When I was preparing for my recent talks in Oxford, I actively reviewed my historical roots as a therapist and especially in the trauma field. One of my theoretical heroes was the (at least now) little known attachment researcher and somatic therapist, Stephen M. Johnson. Johnson hailed from the field of Bioenergetics, a seemingly forgotten theoretical ancestor of the somatic therapies, that came out of the work of Wilhelm Reich. I have always been fascinated with Reich as he linked two of my most passionate interests: politics and sexuality, and he was a brilliant, quirky and adventurous thinker. Johnson worked out his own nomenclature and characterizations of attachment patterns that he called character styles, and I still have and cherish all of his (now probably out of print) dog-eared books in my collection. My favorite of his is Character Transformation: The Hard Work Miracle (Norton, 1985) but I love them all.
It was from Johnson that I inherited the conviction about spine and voice. Johnson’s equivalent of the “avoidant” attachment style (and I dislike that designation as I do most labels!) is what he named the “schizoid character” (another to me unsavory name). I however, utilize the descriptions of both of those as most closely adapting to what I understand as the attachment pattern of the child of neglect. Admittedly my own language is lacking as well, and I am constantly in search of better words. Neglect as it is at least vaguely understood/acknowledged by ACES (Adverse Childhood Experiences Standards) continues to be deficient. But the most accurate description I can come up with is “Nothing,” which would be an unlikely category in the DSM!
All that being said, Johnson identified the main tasks of recovery for his “Schizoid,” to be “getting a spine and getting a voice,” which most likely you have heard me say many times about the child of neglect. In my desire to give credit where credit is due, I went to look up biographical information about Johnson, and found to my sadness that he had recently died. However, there was a link to making a donation by planting a tree in his loving memory. I thought, “how fitting!” I love trees. And a tree, tall, strong, usually straight and upward reaching, and elaborately rooted, is very spine-like. I made my donation accompanied by a message stating my appreciation for and continuing practicing and teaching of his valuable work and words over many years and decades. When my little tree planting certificate arrived some weeks ago, I posted it in our kitchen where I can continue to see it and remember him, and the continuing refrain of spine and voice.
Connections
When the Pandemic of 2019 struck, I was introduced, or came to appreciate in a new way, the webinar as a way to stay somewhat connected to colleagues and continue to learn and grow. The increasing availability of good stuff to watch, at any hour and in the quiet and solitude of my own kitchen, was both a comfort and a way to ease the loneliness, seeming stagnation and anxiety of those early years. I remember one of the first ones I watched over and over again, was by Ruth Lanius, the trauma and neuroscience researcher luminary; her webinar on the brain, and the vestibular or balance system in particular. I remember at one point in the session on shame, Ruth presented an image of the somatic organization of shame in the posture of the body. It was stooped forward, head down, constricted as if hiding. I remember thinking in horror, “Oh wow, that is me!” Perhaps the only feeling worse than shame, is shame about shame!
I had the privilege during that time of doing remote sessions with Frank Corrigan and his colleague and collaborator Martin Warner. Frank practiced (what was then new to me) DBR: “Deep Brain Re-orienting,” which by now many more of us are familiar with; and Martin practiced the Alexander Method, a somatic approach that I remembered learning about in graduate school but had never really experienced. In combination it was quite an elixir and did uncover some shame memories in a different way. So, I learned more about my shame, but I did not quite realize that my postural shape was not changing very much. Only that I seemed to increasingly have more pain. I remember my mom telling me I was a “pain in the neck,” but that did not really help with the undeniably growing pain in my neck shoulders and back, which was clearly getting worse.
I remember Martin asking me if anyone had ever told me I had significant scoliosis. I said, “No, what is that?” Martin answered “that is when the spine is essentially pulling forward and pulling backward at the same time.” I was amazed. The dilemma without solution was inhabiting my spine, telling its story there.
As a lifelong endurance athlete, and as a child of two parents both of whom had histories of tremendous and dramatic suffering, I was most accustomed to enduring, denying, and concealing pain. Mine would most definitely be viewed as minimal by any comparison with theirs. I also was consistently responsible somehow for any complaint I might have, so if in fact I felt bad in some way, it did not do me any good to talk about it with anyone. Being blamed was considerably more unpleasant than the original problem, whatever it might have been. So as pain worsened, as was my custom, I kept it to myself.
I was also distressed to notice other changes. My balance was increasingly wobbly and unreliable. I felt like a doddering old woman who needed to hold on to things to stay steady. When I saw myself on video, however, I realized things were even worse than I had realized. I saw just how stooped and bent forward I was. If I did not feel shame before, I certainly did now. I assumed I was lazy and clumsy, and simply not standing up straight. Finally, I did what I would likely suggest to anyone else. I went to the doctor.
Renewal
The neglect story, and often the incident trauma as well, expresses itself in many wordless ways. Where I have come a fair way finding my voice, in written and even spoken word, perhaps there is more to be done in the way of spine. My spine is apparently compromised, discs between vertebrae are worn away and nerves are compressed which causes the pain and constriction, limits movement and interestingly causes problems with balance and spatial perception on one side. Like the vagus nerve, the spine is connected to everything else. Some kind of serious attention and procedure will be necessary. If not, said my doctor, I am “at risk for paralysis….” Again, I am amazed by the echoes of attachment trauma, the body wordlessly telling the story. So now I must indeed and at last, truly get a spine. I still don’t know exactly what that will mean.
My dear friend and colleague who you may know, grief expert Edy Nathan, however, wisely reminded me of something I had not thought of. Edy was describing to me the wreckage wrought by Milton, the recent storm who tore through Florida, USA. She said, we must be a sycamore, not an oak. Oaks are strong and solid, but met with ferocious force they break apart. The sycamore can sway and bend with the gales. They are shaken and perhaps lose balance for a time, but they bend and continue to grow. I also know, that the most profound transformations of my life, have come on the heels of a complete falling apart…Tall and straight, upward reaching, strong and flexible. So yes, I have been growing my voice, in writing and even speaking. I keep learning more about what it means to get a spine – especially as we age.
Today’s Song, Arboles, means trees in Spanish. This song is sung by a favorite singer of mine, Roy Brown of Puerto Rico. Especially at this moment in time, I want to celebrate and honor that beautiful little island. Brown speaks briefly before the song begins about the beloved Puerto Rican poet who wrote the lyrics, Clemente Soto Vélez, who died in 1993:
