Her devotion to doing things the right way had been unflagging, all her successes had depended on it, and she would have gone on like that indefinitely. She didn’t understand why, but faced with those decaying buildings and straggling grasses, she was nothing but a child who had never lived.” ― Han Kang, The Vegetarian
What am I now?
I have asked myself this question quite a lot over the past five years. It started one winter evening driving home from a training course where I suddenly realised that I couldn’t do my job anymore. I loved it. I loved being a social care worker and I loved the people I had cared for, for so many years. But I had reached a point of total exhaustion…internal and external. The exhaustion came from childhood trauma and years of pretending not to see it. I couldn’t explain it but I could (reluctantly) recognise it.
The process of realising this, having extended sick leave, trying and not succeeding to get myself back to work was, of course, a longer and more arduous one but that moment sealed my fate. I stopped the car and rang work to let them know that I couldn’t make it in the following day. I had the presence of mind to do that. I got myself to my doctor at the first opportunity. I followed all the advice I was given and I continued in my role for as long as I could, tying up loose ends, seeing the people I cared for, attending meetings. Gradually this all became impossible too and then I was actively encouraged to take the time away from work.
That November evening was one of the loneliest of my life.
I had been at a training course that day. The course was one I had done numerous times over the year-guidelines around incidences of abuse and neglect. I knew both the training and the guidelines almost by heart.
The presentation, carried out by two social workers from the organisation included photos to illustrate different points. These weren’t particularly graphic; of course, they weren’t- but suddenly, hearing the words and seeing images was devastating. I was used to reading the policy, used to discussing it, asking and answering questions but in this instance, I froze. I remember thinking that it must be obvious to everyone that I was having some sort of breakdown. It wasn’t. I was simply sitting in a group. But it felt as my whole body was freezing and breaking up into little pieces while I sat. Then it was over. To this day, I don’t remember leaving the building or getting into my car.
I had a therapy session that evening and I walked around the town while waiting. I stared in shop windows but couldn’t bring myself to open the door and go in. It was a miracle that I got myself to my therapy session but I did. My therapist spent the next hour helping me to ground myself with ice packs and her gentle talk. I hadn’t realised that my whole body was shaking. The hour went over but gradually I was ok to get up and drive home and it was on the way home that the thought suddenly hit me…I just couldn’t do it anymore.
“It” turned out to be a lot more than my work.
Time moved on as everything does. I was off sick and then I was let go. Then I was lost in a haze of thinking I had no identity left, that without my job I was nothing at all, liable to drift away completely at any moment. I cut myself off from people when I should have been honest and looked for support. But I felt as if I just couldn’t offer anything of myself anymore.
It took a long time to build that identity back up and to realise that it didn’t have to be completely centred around work. Now I can say that I worked for 20 years as a social care worker and I loved it. Now I can say that I have a little business minding dogs. I have tapped into other parts of myself, maybe rediscovered some creativity and found myself with more freedom without the constant exhaustion from shift work.
There’s been a price to pay and a lot of that price centres around that November evening. It’s been about realising that masking how I really felt and the difficulties I was having was costing me my health, not to mention taking up so much headspace and energy that there was no room for anything else.
It’s meant that anxiety is a constant companion without anything to hide it behind. It means feeling less functional when I look back on my career and the achievements that meant so much to me and feeling that now I struggle a lot more with fairly mundane day to day tasks.
The price is also about accepting the realisation from that November evening-that past events were impacting on the present day even though they weren’t being named or talked about and unfortunately still aren’t. But I know they’re there and I know I can’t pretend they never happened and that’s a step towards acceptance.
Sometimes I feel as if I am on a constant quest to find out what exactly is different about my brain and the way I function. Sometimes I feel broken. Sometimes I feel ready to take on the world. And sometimes I feel that whatever the label, I’m human and able to feel and be impacted by events and people around me and that that is ok.
Trauma changes us. Unfortunately, when it happens in childhood we never get to find out who we might have been without it. But accepting that means that maybe, just maybe, the person I grew up into has a place in the world too and that it’s interesting to see what that might be.
“Traumatized people chronically feel unsafe inside their bodies: The past is alive in the form of gnawing interior discomfort. Their bodies are constantly bombarded by visceral warning signs, and, in an attempt to control these processes, they often become expert at ignoring their gut feelings and in numbing awareness of what is played out inside. They learn to hide from their selves.” (p.97)” ― Bessel A. van der Kolk, The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma