Anxiety

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Keep the child quiet and still. If the injury requires immediate movement, support or carry the child, even if he/she appears capable of moving on his/her own. Children who make great efforts to show their strength often do so to deny the fear they are feeling. If you sense that the child is cold, gently drape a sweater or blanket over his/her shoulders and trunk. Encourage (insist, if necessary) the child to take sufficient time to rest in a safe place. This is of particular importance if you notice signs of shock or dazedness (glazed eyes, pale complexion, rapid or shallow breathing, trembling, disorientation, a sense of being somewhere else). If the child’s demeanor is excessively emotional or overly calm (before the storm), rest is very important. You can help the child settle down by being relaxed, quiet, and still yourself. If hugging or holding seem appropriate, do so in a gentle, non-restricting way. A gentle placement of your hand in the center of the back, behind the heart, can communicate support and reassurance without interfering with the child’s natural bodily responses. Excessive patting or rocking can interrupt the recovery process (similar to the over-zealous child who, with good intentions, mishandles a wounded bird). As the dazed look begins to wear off, carefully guide the child’s attention to his/her sensations. In a soft voice, ask, “What do you feel in your body?” Slowly and quietly, repeat the answers you’re given in the form of a questio n ”You feel bad in your body? ” then wait for a nod or other response. You can be more specific with your next question: “Where do you feel that bad feeling?” (let the child show you). If the child points to a specific place, ask, “How do you feel in your tummy (head, arm, leg, etc.)?” If the child reports a distinct sensation, gently inquire about its exact location, size, shape, color, weight, and other characteristics. Gently guide the child to the present moment (i.e., “How does the lump (owie, scrape, burn, etc.) feel now?” Allow a moment or two of silence between questions. This will permit the completion of any cycle that the child is moving through without the distraction of another question. If you are uncertain whether the cycle has been completed, wait for the child to give you cues (a deep relaxed breath, the cessation of crying or trembling, a stretch, a smile, the making or breaking of eye contact). The completion of this cycle may not mean that the recovery process is over. Another cycle may follow. Keep the child focused on sensations for a few more minutes just to make sure the process is complete. Do not stir up discussion about the accident. There will be plenty of time later for telling stories about it, playing it through, or drawing pictures of it. Now is the time for discharge and rest.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  If you feel overwhelmed or deeply disturbed during any part of this exercise, please stop. The exercise may be too activating for some people. If this is true for you, I suggest you seek qualified professional help. For this exercise you will need a pencil, paper, and a clock or watch with a second hand or a digital display. (If you don’t have such a timepiece, you can do the exercise without it.) With pencil in hand and the clock or watch where you can see it, find a comfortable position and contact your felt sense. Tune into your arms and legs, and feel the sensation of your body being supported by whatever you are sitting on; now add to your awareness any other sensations that are presen t the feeling of your clothes on your skin, the weight of the book in your lap, etc. You will need this awareness to do the exercise. Once you have a sense of how your body feels on the level of sensation, continue when you are comfortable. Proceed step by step through the exercise. For the best results do the entire exercise in one sitting. Read through it before you do it. As you read and experience it, get in touch with your feelings and thoughts through the felt sense. Part One: Sit comfortably and pretend you are in an airplane flying at 30,000 feet across the country. There has been some turbulence, but nothing out of the ordinary. Keep your awareness engaged as fully as possible and tune into your felt sense. Imagine that you suddenly hear a loud explosio n- BOO M- followed by complete silence. The plane’s engines have stopped. How does your body respond? Notice the response in your breathin g In your heartbea t The temperature in different parts of your bod y — In vibrations and involuntary twitching and the intensity of movement s — In your overall postur e In your eye s In your nec k In your sight and hearin g In your muscle s In your abdome n In your leg s For each item, make a short note of your responses. Make a note of the current time in minutes and seconds. Take a deep breath and relax. Let your body return to the level of comfort you experienced before you started the exercise. Focus on the felt sense of that comfort and when you feel that you are ready to move on to the next part of the exercise. Make a note of the time in minutes and seconds.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  He wrote: ‘I’m longing to see you again and Valérie Seymour. By the way, how goes it? Valérie writes that you never rang her up. It’s a pity you’re so unsociable, Stephen; unwholesome, I call it, you’ll be bagging a shell like a hermit crab, or growing hairs on your chin, or a wart on your nose, or worse still a complex. You might even take to a few nasty habits towards middle life—better read Ferenczi! Why were you so beastly to Valérie, I wonder? She is such a darling and she likes you so much, only the other day she wrote: “When you see Stephen Gordon give her my love, and tell her that nearly all streets in Paris lead sooner or later to Valérie Seymour.” You might write her a line, and you might write to me—already I’m finding your silence suspicious. Are you in love? I’m just crazy to know, so why deny me that innocent pleasure? After all, we’re told to rejoice with those who rejoice—may I send my congratulations? Vague but exciting rumours have reached me. And by the way, Valérie’s very forgiving, so don’t feel shy about telephoning to her. She’s one of those highly developed souls who bob up serenely after a snubbing, as do I, your devoted Brockett.’ Stephen glanced at Mary as she folded the letter: ‘Isn’t it time you went off to bed?’ ‘Don’t send me away.’ ‘I must, you’re so tired. Come on, there’s a good child, you look tired and sleepy.’ ‘I’m not a bit sleepy!’ ‘All the same it’s high time. . . .’ ‘Are you coming?’ ‘Not yet, I must answer some letters.’ Mary got up, and just for a moment their eyes met, then Stephen looked away quickly: ‘Good night, Mary.’ ‘Stephen . . . won’t you kiss me good night? It’s our first night together here in your home. Stephen, do you know that you’ve never kissed me?’ The clock chimed ten; a rose on the desk fell apart, its over-blown petals disturbed by that almost imperceptible vibration. Stephen’s heart beat thickly. ‘Do you want me to kiss you?’ ‘More than anything else in the world,’ said Mary. Then Stephen suddenly came to her senses, and she managed to smile: ‘Very well, my dear.’ She kissed the girl quietly on her cheek, ‘And now you really must go to bed, Mary.’ After Mary had gone she tried to write letters; a few lines to Anna, announcing her visit; a few lines to Puddle and to Mademoiselle Duphot—the latter she felt that she had shamefully neglected. But in none of these letters did she mention Mary. Brockett’s effusion she left unanswered. Then she took her unfinished novel from its drawer, but it seemed very dreary and unimportant, so she laid it aside again with a sigh, and locking the drawer put the key in her pocket.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Ten days had passed and he had not phoned. She could not understand it. How could this man forget her when their rhythms had been so perfectly in sync? The hell with it! She had to know what had happened. Hugo would be back in two days for the weekend, then off again on another business trip. She had to phone Rupert, she rationalized, so he didn’t end up calling when Hugo was home. As the phone at the printer’s rang, she tried to ignore the sickening anxiety in her stomach. She needed to sound light, casual when she announced herself. He sounded nonchalant when he responded, “Oh, hello, darling.” He started making excuses: he’d cut his finger in the press, and it had gotten infected. She expressed sympathy and then let it drop that she would be out of town for several days so if he’d like to get together, it would have to be immediately or not until Tuesday. There was a long pause before he said, “Why don’t I call you on Tuesday then? Would you like to have dinner?” “I’d love that.” “Good then.” She hung up, confused and aching. He was not in love with her. [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] She was at her Olivetti, retyping her manuscript, when she heard Hugo’s trudging gait. He moves like an old man, she thought. He’s only fifty but everything he does is slow and deliberate like an eighty-five-year-old. She sprang up to greet him and carry his bag into the bedroom. “You must be exhausted,” she offered as she drew him a bath. He flopped on the bed and slowly recounted his visit with her relatives, his delay at the Havana airport, his negotiations with his clients. The steam from the hot water she’d left running suffused the room, making her think of the heavy atmosphere Hugo brought with him. It descended on her like a low, gray cloud, suffocating her until he would leave and she could breathe freely again. At midnight she gave up typing and slipped into their king bed as she’d learned to do, so smoothly that Hugo registered no change. At 4 a.m. she was awakened by the glare of light in her face. Since he went to bed at 8 p.m., he awoke at dawn and read with the light on. They were completely out of sync. She fumed silently, pulling her pillow over her head. Because he hadn’t slept through the night, he dozed most of the day, and when he finally roused himself, he bore down on her. “We need to go over the budget.” We need to get a divorce, she thought. But out of habit and duty she sat by his side at the kitchen table. He’d point to a number in one of the columns recorded in his banker’s ledger. “What cost $86.79 on February fourth? Where is the check stub for it, Anaïs? You forgot again!”

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “I think she was.” I had to give Don something, and anyone could figure that out. He and I stayed up until 2 a.m. talking about Anaïs and her place in twentieth-century literature. We talked about Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Miller’s Tropic of Cancer, hot talk, suggestive words falling on top of each other. As it got later, there were longer pauses. I was hoping this was the night Don would come to my room. Renate was right; all he would have to do after was slip back to his bed in the sunroom, and no one would be the wiser. My heart was hopping in my ribcage with anticipation, but a loop of anxiety ran up and down my spine, recalling Anaïs’s look at me during Clara’s attack. What if Anaïs thought I’d betrayed her? Don must have noticed the anxiety on my face and perhaps misinterpreted it. He rose, yawning. “I’ve got to get some sleep. The damn sun through my windows will be waking me in three hours.” I didn’t get any sleep that night, not because I was getting Don’s kisses and thrusts, or even imagining them. I was turning on my pillow, twisting with agony at the thought that Anaïs believed I’d purposely lured her into Clara’s lair. The next morning, as Bob and I were determining if our homemade yogurt had set, the phone rang and I grabbed the commune kitchen receiver. “Something terrible has happened!” I heard Anaïs cry. “Come to the house tomorrow. Renate will be here.” The anxiety that had been running along my spine now circuited into all my nerves. I didn’t know how I could face Anaïs’s anger, and I feared Renate, who was capable of putting a curse on anyone who dared hurt Anaïs. When I arrived at Anaïs’s house, I saw that the front door had been left ajar for me. Renate was already there. I cried out, “I didn’t say anything to Clara about Hugo, Anaïs! I swear!” She looked at me severely. “Who was that woman who talked about Hugo?” “Clara Doherty. She was only invited because she’s part of my women’s group.” “How does she know about my staying with Hugo in New York?” Renate gasped. “Tristine, did you—” “No! I don’t know how she knows. She has a boyfriend in Paris.” “She probably heard gossip from that troublemaker Jean Franchette.” Anaïs frowned. “He’s always spreading lies about me.” I was confused for a moment. Who was Jean Franchette? I’d never heard of him. And what lies? Clara had spilled the truth. “It’s always those Marxist women who try to get me,” Anaïs flicked her French-tipped nails. “Don’t ever let that woman near me again.” “I won’t. I promise.” “I told you not to do any more public events!” Renate turned from Anaïs to me, scowling. “It’s too much stress.” I moaned, “I’m so sorry, Anaïs. It wasn’t supposed to be so public. But thank you for doing it. My students were thrilled.”

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Anaïs smiled with approval as I pulled out a Bic ballpoint. I looked for something to write on. She offered her purse, but it was too soft. I dug out the Penguin orange-and-white paperback of Lady Chatterley’s Lover that I’d borrowed from the library to reread, set the letter on top of it, and signed my name. I was eager to have that letter out of my sight. I replaced the plastic cap on the Bic. “Oh, don’t put it away yet,” she said. “Just write in ‘and a series of lectures over a two-year period.’” I looked at her askance. She insisted with a note of sarcasm, “You know, use your little editor’s arrow.” She took the signed letter from me and studied it again. “Right here.” She pointed. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Why not?” “The English department would never send out a revised letter without it being retyped.” “But it’s not coming from them. It’s coming from you, on behalf of the English department. It says, right here.” She pointed to the line that made me the most uncomfortable: On behalf of the English department at the University of Southern California, I am inviting Anaïs Nin … I said, “If the letter doesn’t look right, it won’t impress the East Coast colleges …” “Fine, but it has to go out today.” “Why?” “So it will get there before I arrive. Why are you asking so many questions? Just write it in. I brought a stamp.” I wrote in as small a hand as I could manage, and as I was writing, she was dictating yet another phrase to add, pointing with her white tipped nail. “Here add, ‘to include screenings of Ian Hugo’s films.’” Before I could object, she said, “Just insert it!” When I finished, she seized the letter and envelope, sealed the flap, affixed the stamp she’d brought, and took my arm, guiding me as a gentleman would. “I’m taking you to lunch to thank you for this little service,” she chirped, starting down the flight of steps. “We can look for a mailbox as we walk.” Arm in arm, we made our way down Fifth Street to Olive as unkempt people pushed by us. At the corner of Pershing Square she spied a mailbox into which she dropped the letter. After that we wandered up and down inclines and through narrow, seedy streets, as she repeated, “I know we’re in the right neighborhood, we just have to keep walking.” She directed us to an alley with uneven paving and piles of trash. “We’ll just cut through here, and it will show up.” But we emerged at a busy intersection I was sure we’d crossed before. She darted across the boulevard full of traffic. I hesitated as the light turned yellow, but then chased after her, cars honking at me before I reached the other side. My anxiety skyrocketed. I was lost and following her, and she didn’t know where she was going.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “Perfect. Why don’t we meet here again on Thursday when you have the stationery and I’ll dictate the letter then.” “Don’t you have your own stationery?” “Of course, but this requires something else. But if you can’t get it …” She seemed terribly disappointed. I couldn’t risk being cut off because of her displeasure again. “I want to help you! I just need to understand,” I blurted. “I know I must have said or done the wrong thing at your apartment in New York. I really wanted to see you again and you said you were going to take me shopping and put me together with Jean-Jacques, and I still don’t know what I did wrong, but I’m afraid I’ll mess up again and somehow ruin your secret because I don’t know what it is.” “I’m so sorry, Tristine. You didn’t do anything wrong in New York. I was just afraid. When you said you wanted to see me in Los Angeles …” She sighed. “My life is so complicated between the coasts.” “Was it Rupert? Were you already having an affair with Rupert?” I couldn’t help myself now. “Renate told me he’s jealous and that’s why you said that Ian Hugo took us to Harlem instead of—” “That’s true.” She averted her eyes. “I want to be your apprentice.” I sat upright to look professional. “I’ll get the stationery. Whatever you want me to do. You can trust me, Anaïs. I want to help you!” My declaration captured her attention, and she contemplated me. She held my gaze for a long time, during which it seemed we had been staring into each other’s eyes since the beginning of time, connected in an ancient bond of women’s sympathy for one another. Her eyes dropped to her pale, veined hands clenched in her lap. “I’m afraid I will shock you, so I have to think how to explain. I don’t know where to begin.” She looked at me again, her face now distressed. “This is all so complicated. I don’t know how to trust you not to … Even I—” She stopped, helpless with anxiety. She turned her face away, and I saw her sad Pierrot clown face that I recalled from the limo ride to Harlem. I wanted desperately for her to confide in me, and my desire made me uncharacteristically expressive. “I think secrets are like big hairy apes.” I could see I’d gained her attention. “You have to spend all your time guarding them so they don’t get out.” “Yes! Because if the ape gets out,” she said, “it will be horribly destructive.” I touched her icy hand. “But if you share the secret with someone you can trust, you don’t have to guard it all alone.”

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Clara said, “Mon Dieu, everyone in Paris knows about you and your double life! Hugo still has friends there, you know.” Anaïs’s panicked eyes darted to me and back to Clara. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” she said coolly. I glanced around and, to my horror, saw Rupert stationed on the front porch, standing in the cold by the open door. He must have heard Clara say that Anaïs had a double life and still lived with Hugo! Yet his countenance remained blank. An actor playing possum? I jumped up. “It’s getting late, and we don’t want to exhaust Anaïs when she’s been so generous to meet with us.” There were groans and thirty hands shot up. Anaïs recognized only Don. I felt a charge between them before he asked, “Were you the model for Ida Verlaine in Henry Miller’s Sexus?” “You’d better ask Henry that question.” She laughed gaily, turning away to scan the room for Rupert. “Ah! I see my escort is here! I’m so sorry I cannot stay longer.” The crowd parted before her as she moved through them to the front door, squeezing proffered hands and returning eager gazes with her radiant, reassuring smile. I tried to catch her eye but couldn’t. Bob rushed up with her cape, and she wrapped it around her before sweeping away. She did not take Rupert’s arm as they strode to the T-Bird parked up the street. That night, no one could have guessed they were married, the way she kept her distance. [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] Later, as I was coming out of the bathroom Don and I shared, I saw that he was at a desk in the ballroom studying. Evidently, he’d sent his date home. He gestured that I should come join him. I got my books and papers from my room so it would look as if I were studying, too. Right away Don asked, “Who was the younger guy she called her escort? Is that her rich husband?” I wasn’t sure how to answer. To people in Los Angeles, Anaïs usually introduced Rupert as her husband but since she had identified him as just her escort that night, I said, “A friend, I guess.” “What was all that about her having a double life?” Don gave me his irresistible Don Juan grin, and I noticed how neatly his blond mustache was trimmed over his white teeth. He seemed to be looking at me differently, not as a sister. Perhaps Anaïs’s fairy dust had succeeded in bathing me in its flattering light. “I don’t know anything about a double life. I think Clara just has old gossip. Anaïs used to be married to Hugo,” I said, though I felt uncomfortable lying to Don; it wasn’t something we did in our commune. Don said, “It’s common knowledge she had an affair with Henry Miller. Was she married to Hugo then?”

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] “How did Hugo see the letter?” I heard how out of control my voice must have sounded to Renate through the receiver. Anaïs was in New York and hadn’t given me her new phone number there, so I’d phoned Renate as soon as I got back to my apartment. “You mean the letter you mailed to Anaïs? How do you know Hugo saw the letter?” I should have known Renate would answer my question with one of her own. I recounted what had just happened in Dr. Inch’s office. I was hyperventilating by the time Renate said gravely, “This is very serious. Let me think about it. Perhaps there’s a solution to protect you at that uptight university.” I didn’t think there was anything Renate or Anaïs could do about the destruction of my college career; they were so peripheral to that world. “Anaïs can’t show that letter now to any eastern colleges!” I warned. “She won’t. I’ll talk to her. Here’s what I want you to do. When you next see Dr. Inch, find out exactly what he told Hugo. Then be prepared for a meeting at my house with Anaïs the moment she gets back from New York. Don’t worry.” How could I not worry? Questions flew around in my mind like moths, eating holes in my brain. What would I do with my life if I couldn’t become a college professor? I didn’t want to end up a restaurant hostess like Renate; I’d held enough waitressing jobs to know what a dead end that was. Why had I thrown away everything I’d worked for just to please Anaïs Nin? Dr. Inch had said Hugo called Anaïs his wife. Was my suspicion right that they pretended they were married now, the way they’d pretended they were not married when Hugo was Ian Hugo? These were not honest people! And what was the truth about the letter, anyway? Dr. Inch had said that even if it really were from the USC English department, it wouldn’t impress eastern colleges, so what was the real reason Anaïs had me write and send it? What kind of game had she gotten me mixed up in? The questions flew around madly and collided with one another for a week. Another week went by, and I didn’t hear from Renate, Anaïs, or Dr. Inch. I made myself focus on my classwork, hoping that my good grades would bring me leniency when the university’s discipline came down on my head. Just before Thanksgiving break, I got a call to come back to Dr. Inch’s office. As I pedaled my bike onto the campus, I imagined begging Dr. Inch to let my punishment be a public flogging before the Tommy Trojan statue, rather than expulsion, so my humiliation would be over all at once.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  There were other problems in my relationship with Philip that I would have liked to present to Anaïs as she and I stood with our arms around each other’s waists, looking at the stars now twinkling above the hillside lights. But I realized it was all too complex, and my thoughts too jumbled, for her to deal with in the middle of a movie being shot about her. So I tried to keep my question simple: Should I give up the job offer and stay with Philip, who was unwilling to come with me? Or should I go so I could respect myself and likely lose him entirely? In the past, whenever I’d presented Anaïs with one of my emotional puzzles, she’d close her eyes as if about to plunge underwater. After several moments with her lids shut, she’d emerge with a brilliant insight that would solve the problem. It might be a revelation about one’s underlying motivations that, once recognized, brought clarity; or she might offer a metaphor that contained a nugget of wisdom. But Anaïs didn’t close her eyes and consider. She pivoted me, her arm around my waist, so that instead of looking out at the gleaming reservoir, we faced her brightly lit house. Together we watched a tableau through the glass doors as my friends socialized animatedly. Anaïs murmured in sympathy, “Can’t you ask the university for more time?” “I did. The chair said yes and offered me more money because he thought I was being a tough negotiator.” Her half laugh came from low in her throat, but she tried to be encouraging. “The Kinsey Institute is there, you know.” I snapped, “That has nothing to do with what I’d be doing there! I’m not a sexologist.” Immediately, I regretted my tone. “Of course not.” She sighed. “I just thought because you did that fascinating research with the women in your tent …” “I have to get those tapes back.” “I told you, I’ll return them!” Retreating in the face of her displeasure, I tried to pull her attention back to my problem. “Renate says whatever choice I make will be the right one, but I know whatever choice I make will be the wrong one.” She turned to me, her aquamarine eyes holding mine. “The problem isn’t your ambivalence, Tristine. It’s that you freeze instead of flowing forward.” She raised her right arm like a ballerina and let it glide sideways, suggesting a smoothly flowing river. “But how do I flow forward when I have to choose one path and I can’t?” I could hear panic in my voice. She offered an enigmatic smile. “I followed both paths until the way became clear.” She had managed to flow forward on two paths—to live in two places at once, to be the wife of two men at once—for seventeen years. But I couldn’t do that. Come January, I either went to Indiana by myself or stayed in Los Angeles with Philip.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Most of us have little experience to help guide us to this awareness. We are used to living in a very disconnected wa y, a way that hasn’t embraced our felt sense. If you are one of these people, contacting the felt sense is probably going to be unfamiliar. Don’t be discouraged. It’s difficult at first but hang in there; it will come. Western culture does not teach us to experience ourselves in this way. We are taught to read, write, calculate, etc., but rarely do we come across a school that teaches anything about the felt sense. It never gets mentioned at home, on the street, or anywhere else, for that matter. Most people use this sense every day, but very few of us consciously acknowledge it, and even fewer cultivate it. It is important to remember that the felt sense is a wonderful and very natural human capacity. Those of us who are traumatized should be aware that learning to work with the felt sense may be challenging. Part of the dynamic of trauma is that it cuts us off from our internal experience as a way of protecting our organisms from sensations and emotions that could be overwhelming. It may take you a while to trust enough to allow a little internal experience to come through. Be patient and keep reminding yourself that you don’t need to experience everything now. This hero’s journey proceeds one tiny step at a time. Using the Felt Sense to Listen to the Organism We want to begin to tap into our instinctual voices. The first step is learning to use the felt sense to listen to that voice. The most helpful attribute in this journey is gentleness. Contacting the instinctual self is powerful stuff. Never try to force it. Take it easy, take it slow. If you feel overwhelmed at any time, you may have overdone it. The next time you come to that curve, slow down. This is definitely one time that you will get there faster by going slower. Sometimes, the felt sense appears slowly; other times you are hit by a flash of understanding and the whole thing becomes clear to you in an instant. The best approach is to maintain an open and curious attitude. Don’t try to interpret, analyze, or explain what is happening; just experience and note it. It is also unnecessary to dredge up memories, emotions, insights, or anything else, for that matter.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Twenty years after the traumatizing event, the subtle and hidden effects emerged. Nancy was in a crowded room taking the Graduate Records Examination when she went into a severe panic attack. Later, she developed agoraphobia (fear of leaving her house alone). The experience was so extreme and seemingly irrational that she knew she must seek help. After the breakthrough that came in our initial visit, Nancy left my officer feeling, in her words, “like she had herself again.” Although we continued working together for a few more sessions, where she gently trembled and shook, the anxiety attack she experienced that day was her last. She stopped taking medication to control her attacks and subsequently entered graduate school, where she completed her doctorate without relapse. At the time I met Nancy, I was studying animal predator-prey behaviors. I was intrigued by the similarity between Nancys paralysis when her panic attack began and what happened to the impala described in the last chapter. Most prey animals use immobility when attacked by a larger predator from which they can’t escape. I am quite certain that these studies strongly influenced the fortuitous vision of the imaginary tiger. For several years after that I worked to understand the significance of Nancy’s anxiety attack and her response to the image of the tiger. There were many detours and wrong turns along the way. I now know that it was not the dramatic emotional catharsis and reliving of her childhood tonsillectomy that was catalytic in her recovery, but the discharge of energy she experienced when she flowed out of her passive, frozen immobility response into an active, successful escape. The image of the tiger awoke her instinctual, responsive self. The other profound insight that I gleaned from Nancy’s experience was that the resources that enable a person to succeed in the face of a threat can be used for healing. This is true not just at the time of the experience, but even years after the event. I learned that it was unnecessary to dredge up old memories and relive their emotional pain to heal trauma. In fact, severe emotional pain can be re- traumatizing. What we need to do to be freed from our symptoms and fears is to arouse our deep physiological resources and consciously utilize them. If we remain ignorant of our power to change the course of our instinctual responses in a proactive rather than reactive way, we will continue being imprisoned and in pain. Bob Barklay minimized the traumatic impact of his experience by remaining engaged in the task of freeing himself and the other children from the underground vault. The focused energy he expended in doing so is the key to why he was less traumatized than the other children. He not only became a hero in the moment, but he also helped free his nervous system from being overburdened by undischarged energy and fear for years to come.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Traumatic Anxiety And no Grand Inquisitor has in readiness such terrible tortures as has anxiet y ... which never lets him escape, neither by diversion, not by noise, neither at work or at play, neither by day or by night. Soren Kierkegaard, Danish philosopher The aroused state that will not go away, the ongoing sense of danger, the ceaseless search for that danger, the inability to find it, dissociation, a feeling of helplessnes s — together, these elements form traumatic anxiety. When we fail to move through the immobility response, the resulting biological message is: “Your life is hanging in the balance.” This sense of impending death is intensified by the feelings of rage, terror, panic, and helplessness. All of these factors combine to produce a phenomenon known as traumatic anxiety. The word “fear” comes from the Old English term for danger, while “anxious” is derived rom the Greek root word meaning to “press tight” or strangle. The experience of traumatic anxiety is profound. It goes far beyond the experience we usually equate with anxiety. The elevated state of arousal, the symptoms, the fear of exiting or fully entering the immobility state, as well as a nagging awareness that something is very wrong, produce an almost- constant state of extreme anxiety. This anxiousness serves as the backdrop for all experience in the severely traumatized person’s life. Just as we are more aware of the water than the fish that swims in it, so may anxiety be more apparent to those around traumatized people than it is to them. Traumatic anxiety displays itself as nervousness, fretting and worrying, and in appearing to be “high-strung.” The sufferer frequently experiences panic, dread, and highly over-dramatized reactions to trivial events. These maladies are not permanent fixtures of the personality, but are indicative of a nervous system temporarily, though perpetually, overwhelmed. Psychosomatic Symptoms Traumatic symptoms not only affect our emotional and mental states, but our physical health as well. When no other cause for a physical malady can be found, stress and trauma are likely candidates. Trauma can make a person blind, mute, or deaf; it can cause paralysis in legs, arms, or both; it can bring about chronic neck and back pain, chronic fatigue syndrome, bronchitis, asthma, gastrointestinal problems, severe PMS, migraines, and a whole host of so- called psychosomatic conditions. Any physical system capable of binding the undischarged arousal caused by trauma is fair game. The trapped energy will use any aspect of our physiology available to it. Denial Many trauma sufferers live in a state of resignation regarding their symptoms, without ever attempting to find a way back to a more normal, healthy life.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “Perfect. Why don’t we meet here again on Thursday when you have the stationery and I’ll dictate the letter then.” “Don’t you have your own stationery?” “Of course, but this requires something else. But if you can’t get it …” She seemed terribly disappointed. I couldn’t risk being cut off because of her displeasure again. “I want to help you! I just need to understand,” I blurted. “I know I must have said or done the wrong thing at your apartment in New York. I really wanted to see you again and you said you were going to take me shopping and put me together with Jean-Jacques, and I still don’t know what I did wrong, but I’m afraid I’ll mess up again and somehow ruin your secret because I don’t know what it is.” “I’m so sorry, Tristine. You didn’t do anything wrong in New York. I was just afraid. When you said you wanted to see me in Los Angeles …” She sighed. “My life is so complicated between the coasts.” “Was it Rupert? Were you already having an affair with Rupert?” I couldn’t help myself now. “Renate told me he’s jealous and that’s why you said that Ian Hugo took us to Harlem instead of—” “That’s true.” She averted her eyes. “I want to be your apprentice.” I sat upright to look professional. “I’ll get the stationery. Whatever you want me to do. You can trust me, Anaïs. I want to help you!” My declaration captured her attention, and she contemplated me. She held my gaze for a long time, during which it seemed we had been staring into each other’s eyes since the beginning of time, connected in an ancient bond of women’s sympathy for one another. Her eyes dropped to her pale, veined hands clenched in her lap. “I’m afraid I will shock you, so I have to think how to explain. I don’t know where to begin.” She looked at me again, her face now distressed. “This is all so complicated. I don’t know how to trust you not to … Even I—” She stopped, helpless with anxiety. She turned her face away, and I saw her sad Pierrot clown face that I recalled from the limo ride to Harlem. I wanted desperately for her to confide in me, and my desire made me uncharacteristically expressive. “I think secrets are like big hairy apes.” I could see I’d gained her attention. “You have to spend all your time guarding them so they don’t get out.” “Yes! Because if the ape gets out,” she said, “it will be horribly destructive.” I touched her icy hand. “But if you share the secret with someone you can trust, you don’t have to guard it all alone.”

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  “Yes.” Anaïs gave Henry her glorious smile. “I forgot to congratulate you on your Supreme Court victory. Your work was recognized as literary. Thirty years after I recognized it.” Henry said, “You’ll be making a mistake, Anaïs, if you cut the sex from your diary. Get your book banned like mine, hmm, hmm. That’s what makes the books sell.” Anaïs rose to leave, and I stood, but Henry set his sights on Rupert. “What about you, Rupert? How are you gonna feel when you read about Anaïs in heat with me?” “That was a long time ago,” Rupert said pleasantly. “Before I met Anaïs.” “Good attitude, Rupert kid, very good. Hmm, hmm. Besides, what do you have to complain about? She married you. I asked her to marry me, did ya know that? She wouldn’t leave Hugo. She never could leave Hugo, doncha know?” “We really have to get going.” Anaïs swept up two of the signed releases and deposited them in her bag. Henry raised his voice. “But what about Hugo, Anaïs? He’s going to know you are a liar when he reads your diary. A liar! Are you going to ask him for a release? Are you finally going to ask him for a divorce?” Oh my God. Henry had said it! I looked at Rupert for his reaction. He must have been zoning out, or maybe he just dismissed whatever Henry said as claptrap, because his eyes remained on Anaïs, concerned only by how upset she appeared. I tried again to derail Henry. “After Tropic of Cancer, which of your novels do you think I should read?” I asked. He ignored me. “Are you going to ask Hugo for a divorce?” he called to Anaïs as she hurried to the door where Rupert was waiting. “Do you want me to talk to him about it?” “I’ll send you the edited pages, Henry,” she trilled as we all exited. “Liar! Liar!” he yelled after us. As soon as we were settled in the T-bird, Rupert screeched onto Ocampo Drive as if wanting to leave Henry Miller in the dust. Anaïs said, “It’s sad that Henry has gone senile. He was always so much older than me.” “He sure is a crazy old coot!” Rupert responded, darting left onto Sunset. I chimed in, “Anaïs, I don’t know how you can stand that man.” She put up a palm, silencing me. “I’m editing the diary and I can’t allow my present feelings about Henry to color how I portrayed him then.” Lowering her hand, she took Rupert’s free hand. “The problem with Henry is that he’s never outgrown his adolescent romanticism. Like with that Hoki girl; he only loves what he cannot have. The moment he gets it, he loses his desire and becomes impotent. He can only perform in the realm of fantasy.”

• From The Decameron (1353)

  But Angiulieri, who was as handsome a man as he was courteous, feeling that he was leading a poor sort of life in Siena on the meagre allowance he was given by his father, and hearing that the new papal ambassador in the March of Ancona was a certain cardinal who was very well disposed towards him, resolved to make his way there in the belief that by doing this he would better his lot. And having spoken to his father on the subject, he came to an arrangement with him whereby he would receive six months’ allowance in advance, so that he could purchase new clothes and a good horse, and go there looking reasonably respectable. No sooner did he begin to look round for someone to take with him as his servant than his plans reached the ears of Fortarrigo, who immediately called on Angiulieri and begged him with all the eloquence at his command to take him with him, saying that he would be willing to act as his servant, his valet, and his general factotum without requiring any other payment than his food and lodging. But Angiulieri refused his offer, not because he had the slightest doubt of his ability to perform these duties, but because Fortarrigo was an inveterate gambler and furthermore he occasionally got very drunk. Fortarrigo assured him that he would guard against both these weaknesses and swore repeatedly that he would keep his promise, to which he added such a torrent of entreaties that Angiulieri finally yielded and agreed to take him. So early one morning they set forth together, reaching Buonconvento4 in time for breakfast. Since it was a very warm day, after breakfast Angiulieri asked the innkeeper to prepare a bed for him, and with Fortarrigo’s assistance he got undressed and lay down to rest, telling Fortarrigo to call him at the hour of nones.5 As soon as Angiulieri was asleep, Fortarrigo went straight to the tavern, where after a few drinks he started to gamble with one or two other people there, and within a short space of time he had lost every penny he possessed, along with every stitch of clothing he was wearing. Being anxious to recoup his losses, he made his way back in nothing but his shirt to the room where Angiulieri was resting, and, perceiving that he was fast asleep, took all the money from his purse and returned to the gaming-table, where he lost Angiulieri’s money as well.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  I’d prevaricated because, even after months of internal debate, I was still unable to decide whether to accept the offer. On the one hand, it would mean I’d have to leave everything I loved in my life: Anaïs and Renate, living with Philip at the beach house, my sisterhood of women friends. On the other hand, I knew I should grab a three-year, guaranteed tenure-track job at a major university in a market where suddenly there were no jobs to be had. Those of us on the cusp of the Boomer bubble had run like lemmings when told there was a need for more college professors, but no one had figured out that by the time we’d gotten our PhDs, the bubble would have burst. My fellow grad students were hissing at my rare good fortune to have any offers, even if they all had been in less than desirable locations. After the filming, when my friends gathered around Anaïs, I slipped out alone to the backyard. Standing by the hedge where the hillside dropped, I could see house lights begin to twinkle on the slopes below. They spread like the Milky Way down to the lake’s shimmering surface. I felt Anaïs approach and slip her arm around my waist. “What’s wrong, Tristine?” I told her about my inability to decide whether to take the Indiana job. “Oh, I thought you had already decided to turn it down.” “No; I don’t want to leave you and I don’t want to leave Philip, but Indiana is letting me create my own Women’s Lit classes, and if I turn it down I’ll be selling out the Women’s Movement, and all the women before me who fought for my opportunity, and my students who see me as an example. So I changed my mind. Then I changed it again. Over and over. It’s making me crazy. Either way I choose, it feels like I’m cleaving off half of myself.” “Why doesn’t Philip come with you?” she asked. “I knew that would be your suggestion. I knew you’d say, ‘Find a creative solution,’ so I begged him to come with me, but he said there was no market for mod men’s fashion in Indiana.” In fact, Philip’s response had shocked me. Sweet, passive Philip had said, unequivocally, “No.” He wouldn’t move to Indiana; he wouldn’t leave his work. I knew we would not survive long-distance. And even if after three years I were lucky enough to find a job back in California (which had been Renate’s recommendation), I didn’t believe Philip would wait. I’d begged him, “Tell me not to go. Just tell me to stay with you.” “I can’t do that,” he’d said gently. He sat on the waterbed that rocked under his weight. He dropped his head, and his hands disappeared into his blond shag. “Why not?” I sniffled. “Because later you would blame me.” I probably would.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Bruno and Buffalmacco and Nello were like to burst with laughter, hearing Calandrino's words; however, they contained themselves, but Doctor Simple-Simon[427] laughed so immoderately that you might have drawn every tooth in his head. Finally, Calandrino commending himself to the physician and praying him give him aid and counsel in this his strait, the latter said to him, 'Calandrino, I will not have thee lose heart; for, praised be God, we have taken the case so betimes that, in a few days and with a little trouble, I will deliver thee thereof; but it will cost thee some little expense.' 'Alack, doctor mine,' cried Calandrino, 'ay, for the love of God, do it! I have here two hundred crowns, wherewith I was minded to buy me an estate; take them all, if need be, so I be not brought to bed; for I know not how I should do, seeing I hear women make such a terrible outcry, whereas they are about to bear child, for all they have ample commodity therefor, that methinketh, if I had that pain to suffer, I should die ere I came to the bringing forth.' Quoth the doctor, 'Have no fear of that; I will let make thee a certain ptisan of distilled waters, very good and pleasant to drink, which will in three mornings' time carry off everything and leave thee sounder than a fish; but look thou be more discreet for the future and suffer not thyself fall again into these follies. Now for this water it behoveth us have three pairs of fine fat capons, and for other things that are required thereanent, do thou give one of these (thy comrades) five silver crowns, so he may buy them, and let carry everything to my shop; and to-morrow, in God's name, I will send thee the distilled water aforesaid, whereof thou shalt proceed to drink a good beakerful at a time.' 'Doctor mine,' replied Calandrino, 'I put myself in your hands'; and giving Bruno five crowns and money for three pairs of capons, he besought him to oblige him by taking the pains to buy these things. [Footnote 427: _Scimmione_ (lit. ape), a contemptuous distortion of _Simone_.]

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  My work leads me to believe that many of these people have traumatic histories which at least contribute to their symptoms. Depression and anxiety often have traumatic antecedents, as does mental illness. A study conducted by Bessel van der Kolk [4] , a respected researcher in the field of trauma, has shown that patients at a large mental institution frequently had symptoms indicative of trauma. Many of these symptoms were overlooked at the time because no one recognized their significance. Today, most people are aware of the fact that sexual, physical, and emotional abuse, as well as exposure to violence or danger, can profoundly alter a person’s life. What most people don’t know is that many seemingly benign situations can be traumatic. The consequences of trauma can be widespread and hidden. Over the course of my career I have found an extraordinary range of symptom s — behavioral and psychosomatic problems, lack of vitality, etc . — related not only to the traumatic events mentioned above, but also to quite ordinary events. Common occurrences can produce traumatic after effects that are just as debilitating as those experienced by veterans of combat or survivors of childhood abuse. Traumatic effects are not always apparent immediately following the incidents that caused them. Symptoms can remain dormant, accumulating over years or even decades. Then, during a stressful period, or as the result of another incident, they can show up without warning. There may also be no indication of the original cause. Thus, a seemingly minor event can give rise to a sudden breakdown, similar to one that might be caused by a single catastrophic event. What We Don’t Know Can Hurt Us When it comes to trauma, what we don’t know can hurt us. Not knowing we are traumatized doesn’t prevent us from having problems that are caused by it. However, with the incredible maze of misinformation and myth that exists about trauma and its treatment, the denial is understandable. It is difficult enough to deal solely with the symptoms of trauma without the added anxiety of not knowing why we are experiencing them or whether they will ever cease. Anxiety can crop up for a variety of reasons, including a deep pain that comes when your spouse, friends, and relatives unite in the conviction that its time for you to get on with your life. They want you to act normally because they believe you should have learned to live with your symptoms by now.

• From Apprenticed to Venus: My Secret Life with Anaïs Nin (2017)

  Yet with all she’d revealed to me, I was still more confused about the timing of her divorce than ever. It appeared that she and Rupert had kept up their affair for sixteen years and then she’d finally divorced Hugo and married Rupert. Or could she and Hugo have already been divorced when I met them in 1962? Renate had said that Anaïs and Hugo pretended not to be married when he was Ian Hugo; could Anaïs have just been pretending to be married still to Hugo Guiler when I met her? [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] Writing the pretend invitation letter for Anaïs was torture: typing and re-typing it, checking spellings in the dictionary, laboring the grammar. Knowing it would be read by English department chairs, any error could give it away as a fake—and it would be my fault. Anaïs and I met as arranged a week later outside the old Beaux Arts central library by the mosaics of sphinxes and snakes. I felt very continental when we rushed to greet each other on the elevated landing, exchanging pecks on both cheeks. We claimed a cement bench, and I presented to her the perfectly typed letter. She read through it quickly. Afterwards she was pensive. What had I done wrong? “What are these two dots?” she finally said, pointing to the greeting, Dear Anaïs Nin: “You mean the umlaut over the i in your name? I found a typewriter that had that key in the library.” “No, after my name.” She pointed with a French-tipped nail. “The colon?” “Oui,” she said impatiently. “It’s a business letter. Isn’t it?” She waved her hand. “I just use a comma.” It was my first inkling of the deficits in her education due to dropping out of high school and receiving no training other than in flamenco dancing. I was troubled by her ignorance of proper punctuation and alarmed when she pronounced, “Renate is right. The letter should actually be for a series of lectures.” “What does Renate have to do with it?” “The letter is partly her idea. She thinks it would be better if you invited me for a series of lectures covering two years.” Ugh. I would have to re-type the whole thing. Anaïs could read my face, even though I wasn’t aware anything showed on it. “What’s wrong, Tristine?” “I may not have enough stationery to get the typing correct again.” “Oh, we don’t have time for that anyway.” She took a black and gold Montblanc fountain pen from her large leather purse, uncapped it, and handed it to me. “You haven’t signed your name.” I noticed the very fine point on her fountain pen. “I might damage your pen,” I said. “I have my own.” “Yes, that would be better.”