The barking dog of trauma
and how I practice being well
I write about my mental health a lot, both here and in the personal essays I am working on. It was not exactly my intention when I started this newsletter but now that I’m here—and you’re here—I hope my musings may be helpful, or relatable in some way, and that you’ll forgive me for taking on such a serious topic so much of the time. I promise (well, I’m not going to promise; rather I hope) I’ll go back to being funny soon.
Being “healthy” takes up a lot of my time these days. Being “stable” (whatever that means, it’s different for everybody) is a goal, a long-term one, but still a daily goal for me, sometimes even hourly. Last week in therapy (I love my therapist so much I told her she can never retire), we talked about what the word “stability” means to me. “Is it an important word?” she asked. What represents stability? And, maybe most intriguingly, what is my range for being stable? With this question she drew a bell curve on a piece of paper and wrote “normal” at the top of the bell in the middle of the graph. On the right would be extreme and on the left, not enough I guess?
Things that represent stability for me include getting enough sleep, eating (relatively) healthy foods, taking my meds, staying calm when something irritates me or, in the case of my daughter’s teenage unkindness, hurts me. That one is the hardest for me right now. It’s never easy to parent a teenager, but for me, in this season of my life, it is perhaps the most challenging thing I face: not taking everything so personally.
Another stable thing I do, or force myself to do as the case may be, is to go out and do things, especially at night, which is harder in winter. When I’m depressed, understandably—and no matter the season—I don’t feel like going out and I say “No” to many offers to socialize. Currently, I’m in a good place and doing a few things, here and there, but the desire to stay home, get snuggly and hibernate, especially after dark, is real. In an effort to say “Yes,” I went out with D on Saturday—we had a proper date—and it was great. We went to a new-ish Japanese sake-tasting bar with Japanese-style pizza (milk bread topped with delights like Japanese chili flakes, okonomi sauce and pickled veg). I even had a beer! I don’t really drink anymore but I was feeling daring. I love how light Japanese lagers are—it almost looked like water.
My therapist and I recently came up with a metaphor I adore, as much as you can adore something that represents trauma. “Trauma tells us a particular memory is important (or dangerous) and must be avoided,” she said. Trauma assigns meaning to things as a way to protect you but it’s overdone, like a barking dog. For example, when Lewis, my dog, sees someone walking on the sidewalk in front of our house, he runs to the door barking loudly and urgently. No matter how much we try to train it out of him, he thinks there’s a real danger and acts accordingly. Now, if someone were trying to break into our house, then we’d want him to furiously bark and rush the door to scare them away. That is a legitimate response and a helpful one. Sometimes trauma responses (like “fight or flight”) keep us safe when there is a need for safety or security, as in a mugging or a house fire. Other times, and repeatedly for someone like me who suffers from PTSD, the barking dog of trauma barks too much and causes pain and suffering —to me, but also to my loved ones.
Another symptom I struggle with is what in psychology is called “catastrophizing,” or always thinking that the worst will happen. For example, with the recent shooting at Antioch High School here in Nashville, my mind—like many parents but my dog was barking LOUDLY—went to “Is my child going to be safe at school today?” Surely there will not be a copycat shooter at her school this week? Instead of staying calm, for her sake but also for mine, I felt very anxious and scared and had a hard time letting go of the bad thoughts.
Or, when she wanted to go out with her friends to a Waffle House to eat pancakes after the homecoming dance on Saturday night, I immediatly thought of the Nashville Waffle House-shooter in 2018 who killed four people with an AR-15. Will that happen tonight? Of course the chances are extremely low. But I *almost* didn’t let her go which would have caused so much anguish and fighting in my house. In the end, she did go. We had her location on our phones and you better believe I checked it a thousand times. Daniel picked them up—too late in my opinion, but pick your battles—and she came home to me, safe and happy.
I’ll end by admitting that I am not completely well (will I ever be?), but I’m well enough. Well enough to live my life, go to yoga, go out with friends, live in (relative) harmony with my family. I am “practicing being well,” says the brilliant therapist-of-my-dreams. It’s an everyday kind of practice. I may even go on a (long-awaited and badly-needed) solo trip to see a friend in Colorado in March. It would be a good, safe trip for me to a very familiar place. I want to do it, dare I say have to do it. But we’ll see.