PATINA #1: Surviving the Nightmare
Prompt from follower Tiarnach M.: “I want to hear more about the recovery and resilience building from emotional abuse… The trauma healing space is overhyped and over-commercialized. Some authenticity would be great!”
Tackling this topic first in the series is like waking up abruptly, immediately taking a shot of vodka, and jumping naked into an icy lake. An effective, albeit shocking, reminder of what it’s like to be alive. No warm up, no prelude. I’m here for it. Let’s dive in, but beware: the water is frigid and there’s no lifeguard on duty. Reader discretion is advised.
In order to even begin to unravel the tangled mess that is PTSD (and its consequent recovery) after surviving abuse, I have to reveal some of the ugly backstory of what occurred. It’s challenging to do this without it sounding like a pity-me-sob-story victim narrative, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
My first book is solely a chronicle of the terrifying abusive relationship I endured with a climbing partner when I was nineteen years old; I’m in the query stage right now, but once it’s published, you’ll get the full story of what happened. I also discussed it on this podcast (second half of the interview). In the meantime, I’ll give you the short version to catch you up to speed before detailing my recovery in the years since.
I’m not going to sugarcoat this to make it more palatable. You asked for authenticity, so that’s what you’re getting. Plus, at this point in my career, my entire life is public, so I’ve had to embrace vulnerability as I serve up my trauma on a platter for the masses to pick at as they will. Fresh hors d'oeuvres for all, on the house! Bon appetit!
BACKGROUND
My abusive ex-boyfriend suffered from untreated bipolar disorder, abused a variety of substances, and was extremely controlling, violent, and manipulative. When we met, I was young and naive. I initially thought he was merely rebellious and subscribed to a counterculture lifestyle, like so many rock climbers. How wrong I was. He was volatile, unpredictable, and intense.
In the nearly seven months I spent with him, I witnessed him hurt himself countless times, often in disturbing ways, like swinging a hammer into his own skull. I was powerless to stop him — he was stronger and resisted my attempts to help him. He told me repeatedly that he was hurting himself so he didn’t ‘have to’ hurt me directly. Yet that didn’t stop him from locking me in rooms, screaming in my face for hours at a time, threatening me constantly, putting me in chokeholds, throwing me on the bed, brandishing knives with the promise that it would end in disaster if I said the wrong thing, raping me, destroying household objects to intimidate me, breaking windows as we drove in the car and making me sit in the broken glass, or trying to crash his truck with me in it on the interstate multiple times. You get the idea.
He swore that if I ever called the cops, that he’d kill all of the cops, kill me, and then kill himself. Suicide was a weapon he wielded almost daily. If I ever tried to leave, he played the suicide card. When he was locked up in the psych ward, I was to blame. When he ran out of drugs, he got mad at me for not figuring out a way to help him resupply. When he couldn’t climb as well as he wanted, I became the scapegoat. When I got my first climbing sponsorship, he said he deserved all of the gear and attention, not me. He belittled me every day, called me every slur and insult under the sun, and emphasized that I would never be good enough. That I’d never find someone better than him. That I was useless. That I looked like a man. That I was weak. Ad nauseam. He put me down over and over and over until I started to believe him.
He controlled my communication with other people, and isolated me from friends and family. He controlled my finances and social media. He controlled what I wore, how I did my hair and makeup, how often I worked, and what I climbed. After months of this abuse and trauma, I lost my autonomy completely.
During this time period, my dysautonomia (POTS) symptoms were starting to impact my ability to function in daily life. Chronic illness was slowly suffocating me as my body shut down alongside my mind. I went along with whatever he said, too worn down to fight back, too tired to escape, too poor to be independent, too broken to remember who I was. His reign of terror seemed endless, and his rule over me was exacting and absolute.
On the final night I saw him, after an escalating chain of events that ended with him chasing me and trying to kill me, I pulled together whatever meager shreds of hope and self-preservation I could find and mustered the courage to call the police. I escaped for good. I barely got out with my life, but I did it.
That’s the short version. We’re not here for all of the other details right now; we’re here for what came next.
INITIAL RECOVERY
The abuse made me into a hollow shell, a poor excuse for a human, a walking zombie. My abuser was like a Dementor in Harry Potter — he sucked my soul right out of my body. In his wake, I was empty. The lights were dimmed and no one was home. I lost myself entirely, and looked out at the world through vacant eyes for years, unsure of my place or direction. He made me question everything about who I was, destroyed any sense of my self-worth and dignity, and completely decimated my life until I was alone, broken, penniless, and scared.
The aftermath of the abuse was nearly as difficult as the abuse itself. I wore my PTSD like a shroud, blinding me from my surroundings, enveloping me in darkness and fear, building a barrier between myself and the rest of humanity. I felt utterly alone and shell-shocked. I had to move apartments so he wouldn’t be able to find me. I had to get a different car so he wouldn’t know what vehicle I was driving. I blocked him online everywhere I could. As people slowly returned to my life, I didn’t know how to begin to explain what I had endured and witnessed. Shame hung over me like a storm cloud and flashbacks filled my vision like a horror movie stuck on a loop.
Recovery was not linear (is it ever that simple?).
Scraping together a living for myself so I could get back on my feet was an immediate need, made increasingly difficult by my then-undiagnosed chronic illnesses. I felt forced to do things I was not proud of in order to get by. When you’re that lost and desperate, nothing feels off the table. You’re in survival mode.
At first, I threw myself into climbing, finding solace in the thing that I know best, the activity that brings me joy, where I find peace and feel the most confident. But something was off — climbing was now wrapped up with all of the bullshit from my abuser, like double ropes getting tangled and knotted on a rappel in gusting winds. When I tried climbs at my limit, I heard his voice in my head telling me I wasn’t strong enough. When I visited crags we’d traveled to together, I remembered all of the fighting and negativity I’d experienced on those cliffs and the roads to reach them. When I failed, I felt self conscious about my performance, like I didn’t deserve my sponsorship as he’d so often reminded me. Despite these difficulties, I managed to reclaim climbing for myself through a slow process of decoupling it from everything that had happened with him. I’d had climbing for my entire life, and it ultimately won out over the weakness he’d tried to instill in me. I made new memories to replace the old ones.
In my early stages of recovery, I was in denial that I needed therapy. “How hard could it be to get over an asshole?” I remember telling myself. Best to leave all of that in the past, and plow forward. This stage did not last long since I couldn’t run from the nightmares and hypervigilance forever. For the first 4 months following my escape, I lived a scattered existence: piecing together part-time jobs, hooking up with random men to feel some positive attention, dirtbagging around the West to get my climbing fix, and battling my undiagnosed chronic illnesses. Then, I hit the ground when a hold broke at the top of a boulder. I shattered my foot and ankle, requiring two major reconstructive surgeries (and two more since). I was laid up in bed for months, unable to walk or climb. I had to come face to face with my trauma whether I liked it or not.
The town I was living in had a crisis center for women called CAPSA, and one of the services they offered was free therapy for a few months. I recounted my story to the early-career counselor they provided, and I shook violently the entire time. My entire body trembled like it was physically protesting having to relive those events whenever I brought up what happened. Every appointment felt like an exorcism. Talking about it through CBT was a helpful first step, but nowhere near a cure-all. I still felt unsettled and unsure of myself. Every night, I was plagued by nightmares about him, and I double checked the locks on every door and window. I looked over my shoulder when out in public, and scanned every room I entered. Hypervigilance told me to stay alert to avoid him at all costs.
I couldn’t trust men for the longest time. My abuser had a few tactics to control me, the most effective of which was always taking us places in his truck (rather than my car). He also locked me in rooms sometimes to prevent me from leaving him. Since all of our climbing and travel was in his truck, and we always stayed at his place, I felt like I had no way out. After escaping, I realized I couldn’t ride in other men’s cars. It was too scary for me to trust that someone wasn’t going to try to trap me. I couldn’t stand to be separated from my car or my belongings for any reason — they felt like a safety net, my ticket to safety. This aversion to feeling trapped went as far as not being able to go into a drive-thru car wash without having a panic attack.
I went back to college and finished my geology degree, which was a huge win (my abuser had manipulated me into taking time off from school). My dysautonomia started to get worse, and I had frequent doctor’s appointments as I was tossed around the medical system in search of a diagnosis. I substitute taught in the local school district, started a small business, and coached climbing at the gym. I had a couple short relationships, a nice reminder that not all men were out to hurt me. Stability was elusive, but a worthy goal. Baby steps.
Since the abuse was multi-faceted (emotional, mental, sexual, physical, financial, etc), so was my recovery. Certain aspects were easier to overcome than others. When my free period of therapy ended, the counselor suggested I join the organization’s domestic violence support group. I was 22 at this point, and I was one of the youngest in the group. I remember looking around and finally feeling understood without judgment or shame. All of the men we spoke about were fundamentally the same. I learned about the cycle of abuse and red flags in relationships, and armed myself with the other valuable information we covered. I started to feel empowered and angry, rather than just hollow, but I still had a long way to go to get where I am now.
There were years where I felt stagnant, like my recovery would take a lifetime. I grew impatient. I read The Body Keeps the Score, halfheartedly tried to meditate, and kept busy to distract myself from my deep emotional scars. I drank too often. I isolated myself. I felt lost and depressed. I clung to climbing like it was my only lifeline, but my dysautonomia (and other surgeries I had) made it difficult. Later, once I got the right diagnosis and treatment, my physical health improved dramatically, which boosted my quality of life and mental health significantly. After losing everything, getting my life back felt like a gift, and I’ve been overwhelmed with gratitude ever since.
WHAT MADE ALL THE DIFFERENCE
Over time, besides the support of my friends and community, and the joy and fulfillment of rock climbing, three things emerged as the most helpful for my emotional healing and PTSD recovery: EMDR therapy, Stoic philosophy, and mindful self-compassion.
1) I was skeptical of EMDR at first. A new therapist explained it to me, and I read about it online, but it seemed woo-woo to me at the time. Could it really work? I was so desperate to cure my PTSD that I decided to go into it with an open mind. If research said it was effective, then I had to get over myself and give it a shot. I was at rock bottom, so I figured I had nothing to lose anyway. I dutifully showed up at therapy for months while undergoing the EMDR process. Visual and auditory methods didn’t work for me; I had to use buzzers in each hand to get the bilateral stimulation required for it to work. At first, I didn’t think it was doing anything, but over time, the benefits became undeniable. I started the EMDR process with raging PTSD and a miserable mindset, and by the time I concluded therapy, I no longer met the clinical criteria for PTSD. Thank you, Tricia, for freeing me from that hell once and for all. It honestly felt like magic. I can’t explain how or why it works, but it did.
2) Stoic philosophy was (and still is) crucial for my healing. I’ve been a student of Stoicism for a decade now. As a framework of thought, it is incredibly effective at helping overcome trials and challenges of all kinds. Stoicism informs my approach to every endeavor and provides comfort in life’s darkest moments. The writings of Aurelius and Seneca in particular helped me find power within myself, and allowed me to see my own mind as a safe fortress and retreat. By relying on reason and logic, embracing the clarity of nature, and understanding the value in human fellowship, my life became less chaotic and more stable. I was able to process what happened to me without letting it destroy me, and I built resilience for whenever new obstacles were thrown my way. I now live with a possibility mindset, where I look for what I can do rather than what I can’t — focusing on what you can control is the essence of Stoicism. (I’ll be writing more about Stoicism soon, so stay tuned.)
3) Mindful self-compassion has been the other key to healing for me, not just from abuse, but also from the grief that accompanies chronic illness. When I asked the same therapist who did my EMDR treatment why there was a final hurdle of grief I couldn’t seem to surmount, she recommended The Mindful Self-Compassion Workbook (by Neff). Again, I was skeptical, but seeing that it was science based, I read it and completed the exercises. It turned out that being kinder to myself, and treating myself like I would a friend, was instrumental for healing. It felt like a revelation. It helped me forgive my younger self for what happened, feel less betrayed by my malfunctioning body, and continue to meet myself where I’m at no matter what I’m going through. I still rely on its principles every day. It totally changed my inner script, self-talk, approach to coaching, and interactions with other people.
Healing is ongoing. No one is perfect, and everyone’s journey will look different. If you take anything away from my story, let it be this:
What no one wants to tell you about healing and self-care is that it’s not just spa days and chocolate bars. It’s hard fucking work. It takes a lot of time and patience.
It’s picking yourself up every day after a sleepless night full of nightmares and going to a shitty job because you’re determined to get out of debt.
It’s advocating for yourself at medical appointments because you know something is wrong, and you’ll do whatever it takes to get the right treatment.
It’s dragging yourself to therapy when you know you’re going to sob and tremble and leave in shambles because you can’t face every demon alone, and you deserve better.
It’s falling in love with your passions again because you remember that you have a zest for life that no one could ever permanently steal from you.
It’s trusting people again, putting yourself out there, and casting aside fear of intimacy because experiencing the full force of love is worth it.
It’s apologizing to your friends and family for the terrible things you said and did while you were in survival mode, even though it wasn’t entirely your fault, because you value those relationships more than your pride.
Healing is not built on a foundation of cheesy sayings and toxic positivity; it’s constructed from the ground up with your own bloody knuckles as you cry on your knees among the wreckage, knowing that you must piece yourself back together. It can be daunting. No one else can do it for you. It won’t happen overnight. There’s no quick fix. You have to decide that you’re tough, and keep showing up for yourself. As Aurelius says, “How long are you going to wait before you demand the best for yourself?”
You have to keep your chin up and remember that you only get one life. This is it. Do not squander it because someone wronged you. Don’t give them the satisfaction. I once heard that living well is the best revenge, and I’ve taken that to heart. You deserve happiness. Find a way to give that to yourself. You’re capable of building a sturdy life, of weathering the worst storms, of falling in love with life again, of achieving great things, despite everything that has happened to you. Let my story be the evidence.
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