It is hard to believe it has been a year since the horrifying Taliban takeover of Afghanistan. Admittedly, I was barely aware of the US’ 20-year “involvement” there until the messy and controversial evacuation. My limited knowledge of the place was only from the novels of Khaled Hosseini, some of which were so sad as to be almost unbearable to get through. I would ask myself: how did it happen that I was born here and those women were born there, and how do they endure such lives?
With interest, I heard a young American war veteran talking about his experience in Afghanistan, which sounded much like how I remember young soldiers in my youth describing their experience of the Vietnam war. They had no idea what they were doing there or why. I was also surprised and gratified to hear the Public Radio commentator explaining the recently identified category of trauma referred to as “moral injury.” This is the trauma of being forced to witness or commit acts that painfully conflict with one’s own values, morals and beliefs. Often moral injury occurs in the line of duty: military, medical, where the survivor is faced with impossible choices or no choice at all. Of course, we know it also occurs plenty in families. This young veteran, only 20 years old, was talking about that. What a terrible burden to live out one’s days under such a yoke of grief, regret, remorse, guilt, anger and helplessness.
I remember when I was barely old enough to talk, my mother shaking her head and exclaiming, “I hate war!” in the same fierce tone as she sometimes said, “I hate alcohol!” She described herself as a pacifist, so I learned that word early. She loved Gandhi and Martin Luther King, and I remember her having a bumper sticker or a sign (I am not sure) that said “No War Toys.” Even though we were a family of all girls so it was not an issue for us, she was among a group of women opposed to little boys playing with guns, which it seemed like they all did. From an early age, I remember finding war horrifying, incomprehensible and frightening. I rarely watched a movie or read a book about it. In the Vietnam era, I was staunchly antiwar and active, but never quite knew or understood what was going on. Just that I hated it.
From an early age, I remember finding war horrifying, incomprehensible and frightening. I rarely watched a movie or read a book about it.
I have always been amazed that Madonna and Jane Fonda looked so good, close to my age or older. Until I realized, well, parts of them are close to my age or older. They, and others like them, had had a lot of “work” done. Of course. I never knew the history of the science and art of plastic surgery until I recently read The Facemaker, a biography of the surgeon Harold Gillies. Gillies, born in New Zealand, was just completing his medical training when World War 1 broke out. Again, I was quite ignorant about this chunk of world history, and how that war was of a magnitude and scope of agony that seemed new even to the larger world. It also brought a new generation of weaponry that wrought new iterations of destruction: tanks, chemical warfare, bombs, rapid-fire guns.
Besides the sheer numbers of dead and seriously injured, what compelled young Gillies was a massive increase in the appearance of young men whose faces had been blown apart. The damage was often so extreme that existing medical procedures and technology were completely unequipped to address it, let alone keep up with it. And where veterans who lost limbs and returned home in wheelchairs were often viewed as heroes, those with destroyed and disfigured faces looked so grotesque and frightening as to be repulsive to people, even their own children, fiancées and spouses. Even some medical personnel found them unbearable to look at while facing the new challenge, without protocols or textbooks, to develop techniques to try and put them even minimally back together. And, of course, the challenge was not only to “form” but also “function.” Not only was there a mandate to enable them to look such as to continue some semblance of “normal” daily life, but their faces, and the structures below, needed to be able to breathe, eat, and speak.
Gillies made that his life’s work and became one of the founders of the art and science of plastic surgery in the process. In the beginning, plastic simply meant capable of being molded or receiving form, rather than a universe of ocean-strangling junk that we use to make virtually everything. Gillies and his comrades were truly creating an art form. In fact, alongside his unimaginable medical schedule, he added art classes so he could begin to draw and thus teach some of the techniques and procedures he was inventing. A massively energetic and generous human being who transformed many lives.
It was startling to me, as it often is when I discover a whole new category of knowledge or history that confronts me with a whole world of trauma and pain I had perhaps not thought about before. And unsung heroes that most of us never hear about. My own “petty” complaints about the appearance changes that come with natural aging; and narcissistic even identity related losses, paled into shame as I read these tragic accounts of young people in their twenties, trying to serve, or at the very least do what they were told, and being met with catastrophic losses of their sense of self. Often, they were greeted by a revolted and rejecting world, even their families. The horror was simply too much. This extreme of trauma shattered the interface of mind, brain, body, psyche, relationship, and most decidedly, sense of self.
The sense of self, as we know, begins at the very beginning, long before the face has developed much in the way of its unique characteristics. It develops in the most primitive part of the infant brain, as it resonates in a rhythmic dance with the attentive caregiver’s brain. That is sadly where the injury of neglect begins. The attentive caregiver is not there, or not nearly enough, or is out of rhythm due to their own trauma, depression, narcissism, addiction- whatever the harbinger of neglect. So the child is adrift, alone without a rudder or a boundary, long before there is a face.
I have known and read about many a child of neglect who grew up and early on joined the military. It provided some sense of identity and affiliation, an orientation to how the world works, or simply instruction to the young adult who had never had anyone to help them know what to do or how to navigate the big world. The military tells one everything about what to do and when, even what to believe. It breaks my heart to think of the young men, 20 years old or even younger, who never had a sense of self to begin with, and then no longer had a familiar face in the mirror. Gillies cautiously permitted no mirrors in his hospital wards, to protect the patients from the anguish of their mangled reflections. Many of them had numerous surgeries and hospitalizations of many months and even years.
Our mom was herself motherless and a survivor of war. Of course, her brain was sadly out of rhythm, and thus mine. It has taken years to slowly find the beat.
When I see younger people with beautiful skin, I tell them, “if I had known what I do now, when I was your age, I would not have this ragged old face. Take care of your skin!” I never thought about how lucky I am, however, to have an intact face! Perhaps my rhythm was long out of whack, and still sometimes is; with all the challenges of repairing a sense of self, I did not have that! It is a happy memory to think of my mother’s antiwar passion. I identify with that, even in relation to the parallel power struggles between intimate partners. I guess I inherited the passion for peace.
Our mom sang this when we were kids – well, not with the rhythm you will hear in today’s song, but nonetheless. Thanks Mom!
Today’s Song:
My book “Working with the Developmental Trauma of Childhood Neglect: Using Psychotherapy and Attachment Theory Techniques in Clinical Practice” was published on August 31st. It provides psychotherapists with a multidimensional view of childhood neglect and a practical roadmap for facilitating survivors’ healing.
For me historically, holidays, anniversaries, birthdays and other marked dates that cycled around every year laden with hopes and expectations, fantasies and even magical prayers were always a terrible trap. Particularly those that were supposed to be occasion for lavish and abundant presents. In our family they of course usually were not. I certainly longed for that special gift on that one special day that would symbolize and communicate that I matter, that I was indeed seen, heard, and even cared for, at least for a minute. The non-Jewish kids thought that because Hanukkah has 8 days, we got 8 presents, one each night. Not so in our family, where it was more or less one. Invariably at least one of us wound up in the bathroom crying every year.
As I got older, my refuge came in being an impassioned creator of gifts. My little world became a lively whirlwind of craft, the sewing machine buzzing, the floor littered with colorful threads, scraps and wisps of the flighty tissue paper of Simplicity sewing patterns. It was happy little workshop, although it also failed in the quest to feel special, loved, seen, and valued. Nonetheless parts of that set of rituals persist to this day, although the media have rolled over many times. And a variety of craft has become an activity of absolute and unadulterated joy or I won’t do it. In our little cosmos of childhood neglect and trauma, however, the holidays approached with a family tradition of hope and dread. Norman Rockwell was most definitely MIA.
Although she never spoke of it, our mom must have had some sort of strong feeling about the holidays too, or at least some of them. She always told the story that she and Dad got married on Christmas Day in 1949, so they would “always have something to celebrate that day too.” And I am sure it is from her that I inherited my hopeless case of Christmas tree envy, as she also loved the glittering trees, and of course we could never have one. In my twenties when I lived with my “gentile” partner, every year we got our Christmas tree the day after Thanksgiving. I loved watching the lights twinkle each night. Fire hazard or not, reluctantly we took the tree down on Valentines Day, swept up the little carpet of dry pine needles, and said good bye to the sweet smell for another by now only nine and a half months.
My husband and I emulated my parents just a bit, getting married the day after Thanksgiving, 1991. This year marks our 30th year of marriage, which is for so many reasons unimaginable. Between the trauma-neglect brain’s confusion surrounding time; the surreal blur of the Pandemic years, and the incredulity of not only living this long, but achieving and sustaining a joyful and lasting partnership… Well I never thought it would happen to me.
The nature of trauma and neglect is a surreality of time. The dorsolateral right prefrontal cortex which understands and regulates a sense of time, is one of the areas highjacked or knocked out by trauma of many kinds. It leaves a person feeling that this will never end. In a trauma ridden family home that is often true until the child gets old enough to get away. If you find it challenging or even impossible to practice affirmations and tell yourself something positive about tomorrow being another day, don’t compound it with self blame and censure. Just know that your poor old bushwhacked brain needs a hand and can get there. The cycling of the seasons, the inevitable approach of the seasonal markers of time getting away can be painful. It may seem to signify more loss: “life is passing me by…” Then the holidays threaten an even greater burden of weight.
And there can be the additional blight of anniversary reactions, another mysterious bearer of the trauma story. The body, emotional and sensory apparatuses log events in a wordless, impressionistic way such that even just the arrival of a season or time of year can bring a wash of felt experience or mood that may appear to “come from nowhere.” Perhaps the brain is summoning an emissary, like a “Ghost of Christmas Past” to deliver another chapter of the trauma story unknown to ordinary autobiographical memory. “Why do I feel so bad?” That may be why. It is easy to feel guilty or ashamed about not being cheerful and happy around these annual events. It is a ready reflex to sink into self-recrimination and compound the lousy mood with self-blame and self-hatred. That is one reason why I like physiology so much. I never imagined that science would be such a source of comfort! Repeat, “It is not your fault!”
It seems that every culture in the world, throughout time, has created its own repeating ritual traditions. They contribute to identity formation and a sense of continuity and even faith. It is often said that the definition of insanity is to keep doing the same thing and expecting a different result. However to keep doing the same thing and expecting the same result might be very sane indeed, and an adaptive practice. That has certainly been true of my little craft workshop.
When I got old enough, and blessedly have the resources and the privilege, my husband and I make a ritual of escape from the winter holidays. I despise what I call the “Three C’s” of these holidays: Commercialization, Consumerism and Commotion – at least in the US. The ever-present reminder to buy; what is certainly in the Bay Area off-the-charts traffic, not to mention the pressure to have families and loved ones to celebrate with… I find it all unbearable. We leave town and head for somewhere quiet, out of the way, and warm. One of the ironic perks of the COVID Pandemic, for those of us lucky enough to be healthy, was that all of that holiday uproar was perhaps tempered a bit. We just couldn’t mob the stores. Perhaps people did something parallel in the privacy of their own cyber worlds, but it was not as much “in my face” so to speak. I don’t mean to heartlessly and Scrooge-like disparage the ritual of gifts. I do also love them, when they have heart; are not obligatory or “transactional;” or part of some insidious unspoken “deal.”
I also like the annual reminder of charitable organizations, who toil tirelessly throughout the year, often doing the most difficult of work, and often on an underfunded shoestring budget, needing and requesting support. I feel better about their doing what I either can’t or won’t do myself, by helping as much as I can. I remember how some years ago now, San Francisco Mayor London Breed first got my “vote,” (not the most astute way of making political choices I’ll admit!) She wasn’t even running for anything yet at the time. I heard an interview where she told the story of growing up poor in San Francisco, raised by her grandmother. Without running water in their apartment, of course there was no money for Christmas presents. And then came Toys for Tots. “I got a present! I became that happy little girl who got a Christmas present!” Breed has loved Toys for Tots ever since, and certainly put it on the radar for me.
Although I am not religious, I do like the Jewish New Year tradition of self reflection. The Jewish New Year comes in the fall, usually in September so it coincided with what for me was the start of the school year. Nowadays I believe school starts in August which I view as a “crime against nature” as August to me represents high summer and is no time to start school! Anyway, the start of the school year was a laden annual marker in itself, and the injunction to review the past year and think ahead to the next one was a worthy and even somewhat natural practice. Cycles of the year, and known dates and events seemed to provide a welcome jog to my often-addled memory. Where was I last year on this date? And because it is a recognized date it may stand out in some way. Perhaps I can picture how I observed it then, which might open the flow to what my priority was then, what happened then? Where do I want to go in this next orbit around the sun? I used to journal. For some reason I don’t do that anymore although it can be a very useful practice.
IF we can do it without a whip I find self-reflection to be my go-to holiday observance. By whip, however, I mean self-reflection that is tinged with criticism, harsh regret and aspiration; or that smacks of judgment, even punishment. These are no way to celebrate a holiday! Hopefully I would never treat anyone else with tidings of judgment, blame and pressure to shape up! Why would I treat myself that way? There is even a contorted grandiosity in the expectation of exaggerated achievement or perfection; and there is a blessed humility in the act of heartfelt, realistic self-reflection, and flexible, fluid goal setting that allows for the unanticipated, which is often even better than what we planned.
Many do not know that the Hanukkah story is the story of a miracle. The “eternal light” is the ceremonial lamp that burns continuously in every Jewish sanctuary, symbolizing the eternal, unfailing presence of God. As the story goes, the Jews were embroiled in war with their then oppressors, and the eternal light in their Temple ran dangerously low on oil. At the key moment, there was only enough oil in the lamp to last one day, with the danger that the light would be extinguished. Miraculously the oil for one day lasted for eight, so the light burned on until the Jews were victorious, and able to replenish it. So besides being another celebration of victory over oppression, this miracle represents unending, uncompromising protection and comforting presence, maybe even hope? Not a bad symbol for our purposes I figure.
Milestones may also be a chronic rhythmic reminder of how painfully long recovery takes. One reason why I have been on an insatiable quest all these years, to learn all the newest and best evidence based treatment approaches for trauma, is that. It incenses me that after a childhood ravaged by overwhelming experiences not of one’s own making, survivors then have to spend years and seemingly endless amounts of money and time, to in effect, climb out of a hole and arrive in life. That is a tragic injustice as far as I am concerned, that I have dedicated my life to at least attempt to rectify. It is also important to know, that the devastating and seemingly endless duration is not your fault! Not your sloth or ineptitude.
Much of the deepest of injury is in the attachment systems of the brain and date back to developmental stages in infancy. This is not to make the duration appear worse or hopeless, but rather to “normalize” it. And I can honestly say, and this is one of those annoying things that therapists might say, every bit of my own journey which often felt (and even occasionally still does!) feel endless, serves me. As Bruce Hornsby says in his wonderful and timeless song Swan Song “To be sure I don’t regret much, not much at all.”
I believe recovery is a kind of miracle in itself. I do think of mine that way, replete with the many angels who entered my life as healers, teachers and helpers of all sorts. It is a good time to remember that, at least for me. So my wishes for all are Peace, Health, Love, and with luck, even some Joy. And because I can’t help myself, I must add:
Cheese on Earth!
Best wishes of the season!
My book “Working with the Developmental Trauma of Childhood Neglect: Using Psychotherapy and Attachment Theory Techniques in Clinical Practice” was published on August 31st. It provides psychotherapists with a multidimensional view of childhood neglect and a practical roadmap for facilitating survivors’ healing.
In our apartment building in New York, everyone seemed to have numbers on their arms, sad eyes and thick German accents. My great Aunt Gertrud would take me to the park in my stroller. She called me a “dickopf “ (fathead) because I was such a “terrible eater” right from the start. On Saturdays I often went with my dad on the subway to the orthodox “schul,” our special time together. I would sit next to him in the men’s section, my little legs dangling from the hard wooden bench, and braid the fringes on his “talis.” Other than that I did not get out that much. Mr. Shall the nice old man who painted portraits of each of us (see the portrait of myself age four); and Mrs. Bodine my piano teacher, were all in the building. So it was easy for me to believe, the whole world was like us.
It was only when I went to public school kindergarten that I began to get the confusing messages about identity that got more and more confusing as I got older. Fit in, but not too much. I learned the complicated word “assimilate,” which accompanied the complicated messages. My mother’s family, even though they had nothing, still identified with an intellectual elite, my grandmother proudly being one of the first women to graduate from Oxford. She tried desperately to talk my mother out of marrying my father, who never went to high school, (although he “showed” her years later by getting his MA from Stanford.) My dad was simply ferocious about our marrying Jews. So we were in some ways “superior?” certainly and thankfully not like them. And yet fleeing hideous rejection and persecution, many here were ignorant or prejudiced, so we might have to hide or prove ourselves as worthy or equal, or “pass.” Oy vey. And that was even before all the identity challenges of adolescence and then of moving to Indiana!
In the Colin Kaepernick movie “Colin in Black and White,” is one poignant scene, where the teenaged Colin has reached the long awaited milestone of getting his drivers’ permit and is out practicing with both of his white parents in the car. He is doing nicely, when he is randomly pulled over by a cop, apparently for “driving while black.” His father pipes up quickly saying, “What did he do, Officer?” The cop looks over at Colin’s dad, sitting in the passenger seat, and sternly asks, “Who are you?” His mother jumps in from the back seat, “We’re his parents.” And quickly adds, “he’s adopted.” It sounds almost apologetic. Variations on that scene repeat in the course of the movie, and one can only imagine how many times it recycled in his life. It reminded me of a time when I had a small crash on a bike trip in Oregon that left me with a whopping shiner. Walking down the small town street with a black eye, I could see people looking at me, looking at my husband, and glancing back and forth between us, trying not to be too obvious. I remember how ashamed I felt. Somehow it matters who others, even strangers think I am.
Colin’s life and identity formation as a person of color in a white world, was far more complicated than I knew as I saw him heroically taking a knee. Obama unfortunately does not address this experience in his recent memoir, which I doggedly trudged all the way through to its final 700th page.
This morning in the wee hours I heard another compelling interview, this time a young Pakistani man whose family were immigrants in Northern Ireland. I knew a tiny smattering about the fractured identity of Ireland. I remember when I was traveling in Latin America in 1981, following the news in the Spanish language newspapers of the Irish freedom fighter Bobby Sands as he struggled through an ultimately fatal hunger strike. The young interviewee, arriving in Ireland anxiously discovered that there was nary a brown face anywhere to be seen. Making it even more complicated was that his father was a devout, strict and authoritarian Muslim; and his mother had joyfully discovered and embraced Catholicism. Some of his childhood memories involved his mother secretly sneaking him out to go to be baptized, later to confession and ultimately Confirmation. These little clandestine escapades were exciting and special times with Mom. His father on the other hand, was fierce, harsh and demanding of both his mother and himself. Yet much like myself, his brutal father was also his greatest role model in some ways. I have always said that all of my best qualities are from my father, and he is the one whom you will most often hear me quoting and rhapsodizing. It has taken me years and decades to integrate these seemingly opposing pieces, and I suppose I am still not finished. This man felt quite similarly.
Caught in a clash of multiple identities, Irish, Pakistani, Muslim, Catholic, father, mother, he was plagued by the question, “who am I?” It was unanswerable. And he had a brewing rage toward his father that was only building, when in his teens, his father was mysteriously and violently murdered. The circumstances and facts of his father’s murder were never resolved, and his massive swirl of emotions and identity questions became a lifetime agony. I thought of my own little conflict, and how it has challenged me, and in comparison with that? Wow! And now I am doing what I always tell everyone not to do! It is pointless to compare or minimize one trauma against another! Don’t do it!
The developmental neuroscience researchers teach us that the sense of Self develops in the Default Mode Network (DMN) of the brain, deep in the brain’s most primitive region. This is like the idle mode of a car, where the car settles when it is not “under task” meaning in drive or park. It is where we drop for self-reflection or relaxation, if we are lucky. The infant brain develops in resonance with the brain of the caregiver, right hemisphere to right hemisphere. We begin to grow a Self through the consistent presence of a caring other: the gaze, the touch, the song, the loving emotional tone. That is how the little circuits begin to form and fire and wire, long before any of the complexities of life events intervene, distort, and compel.
So you may ask, why do I feel so bad? Why do I have so much confusion about who I am or what to do, or what is “right” or “good enough” or “real?” The answers may lie deep in the brainstem, long before we had the equipment for autobiographical memory, let alone the words. We needed that consistent other, and when that failed or was insufficient or absent, we lack for the essential tool to make sense out of all the many complications that might come later. For healing we need the consistent others, the touch, the song and the positive emotion.
As the Dalai Lama is known for saying “Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible!” I would emphasize, be kind to yourself!
My book “Working with the Developmental Trauma of Childhood Neglect: Using Psychotherapy and Attachment Theory Techniques in Clinical Practice” was published on August 31st. It provides psychotherapists with a multidimensional view of childhood neglect and a practical roadmap for facilitating survivors’ healing.
My course with Quantum Way is now available for registration!