grieving
I don’t often think of PTSD with regards to all of the gifts it gives me. Grieving is a cleansing side effect of my post traumatic stress disorder.
As I sat on the couch and realized that I had not been hugged in that way, I could have dissociated again. I could have tried to stuff down the feelings with food, as I have so many times before. I could have tried to drink my unhappiness away. I could have just ignored it altogether, making my muscles even tighter.
Instead, I cried. I felt the intense pain of having missed out on that kind of love, protection, safety, and tenderness. The pain bloomed in my chest.
I recognized the pain of grief, and I didn’t turn it away. I sobbed cleansing tears for that little girl who was alone and victimized and scared. I loved her, as she had not been loved before.
What a gift.
PTSD, Grieving, and New Life
I can think of no better time for my brain and body to make this hugging connection than on Easter Sunday, a holiday focused on resurrection in a season of new life. In the recovery process for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, old stuff dies away. Behaviors and thoughts that do not serve me are put to rest – it may take enormous energy and plenty of years, mind you, but they are let go in the process of recovery.
This leaves room for new stuff. Transformation. Healthy behaviors and thoughts and feelings to help in my recovery.
Like tender moments with my own children, including hugs.
Searching for Hope and Inspiration? Check Out Caskets From Costco
A Funny and Poignant Grief Book
For twenty years, I thought that I had been marching through the stages of grief in a straight line. I had been following the formula, crossing each processed grief experience off my list.
Except that I was totally deluded. And I didn’t discover that until Jim, my beloved father-in-law, died. I found myself drying off from my shower the morning after his death, really hoping he couldn’t see me naked. Or, if he could, that he was averting his eyes.
From that moment, my path through grief resembled a roller coaster, spiraling and twisting and turning, circling back around. Echoes of past trauma, including childhood abuse and cheating death, would no longer be ignored. I somehow needed to get from the beginning to the end of this grief adventure, and I don’t have a good sense of direction.
But what is always present during a journey through grief, regardless of the path chosen?
Hope.
Caskets From Costco is a funny grief book that demonstrates the certainty of hope and healing in an uncertain and painful world.
Linda Kruschke says
Great post! I could have written these lines myself: “One of my personal goals is to have the muscles of my shoulders relax completely. I have no idea what it feels like to have shoulders that are not knotted and hard as rocks.” The muscles in my neck are so tight my husband (who was a licensed massage therapist when we met) once broke a marble massage stone trying to get the knot out of my neck. I’m still looking for the solution to this one.
Kelly Wilson says
Thanks, Linda! The breaking of the marble massage stone is kind of impressive. I get it.