The psychology of shoulders

I've never woken up well from anesthesia. Not when I was a teenager having my knee scoped. Not when I was having that same knee reconstructed whilst in grad school. And not when I had a tendon in my right shoulder repaired. So when, on the afternoon of June 23, I woke to the vague sensation that my left arm had been strapped to my body, followed by the far less vague sensation of nausea, I did what any sensible person would. I went back to sleep.

Who knows how much time passed before I woke again. This time the evidence was clear. I was still nauseous, and my arm was most definitely strapped to my body. The nurse, who needed me awake to send me home, caught my eye. I decided to ask the obvious question.

"You had a rotator cuff repair, honey." 

Far too out of sorts to object to being called "honey" (for once...), I asked to see my doctor. I had come in for a simple tendon release, the kind of procedure that barely makes a blip on the radar. The surgeon, however, confirmed the nurse's statement. My rotator cuff had been completely torn.

After a week spent deliriously cycling through Percocet, broken sleep, and pain, the staples were removed and I started physical therapy.

And with it, unexpectedly, the very near loss of my mind. 

It wasn't just the pain, though there was plenty of that. It wasn't just the blinding frustration of feeling clumsy and useless. It wasn't just the realization that there was no way I could safely travel to New York one more time before school. And it wasn't even the pile of work accumulating as I sat helplessly by, my shoulder encased in ice.

It was that single, insidious, two-word question: "what if?" As in, what if it never gets better?

To make matters worse, I found myself robbed of my failsafe coping mechanisms. Writing? A leftie with her left arm in a sling can't exactly enjoy the soothing flow of ink on paper. Music? I'm a pianist, and while I've seen people perform marvels one-handed, I'm not one of them. And running? Completely off limits. 

This may sound melodramatic, but if demons are real, this is what they tell you: "your life as you know it is over." And because your demon-silencing mechanisms are out of order, you start to listen. It gets very, very dark, and no matter what you do, the "what-if" demons won't shut their foul little mouths. Before I knew it, I was down on myself for feeling down, proof if ever there was that mental states are not something people can necessarily control!

Thankfully, the mantra we try to teach children affect by trauma is true: "this too shall pass." I'm on a long road- rotator cuffs don't heal overnight, and wounded souls have an unpredictable timetable all their own- but my life once again feels like it is...literally...in my hands. 

So you have a fear monster... Now what?

It's 3:00 a.m. and you have just woken up drenched in sweat. You feel it more than you see it, sitting there on your pillow, watching you sleep.

"Oh good, you're awake. Let's get to work," it seems to say. 

Of course it might not be on your pillow. It might be on your chest, or at the foot of the bed. Or it might not even be nighttime. I once had a fear monster that pounced in the middle of class, usually as I wrote conjugations on the whiteboard. I'd like to think I was able to smack it down before any students noticed, but you never know. Fear monsters are not just scary, they're also stubborn and sneaky.

Whenever and however your fear monsters show up, there seem to be two basic options:

A) Resignation. Let them have their merry way with you. If your fear monsters are anything like mine, they are terrifyingly creative, and there are probably plenty of scenarios they haven't explored yet.

B) Fight back. I know, I know. Easier said than done. Believe me, as one whose closet contains a small army of fear monsters, I know. Even so, I am finding ways to tame them. Here are three:

1. Sing to them. Or at them. (Not over them, though. If you try to drown them out, they will come back with reinforcements.) If you find something you can sing over and over like a mantra, they will eventually shut up and listen. Lately, mine retreat to the sound of Sanskrit meditation chants, but that's just me. Yours might need Bach. Or Bon Jovi. Or bluegrass. Whatever. I have a hunch it works best if you sing your own song, so choose the one that works for you.

2. Call them out. Heck, give them a name. While they glower on your pillow, go ahead and blog about them, text a friend, write a note. They thrive in dark, secret places, on making you think you're all alone. Once you start showing them for what they truly are, they might just shrivel up like the Wicked Witch.

3. Thank them. Yes, you read that right: thank them. I've read variations of this idea in a number of places, the latest being Elizabeth Gilbert's Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear. Strange as it sounds, it works. Think back to my last post. Fear in and of itself is healthy. It keeps you safe. The problems start when it runs wild. So next time it breaks into a gallop, don't ignore it. And don't beat yourself up because it seems once again to be winning. Simply say something like, "There you are. I'm not surprised you're here. This IS scary and I'm glad you're here to keep an eye on things. I've got it, though. You go on and rest."

Are any of these foolproof? Nope. Do they work every time and for everybody? Double nope. Do they last forever? I wish. Yet they do help. With time and practice, my fear monsters have come to look more like hissing house cats than man-eating tigers. Best of all, my pillow...and 3 a.m....are once again mine, at least for now.

Fear monsters, an introduction

Before you correct me, yes, I wrote that correctly. I want to talk about fear monsters, not fear OF monsters.

To illustrate the difference, let's talk an actual fear OF monsters: ophidiophobia. Yes, I know some of you like, even love snakes. I know that snakes have a crucial role to play in the ecosystem (or so I'm told). Yet the mere act of typing the word gives me heebie jeebies. What's more, I don't think this is necessarily an unhealthy fear. What was coming out of Medusa's head, after all? Not fluffy bundles of cuddly cuteness. And what about Genesis? Whether you believe the Bible is God's word, a crazy story with a spectacular ending, or something in between, you have to admit that the whole Adam-and-Eve-meet-a-snake episode is rather terrifying, particularly its concluding curses. Then there is the here-and-now: copperheads who occupy a friend's woodpile, rattlesnakes that take over a highway rest area, cobras who spit, for crying out loud!

(start at 6:09)

The problem is, you can have too much of a good thing. Healthy, protective fear runs amok, and before you know it, you have a fear monster. Rather than simply give the copperhead-infested woodpile a wide berth, you stop a mile from the house, desperately hoping your significant other will answer the phone and assure you that there are no snakes in sight. Never mind that you are safely ensconced in your car. Never mind that you have seen snakes, probably the same snake, exactly twice in as many years. Never mind that said snake was a harmless, even beneficial, black snake. You are in the grips of a fear monster, and it is dictating your every move.

Fear monsters have stalked me a lot in recent months. Not so much over snakes –I moved years ago, and so far, they have kept a respectful distance– but just about anything else seems fair game. Home repairs. Kid tantrums. Car trouble. Health scares. Things that go bump in the night. These things usually a) aren't real, b) are real but don't apply to me, or c) are real and do apply to me, just not in any sort of life-threatening way. And rarely are they things I can even control. They are just there, trying to take charge, especially between 2 and 5 a.m., though they can grow unwieldy at any time and without warning.

The good news is, the fear monsters don't have to win. They may be legion and they may be tenacious, but we can cut them down to size. To find out how, stay tuned... The black cat will be back soon.

There's Knowing, Then There's Knowing...

A few weeks ago, I read this article:

How Walking in Nature Changes the Brain

I totally get it. Walking, nature, they are definitely good for body and soul. When workplace drama gets me down, I lace up my running shoes and get the heck out of Dodge. When writer's block is sitting on my brain like an obese bull elephant, I grab those shoes and walk, often to a quiet place where I can just sit and quiet my mind. (The Cumberland riverbank, just above the Falls, is a particular favorite.) When my son is off the deep end and my nerves have been frayed to scorched tips? You guessed it. I lace up my Nikes and go, and go, and go.  Does this mean my problems go away? Nope. Not at all. Yet somehow, it's different. It's different because I'm different. I recognize myself again and with that kind of grounding, I can take on the world at least one more time.

Yet something about this article has been bugging me for a while, namely this. Why, in today's world, do we not believe what we know to be true until science "proves" it?  How is a brain scan more valid than the deep-seated knowledge that my time outdoors has saved my sanity more times than I can count? Don't get me wrong. I love science. It has given the world so much. Brain science in particular is making it possible as never before to help children affected by trauma. Yet science isn't everything. Sometimes you just have to listen to your soul to find all you need to know.

Return of the black cat

I started, then stopped, this blog in 2009.  I started because I love to write and sometimes it seems like people enjoy reading what I have to say.  I stopped because I felt like I was creating a virtual persona and because I caught myself writing for revenge, which is never a very good reason to do much of anything, especially write (I have since deleted those posts).

So why am I back?

Good question. Mostly, it's because I still love to write and I think I'm getting better at it.  I'm even taking classes, attending workshops, attempting a memoir.  I'm also back because I'm currently on the outs with Facebook and have never been interested in other social media except for a brief flirtation with Tumblr.  At the same time, part of me loves the sense of worldwide community and connection the Internet can provide (on its good days, anyway). I'm thinking, perhaps wishfully, that this blog can help me plug into that.

Things are going to be different this time around, though. I originally started the blog to talk about children with trauma histories. I'll still write about that sometimes because it matters and because we don't talk about it enough. But there are some people out there already doing that, and often doing it better than I ever could.

More than that, however, is a realization that life is about so much more than mental illness. We live in a wonderful and strange world full of its own unique joys and sorrows. That's what I want to write about, from here in my little corner of the Kentucky mountains.