samanthacruzbooks

Uh Oh. Trauma.

Yup. I said it. And yup. Here we go.

I always hear people saying “no one talks about trauma”. Is it true? Well, no. Many people talk about trauma and the cloud of haze that becomes your life… just not my people. Even less so, me. Because I don’t have trauma. My life’s a bouquet of wildflowers all the time.

Until it wasn’t.

I was extremely fortunate in my life to go for a little longer than a quarter of a century without any trauma. But then it happened. When it did, it sure as hell fell like that ton of bricks people talk about. More like cinder blocks.

Cue the interwebs. “Please, let me find anything and everything to help me roll out of this crushing weight of grief.” And just like that, in walks the wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube man*: Read me, I’ll help you. Do this, it will all be OK.

Don’t get me wrong, these resources out there on the net (and there are a bunch of them) are abundant and invaluable. However, GUYS, we need people. Real, warm, pink bodies with a squirmy, mushy, greige-y colored vital organ floating around inside our big skulls. Those kind of people. You and me. We need each other.

What I find is that there are three types of warm, pink bodies that surround a traumatic experience in someone’s life.

#I The friend who has their own trauma and projects sweetness and goodness into the world. Ever seen that meme of the weird dog creature in a room up in flames saying, “This is fine.” Ya, you know what I’m talking about. These people are in the mud too, but the camera stays zoomed in only on their face, and you never know that they are stuck in the mire from the shoulders down.

#II The friend who either has not experienced trauma or at least not “this type” and tells you repeatedly that it will all work out for good and that you just have to stay strong. They are up there in the tree looking down at you, shouting encouragement, telling you which way to flail an arm or a leg to wriggle your body ever so slightly more free than before. And they must be glad that such an unfortunate event has not befallen them. (I can say this because man, I was here, too.)

#III The friend who throws you the lifeline. This friend finds a rope, or better yet makes one from some random vine because duh.. there is no random rope lying around, or maybe even just grabs a tree branch and extends it out to you. They have no freaking clue how to actually get you out. But they hold on to that other end, and they remind you that the work is all yours. They don’t get in that mud with you. They recognize that this journey is your own. They may even have some advice from a time when they were stuck in the mud, but ultimately they remind you that the only one who fully knows the experience you are going through is you. They help you see that you are your biggest ally and how you choose to respond to your predicament is your strongest defense. They help you process your situation. They sit with you and they wait. They sit with you. They are with you.

All three of these people are appreciated. But man, number 3, thank you so much. You have no idea the gift that you give someone when you are simply present.

I briefly want to paint a very small, metaphorical picture of my trauma experience and what I have watched play out in the lives of others who have hit the rocky road…

Most people want to talk about all the good that still exists, running along in the background of the lives of those who are in the thickest parts of the mud, at night, as the mosquitoes poke, prod, and suck at their flesh. Sure the flowers on the bank of this mud pit (that you’re telling me about from up in that tree) may be blooming right now, and they look all pretty and everything, but I can’t smell them at the moment. I’m exhausted, devastated, empty. And somehow, I still have to find a way out of this damn mud. Guess tonight I’ll sleep face down in the sludge (or if I’m lucky I’ll rest my face on the tree branch offered by friend number 3.. if they showed up). Anywho, you are sleeping uncomfortably when… you suddenly get struck by lightning. Repeatedly, and totally at random. Shuffle on into my life, PTSD, there’s plenty-o-room. Oh, and did I mention, definitely at some point in all this I shat on myself. So there’s that.

Trauma is ugly, and scary, and not fun at all. For anyone involved. Those of us who have experienced grief, loss, and trauma… we’re cool cats. We try so hard not to bring people down around us. We try to be strong. Some days we win at that. Some days we don’t. We even feel guilty for the traumas that we face AND the way that we handle them because society tells us we must find happiness and if we can’t, there is something wrong with us. Well, nothing is wrong… we are going through perhaps the most difficult experience of our lives thus far.

This is not a pity plea. What this is, though, is a plea for solidarity.

We all need number 3s and we can all be number 3s for someone else. This social media game that we play in our society is blinding. We are a hurting people, some more than others, but nonetheless, we all are hurting. Show up for each other. See each other. Be patient. Sit. Wait. Listen. For yourself and for others.

There are a few things I wish I knew when first facing trauma and things I learned that I couldn’t have anticipated had I not walked the road myself… a road I am still struggling through:

I wish I knew that…

…there is no way that the shit doesn’t stink. Shit is shit.

…if you don’t stare your trauma in the face, sit in the emotion, and let the emotion move through you… then ultimately it will move you in ways that you will not like. You may even stop recognizing yourself.

…when people say that it is going to take a year or two… well, you probably will not be superwoman. You know.. like you somehow can beat the odds and shorten the duration because you think you’re special or something.

…people are life.

I have (so far) learned that…

…the bright spots in life aren’t so significant without having experienced the darkness.

…the brain is neuroplastic and can change (for better or worse.. you can decide this). Like Rafiki says… “Oh yes, the past can hurt. But the way I see it, you can either run from it or… learn from it.”

… and lastly, people are life.

Thank you to my number 3s.

And to everyone else out there.. Be a #III. Show up.. Be authentic. And drink good beer in moderation.

*Family Guy nod.

There seems to be this alternate reality that sits beside myself, waiting to be stepping into. I imagine it is just off to the right of my body at all times, but within arms reach. And in that unseen, alternate realm, there is a burning fire. It just stays there, burning away, day in and day out. Some days I don’t notice this alternate, possible reality and even forget that it is there. Other days a spark from the fire within it drifts away and pricks my skin. Today is one of those days. I was hit with a spark.

I am a writer.

There, I said it.

Most of the time I don’t like the idea of calling myself a writer, because writing could never be a real, big-girl job. Right? At least not the kind of writing that I like to do most often- writing children’s stories.

I ventured into this arena almost by accident- at least that is how it seemed to happen. My first children’s story, which is yet to be published (Little Emma Lee- watch this space), came to me – yes, literally came to me- in the middle of the night. Say, one or two o’clock in the morning. In my sleep. Some people would call that a dream. It doesn’t really matter what you call it, to be honest, but I naturally woke up out of a nice sleep, grabbed my cell phone off of my bedside table and began to type this dream-story into my notes app. It took about an hour and after I felt satisfied that I got it all down, I fell back asleep. A second story (Fin the Fern- already in this space!) came to me in the same way. I suddenly woke up in the middle of the night, typed what came to me into my notes app, and fell back asleep. Both were written for and about two of my dear friends’ little girls before they made their world debut.

A third story, The Wise Tower of Bower (again, watch this space!), also came to me. This one however, was in the most unique place. Aaron and I were in Belize on a rickety old, yellow school bus full of locals headed from Belize City, where we had just flown into, to San Ignacio. It was night, and the ride took about 2 hours down a rough, dusty dirt road. It was hot and smelly– the kind of hot and smelly that somehow melts together to the point where you can’t distinguish between the two.

For about the first 30 minutes or so I sat against the window chatting with Aaron incessantly (as usual- poor guy). But then in an instant, as we hurled down this road collecting bumps and bruises, I caught a glimpse of something as it flashed by the window. It was a broken tree. Yup, a broken tree that looked like it had been struck by lightning suddenly caused a barrage of child-like imagery to flood my creative brain. A tall, mangled tree, in my reality, suddenly became a broken and beat down boy from a whimsical place. And that boy would grow up to be a beacon of hope for other broken and beat down boys. Aaron caught a break for the rest of the drive, because out came my notes app. Before we made it to San Ignacio, the story was done. Just like that- a flood of imagery and words propelling me into an alternate reality.

Those are only my first three and although those seemed to appear out of nowhere, others have taken more effort to form. I have one other completed (the first story of my Addison Rue Series) and one currently in the works!

If I had let the embarrassment of my child-like imagination (yes, it was a real struggle and sometimes still is), none of it would be possible. I would have given into my adult insecurities which were born out of the “box”, which I perhaps placed on myself, that produced this running mantra in my head: “This is not a real dream. The probability of this working is LOW at best, and it is not a viable way to make MONEY.”

For a long time I thought that money was the only measure of success- and to be honest, I do still struggle with that thought and suspect that I may for a while yet. However, I have found that the depth of satisfaction that I get from writing makes this whole endeavor a success. Let me say that again:

The depth of satisfaction that I get from writing makes this whole endeavor a success.

Nothing will be able to replace the sense of accomplishment and continuing motivation you feel when you pursue a dream because it is purely what YOU had in mind. Not what others (family, friends, society, etc.) said your dream should be and not accomplished necessarily how others told you it should be.

I sat on my stories for a while- waiting and waiting for some sort of “sign” that I should actually do something with them. Honestly, I naturally always wanted to, but I never thought it would be possible to actually be an author. And so, it has taken me quite a while to work up the confidence to call myself one. But, here we are a year and a half after beginning the trek towards my first fully published story and it now is available in three versions (hardcover, paperback, and kindle).

None of it would have been possible if I didn’t simply begin to roll forward- to lean into the chance, the possibility. I had read the quotes from inspirational people, and the books that dominate the realm of achieving dreams. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was me deciding that what was sitting at my core was worth pursuing regardless of the outcome, and realizing that it didn’t matter if A N Y O N E else thought it was a waste. If you have anything in your life that you haven’t yet begun to pursue, you probably understand exactly what I am talking about.

I am not going to trail off and tell you “You know what to do! Get out of your own way!” but I won’t because… we all know that and I wouldn’t be the first or the last to say it. When I took time to sit and write down my barriers to achieving my goal of being a published author I quickly realized… they were just excuses made out of fear of failure. It won’t hurt you if you don’t try, right? That was a huge mantra running in my head. Yup.. I was so wrong. It was hurting me to not try. Hurting me more than I think I could understand at the time.

I sat on these stories for about 5 years, so it really was a battle in my mind to even begin to take a step forward. Once I did, I found a new confidence in myself. The confidence definitely doesn’t come from “success” in the eyes of the business world, but rather from achieving my goals and I think that has been the most valuable thing I have learned through this process so far.

-Namaste

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Plug in your dream/goal…

“The depth of satisfaction that I get from ___________makes this whole endeavor a success.”

Then make it a personal mantra.

Author: samanthacruzbooks

To the Number 3s…

Sparks and Success