Walking the trauma tightrope

I feel abnormally ‘griefy’ this spring and, as I write this, I’m not entirely sure why. Nothing really bad is happening and I haven’t experienced any recent loss but I feel my grief radar is dialled up to a hundred and I’m on the lookout for sadness. I’m hypervigilant, my trauma is being constantly triggered and, though I’m not formally diagnosed, it’s clear to me that I have PTSD from some of the experiences I’ve been through. Add in an adjustment to my HRT, menopause and other health issues and I’m feeling decidedly wobbly. The body keeps the score they say and there’s no question that my body is a repository of all of the awful experiences I’ve had. They’re seeping out now in arthritis and carpal tunnel syndrome, exhaustion and pain. I’ve had hypermobility syndrome and allergies for years, but now I’m floored by too much exertion and I react to so many foods that sometimes it feels like it’s barely worth even trying to eat. I can’t tolerate alochol at all so drinking myself into oblivion is not an option. I’m also slowly coming to the realisation that I’m probably neurodivergent which adds to the conglomeration of things I’m struggling with but, currently, my nerves are all of a jangle and I feel permanently in the grip of anxiety or on the verge of tears. It’s not a great deal of fun and it’s all made harder by the fact that I find it so hard to write about.

Writing has always been my coping mechanism but I can’t share publicly some of the things I’ve been through for fear of repercussions. Some of you are close enough to know that I spent the Covid years in family court. It was the most traumatic thing I’ve ever been through. I surprise myself when I write that but it was worse perhaps than finding my lover’s dead body because of the sustained assult on my family by services that I might have expected to protect us and because of the terrifying repercussions for my children. What happened is the most astonishing story but it’s not just my story and there is an embargo on sharing the details of family court cases. I spoke privately a while back to a Guardian journalist who would have liked to make a huge spread from my story (it’s that shocking) but my lawyer told me that even writing about it anonymously was too risky. Three years have passed now yet even sharing these words leaves me nervous. But this is my truth and no-one can deny that it happened. Surely I can say that much?!

I’m beginning to think about writing a memoir about the experience or about turning it into some kind of performance but it’s a challenge for all of the reasons writing about trauma can be challenging. (Have you seen the fallout from Baby Reindeer?!) How do we write about trauma whilst protecting ourselves and the other people in our stories? How do I extricate my story from the stories of my children and how do I share my experiences without the risk of being sued? Whose truth is the actual truth? They’re not small questions and there’s no wonder I feel the need to tread with caution.

Meanwhile, every cautious step forward with my life seems to resurrect the past and there are a lot of triggers around at the moment. Letters and school meetings about my son’s attendance threatening court action (it’s dropped below the statutory 95% - shock, horror!) send me reeling because there has been so much focus on his health issues and my parenting in court that I’m paralysed by fear. I’m scared to get support for any of our health issues because I’ve been under scrutiny for alleged Munchausens By Proxy and I was clearly advised by multiple people that getting myself diagnosed as neurodivergent would jeopardise my custody of my children (unthinkable isn’t it?) Meanwhile, my daughter is staying out late and engaging in the normal behaviour of a sixteen year old but, because of our experiences, my heart races until she’s home safely. I’m sure every parent at some point says ‘you might have been dead in the gutter’ when children are out of touch but, because of my experiences, I’m quicker to visualise this as a reality than most.

My partner should be a great comfort and we recently spent the loveliest few days in Morocco, but the very act of loving is the most terrifying thing in the world for me, and the temporary separation caused by our return to real life leaves me preparing for the permanent separation of death in the most extreme way. As we try to find ways to merge our lives by considering moving into a new house with space for him, the alarm bells telling me to run get louder because my whole being knows that loving a man can only bring heartache and disaster. Clearing out my current house, of course, also resurrects all kinds of memories. The closer I get to allowing myself to give in to love and move forward, the greater the fear of loss. Walls go back up and I pull back to protect myself over and over again. Trauma leads to me trying to get control and unfortunately some things cannot be controlled (like death and teenagers). I’ve had all of the therapies but this seems to be my life at the moment and it’s exhausting.

I was reflecting in my newsletter about the tricky balance we have to maintain when submitting manuscripts for publication. “It’s a challenge isn’t it, trying to remain hopeful and optimistic, whilst at the same time being realistic and protecting ourselves from disappointment?” I wrote. It’s a line I’m walking all the time at the moment, in life as well as with my writing, and it occurs to me finally that this is what the grief is. It’s anticipation of loss. Things are going too well, disaster must be around the corner, my subconscious is asserting. Isn’t this why so many writers never put their work out there? If we don’t send it out we can’t be rejected. If we don’t love, we can’t lose. But, better to have loved and lost ‘n’ all that. (Easier to say it than live it, believe me!) Better to write and send the manuscripts out than keep the words barricaded behind locked doors, surely. Better to try to express ourselves even if we make ourselves vulnerable in the process and even if we make other people uncomfortable. We can’t only write about joy and love and fairies, much as I’d like to. Loss and grief and truama are part of life too. For myself, perhaps there will be a way that, in some experimental, hybrid form, I can write about what happened in those years and maybe that’s what I’m here to do.

I discovered the poet, Andrea Gibson, on social media last week and I’ve been floored by her poetry. Get your tissues ready; she will blow your mind. Andrea has Stage 4 ovarian cancer and writes so powerfully about this paradox of trying to live fully with the intimate knowledge of mortality and grief. it’s a tightrope, for sure, and one that we all will walk at some point. For me, it means running the grief writing workshops on Radio Sheffield next week and working at St Luke’s hospice because, even though it’s triggering, it’s also life-affirming. It also means doing my best to keep writing vulnerably about my own reality as best as I can.

I love these words from Andrea’s poem and I share them as a message to myself and anyone else who walks a tricky path and shares their journey. May you walk safely and in peace and be companioned in your struggle. Thanks for listening as I ramble. Guess what? It made me feel better. That’s the power of writing isn’t it Grief Astronomers?

A difficult life is not less

worth living than a gentle one.

Joy is simply easier to carry

than sorrow. And your heart

could lift a city from how long

you’ve spent holding what’s been

nearly impossible to hold.

This world needs those

who know how to do that.

Those who could find a tunnel

that has no light at the end of it,

and hold it up like a telescope

to know the darkness

also contains truths that could

bring the light to its knees.

Grief astronomer, adjust the lens,

look close, tell us what you see.

by Andrea Gibson