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A Theory on Pain Tolerance and Trauma

I have a theory: people of extreme trauma or severe depression have a higher pain tolerance than people who haven't experienced trauma or depression. 

This theory is based solely on personal experience. I have a stupid high pain tolerance. Years ago, I broke a toe at work and only acknowledged it because my boss heard a snapping sound. He asked if I had just broken something, as a joke. I replied that I thought I had just broken my toe, but I really needed to know what to do about the late Pacific deliveries. While in labor, I tried to convince the student doctors that I could insert my own epidural. (They fucked it up anyway, so statistically I had a better shot of hitting my own spinal cord than they did. During contractions.) I'm pretty sure I broke the tip of my finger the other day at work, and though I did see stars for a moment, was more irritated that it split my latex glove and got industrial solvent on my skin. 

My theory stems from another theory that children of trauma process events differently in our brain. We are calm during high stress events, and can parse facts quickly in periods of high anxiety. This is partially due to our brains processing far more information than necessary in our day to day function. We constantly analyze the ridiculous amount of data our senses pick up because we're looking for dangers others might not see. Our trauma has trained our brain. 

I'll give an example. I have an older family member who is a passive aggressive narcissist. They expect me to know what they're thinking and how my behavior negatively affects them. My brain has been trained to hear aggressive dish washing. Let's break that down: I have been trained, from a young age, to know if this person is angry by the way they scrub a dish. It's 60% body language, 20% facial expressions, 10% sound, and 10% being aware of the current state of my environment. I have to constantly reassess my environment to know if the aggression is toward me, and be able to determine my options within a millisecond. 

People find this ability hilarious and fascinating. Go into any restaurant, bar, public space, and I can identify points of egress faster than a trained member of the military. Trust me, I've tested it. Crowds are panic-inducing because of the shear number of variables. My senses gather too much information and I can't process it quickly enough.

How does this relate to pain tolerance? Outside stimuli is far more important than internal stimuli. External stimuli cannot be controlled, is in a constant state of flux, and must be analyzed quickly and repeatedly in order to adjust my reaction. Internal stimuli can be controlled and/or ignored if it doesn't affect my response time. 

If this sounds exhausting,  rest assured it is. 

So, internal stimuli - pain, emotion, panic - is minimalized to accept input of external stimuli. The brain only has so much computing capacity. It focuses on what it has been trained is most important. And in the case of trauma survivors, the most important information the brain can focus on is what's going on outside. 

I have absolutely no scientific data to back up these theories, but I'd love to delve into them if they exist. And would love to see any counter arguments, because holy shit please prove me wrong. 

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Dream a Little Dream of Me

I have recurring dreams. I have several that rotate through my sleep at random. Some are nightmares; some are not. All are familiar enough to be recognized almost instantly, so I've never really had to practice lucid dreaming. I can step in and out of consciously steering these dreams by simply having done it so often.

One in particular hasn't come into rotation lately. It started in a particularly stressful time in my life. I was away from home, working a soulless job, with no family or social support network. The dream became about comfort, a space for me to talk about all the things I desperately needed to talk about, to the only person I trusted implicitly - myself.

The scene is a whimsical house that turns Wonka-esque as you move through the space. At one point, I can enter a hidden side door that leads to a bare, gray room. It's a cold concrete floor, unfinished walls, and two large windows that look down on a street lined with red-brick buildings. The only furnishings in the room are a treadmill and an orange plaid armchair that looks like it's straight out of the late seventies.

In the dream, I sit in the chair where I can see out the window and watch the rain fall onto the cobblestones. A friend of mine runs on the treadmill, and the steady rhythm sets the beat to which I speak. I vent, tell stories, talk about things from my past that I never speak about, and things in my present I can't tell anyone. I let the hush of the rain and the quiet footfalls drive my words.

Today, the dream changed, and I didn't recognize it quickly enough to lead it down the familiar path. I let it play out. I worked my way through the house, noting the changes in décor and whimsy, and people. Hundreds of people. Not-dream-me has social anxiety, and usually this would automatically give me a panic attack. Dream-me didn't seem to have a problem with the crowd, chatting with people I recognized, waving at people across the room, moving through the bodies with ease. I followed the path, knowing that the end would inevitably lead to the barren gray room. I realized as I moved that I was talking, not to anyone in particular, but people were listening, using my words to lead them. I stepped into the gray room to find it transformed, no longer cold, but bright, filled with furnishings that were covered with white lace. I was shocked, but still comforted by the familiar space I no longer needed. People watched me now with genuine interest, as I spoke about that horrible time when that room was my only sanctuary. I stood where my chair had stood, and looked out at the red-brick and cobblestones. I told the story of hiding away in that room, but with the fondness of nostalgia. There was peace and hope in my words, no longer clouded with the bitterness of remorse and regret. The crowd looked on without pity, but with compassion.

When I was done, someone broke through the crowd and wrapped their arms around me. “This,” they said, “is what you're supposed to do. This is what you're meant to do. Tell stories. Tell these stories.” They were adamant, almost forceful, in their passion. As if they wouldn't take any argument or humility. As if they were daring me to disagree.

I've had fewer recurring dreams in the last year. I still find comfort in them when they come, but it's no longer my only comfort. I have my found family, my brother and sister and the nieces and nephews they've collected. I have my work. I tell my stories. These are comforts I haven't known in so long. I don't have to find solace in my dreams. I have sanctuary in people and places that are tangible. I have love.

But I still dream.

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I'm sitting in a hotel in Oklahoma City. My best friends, my brother and sister, are sleeping in the adjacent room of the suite, separated by a tiny kitchenette and bathroom from my equally tiny living space with a fold-out couch. They're both snoring, one with the almost comical perfection of sawing logs, the other with quiet breathy inhalations. They harmonize, the breaths a half-beat after the saw. I'm the most comfortable I've been in months, maybe years. These two people love me as only found family can, and I'm comforted by the sounds of their comfort.

Today was a journey. I woke to a quiet house, a rarity. I let the quiet wrap me in a state of ignorance. My house isn't quiet, especially on a Saturday morning. There are dogs and a teenager, and my parents who are early risers despite their protests against the notion. I realize that my dad slipped out to work before I woke, or his leaving is what woke me. Mom is still behind a closed door, presumed asleep with all the dogs draped across the empty side of the bed as only large dogs can drape. My kid won't make an appearance until noon, as any normal 15-year-old would.

I watch the clock tick away the minutes. I cuddle my cat until she's annoyed, and then continue to annoy her. She's hungry and insistent, but I'm warm and the knots in my back aren't making their presence known just yet. My room is dark and I feign ignorance of the rising sun.

My brother texts me. "Good morning. I love you." Same message every morning for months, yet it always makes me smile. I don't admit to myself how much that daily greeting means to me. I read, and ignore the clock.

I'm supposed to go over and do laundry. Our dryer broke and they immediately offered theirs. I let the offer, the love behind it, sit in my chest for a moment. We're leaving for Oklahoma today, and I need clean clothes, and my emotions bash against the walls I've very carefully constructed. I decide to let myself be loved, and load a suitcase with dirty clothes. I text that I'll be human enough for contact after a cup of coffee, and my brother tells me he's on his way to pick me up in exactly the time allotted.

Today is the day Bobby died. Today is especially hard, but this whole week has been hard. Bobby was my brother's best friend, oldest friend - that rare gem of a person who lived so brightly, his light blessed everyone it touched. I remember him in flashes, in emotion rather than scenario, in stories. He liked me, I think. I hope.

We're going to his grave tomorrow. This trip is a memorial, and I don't know how to comfort my friends. I love him because I love them. Because he loved them, and they loved him.

Tomorrow I'll get my "good morning. I love you" in person, and it feels strange to anticipate it. I don't know what to say when we stand near his grave. I don't know how to comfort those I love the most. The thought has me staring at a computer screen, whiskey bottle near. I hate not knowing what to do, what to say, how to be the person someone needs or wants me to be.

I think of the graves I've stood near, people I loved and lost, and the graves I'll never visit.

Today was hard.

Tomorrow will be harder. And all I can do is love the people sleeping in the adjacent room, sawing logs and breathing in harmony. And hope that love is enough.

[warpedsenseofmercy]

Old Blog, Who Dis?

I’ve decide to revamp this blog into something more akin to an actual blog than just reblogs of bats, bees, and foxes. I’m hoping for weekly posts, just random thoughts that are only tangentially connected to my work but interest me enough to talk about. It’s an experiment, and if it crashes and burns, oh well. I’ll just go back to reblogging bats and bees and foxes.

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I’m angry

Angry and tired

I work for a multi-billion dollar company. You’ve heard of it. Please don’t tag it.

I found a million dollar mistake a few days ago. Totally internal, wouldn’t affect the general public, kind of mistake. Would affect 50 sites, thousands of employees, millions of customers across the US kind of mistake.

I found it, and created the fix for it, in less than an hour.

Was told I “did pretty good” in the conference call I was asked to be in because I knew more about the issue than my boss and my boss’s boss. And was reprimanded for going over scheduled hours by being in the call.

I can’t win for fucking losing.

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My daughter reimagined the Pens’ logo

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May we have the recipe for your hot buttered rum please?

You want me to hand down my secret recipe older than the country itself?

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I love my little bumblebees! 

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I love my little bumblebees! 

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does anyone else with intrusive thoughts do that weird dismissive head shake when they get them to kinda like.. reverse/reject the thought or is that just me

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How do you tell someone that you still love them even if you never told them you love them in the first place, even though it was incredibly obvious to everyone around you just how in love you were, and just how in love they were with you?

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Honeybee and dog rose ❀

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so no one told you life was gonna be this gay

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This is actually a Flying fox species. A Northern Blossom bat. Pixie is a subadult and 8g. Currently raised by our volunteers, she still needs a bit time before she will start to fly but getting more active now.

Photo/caption by Wildlife Rescue Darwin