Lady, weeping at the crossroads

The major headlines these past few weeks feel like being in a 20-year time warp back to 2001 with the war in Afghanistan, ISIS attacks, and a destructive hurricane causing havoc along the Gulf Coast. Now add to that a global pandemic, social and political unrest, and witnessing the decline of civilization in a post-fact world.

I’ve been learning a lot lately about the imprint trauma makes on our bodies, and how that manifests in everything from the way we physically hold ourselves to how we unconsciously respond to stimuli - be it sounds, smells, tastes, and things we touch and see. When our nervous systems get supercharged, they tend to stay in a constant state of flight, fight, or freeze. While my life has changed in so many ways over the last 20 years, not all of those changes have been for the better.

I wrote last week about being on a journey of healing this past year, and that some of that healing has come from talk therapy where I've been working to process past traumas and the effects they've have had on me, much like the havoc a destructive hurricane can cause. I've experienced a considerable amount of personal trauma, loss, and grief over the last two decades -- some of which I’ve been aware of and have talked about openly, and some which I’ve only just begun to process.

Without realizing it, my sense of self has splintered multiple times with each of these traumas, starting with 9/11. I have great capacity to compartmentalize, which can be a form of resilience but can also be damaging when we don't give ourselves the permission or space to eventually work through things. So in my effort to be resilient, I kept many of these traumas either half processed or not processed at all -- leaving part of me stuck back in all these really dark and lonely places waiting for the light to come, and part of me here in the present trying to give her that light.

I feel numb more days than not, and I often fake happiness, excitement, and tears when I know those are the socially appropriate emotions I’m supposed to be displaying in a given moment. That’s not to say I don’t ever feel anything, in fact when genuine emotions do rise to the surface they often feel like a threatening invader and I completely clam up and go blank or get filled with so much anxiety I unconsciously start stimming - usually by rocking, fidgeting, bouncing my legs, or tapping my feet depending on how strong the emotions are.

I wasn’t always like this, it's been a slow progression over the last 20 years. That said, it's been especially bad these past 5 years, which I think is partly due to the collective trauma we're all experiencing right now. When my therapist senses these physical responses during our sessions, she’ll ask me what I’m feeling and I get so frustrated because I'm rarely able to find the right words to explain it. As someone who works with language and communication for a living, to not have the ability to describe something happening inside of me is maddening. But I’ve come to understand that this is what being emotionally detached feels like -- fluctuating between numbness and unperceived physical responses.

I really want to be able to feel things again. To allow myself to be vulnerable and connect with the people in my life who I love and care about. To feel joy and sadness alike. Music, poetry, and writing have always been my outlets to tap into those feelings, but I stopped immersing myself in all of them about 7 years ago when my emotional tap ran dry after losing my mom. It was the final blow to a long string of unprocessed traumas.

As part of my therapy I’ve been reimmersing myself in these activities, and they’re slowly helping me to process and connect with my emotions. Being able to write not just one, but two blog posts within a week of each other is a testament to that! The title of this post is even inspired from a W.H. Auden poem that really hit home for me on multiple levels this week.

I know poetry isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, just like when I look at abstract art and don’t understand it. So here’s a few good analyses that aren't overly academic or laden with twenty-dollar words. One covers the metaphors of the poem and another it's structure and intended pacing. And if you aren’t into literary analysis, here’s the poem as a song adapted and performed by Carla Bruni.

The reason this poem resonated with me in particular this week, other than it's a narrative of a woman rediscovering her true self, is that it brings me back to 9/11 and full circle through all the traumas that have led me to this emotionally detached place.

When I escaped lower Manhattan that morning and finally had made it back to my neighborhood on the opposite end of the city, the juxtaposition of the setting was a shock to my system. When I stepped off the bus a few blocks from my apartment, the sun was shining bright and birds were chirping. Yet just a few hours earlier I had escaped complete scenes of horror where my life was spared by sheer minutes. When I came to, I was standing in the middle of an intersection with no sense of where I was.

I’ve written different posts and even a poem about that day, so I won’t go into those details here. Instead, I’ll end this post with the W.H. Auden poem that inspired it (just in case the links above ever break, as the internet is wont to do).

Lady, weeping at the crossroads,
Would you meet your love
In the twilight with his greyhounds,
And the hawk on his glove?

Bribe the birds then on the branches,
Bribe them to be dumb,
Stare the hot sun out of heaven
That the night may come.

Starless are the nights of travel,
Bleak the winter wind;
Run with terror all before you
And regret behind.

Run until you hear the ocean's
Everlasting cry;
Deep though it may be and bitter
You must drink it dry,

Wear out patience in the lowest
Dungeons of the sea,
Searching through the stranded shipwrecks
For the golden key,

Push on to the world's end, pay the
Dread guard with a kiss,
Cross the rotten bridge that totters
Over the abyss.

There stands the deserted castle
Ready to explore;
Enter, climb the marble staircase,
Open the locked door.

Cross the silent ballroom,
Doubt and danger past;
Blow the cobwebs from the mirror
See yourself at last.

Put your hand behind the wainscot,
You have done your part;
Find the penknife there and plunge it
Into your false heart.