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 The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  Anna felt doubtful regarding this new purchase. She was one of those women who, having passed forty, were content to go on placidly driving in their broughams, or, in summer, in their charming little French victorias. She detested the look of herself in large goggles, detested being forced to tie on her hat, detested the heavy, mannish coat of rough tweed that Sir Philip insisted she must wear when motoring. Such things were not of her; they offended her sense of the seemly, her preference for soft, clinging garments, her instinct for quiet, rather slow, gentle movements, her love of the feminine and comely. For Anna at forty-four was still slender, and her dark hair, as yet, was untouched with grey, and her blue Irish eyes were as clear and candid as when she had come as a bride to Morton. She was beautiful still, and this fact rejoiced her in secret, because of her husband. Yet Anna did not ignore middle age; she met it half-way with dignity and courage; and now her soft dresses were of reticent colours, and her movements a little more careful than they had been, and her mind more severely disciplined and guarded—too much guarded these days, she was gradually growing less tolerant as her interests narrowed. And the motor, an unimportant thing in itself, served nevertheless to crystallize in Anna a certain tendency towards retrogression, a certain instinctive dislike of the unusual, a certain deep-rooted fear of the unknown. Old Williams was openly disgusted and hostile; he considered the car to be an outrage to his stables—those immaculate stables with their spacious coach-houses, their wide plaits of straw neatly interwoven with yards of red and blue saddler’s tape, and their fine stable-yard hitherto kept so spotless. Came the Panhard, and behold, pools of oil on the flagstones, greenish, bad-smelling oil that defied even scouring; and a medley of odd-looking tools in the coach-house, all greasy, all soiling your hands when you touched them; and large tins of what looked like black vaseline; and spare tyres for which nails had been knocked into the woodwork; and a bench with a vice for the motor’s insides which were frequently being dissected. From this coach-house the dog-cart had been ruthlessly expelled, and now it must stand chock-a-block with the phaeton, so that room might be made for the garish intruder together with its young bodyservant. The young bodyservant was known as a chauffeur—he had come down from London and wore clothes made of leather. He talked Cockney, and openly spat before Williams in the coach-house, then rubbed his foot over the spittle. ‘I’ll ’ave none of yer expectoration ’ere in me coach-house, I tells ee!’ bawled Williams, apoplectic with temper. ‘Oh, come orf it, do, Grandpa; we’re not in the ark!’ was how the new blood answered Williams. There was war to the knife between Williams and Burton—Burton who expressed large disdain of the horses.

• 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)

  Weaving drunkenly, Bruce interrupted, “You don’t believe me that she’s living with that Hugo guy? Here’s her number in New York. Maybe you don’t have it, buddy.” Rupert and I reached for the slip of paper at the same time. I got there first, but Rupert had a better grip and jerked it out of my hand. I scowled at Bruce, who had a smirk on his face. “Why don’t you leave us alone? You’re drunk.” Bruce’s parting words to Rupert were, “Call the number, buddy. See who picks up.” My thoughts raced as fast as my pulse, but I had to appear cool when I said to Rupert, “Give me that stupid paper. You shouldn’t pay attention to a drunk.” “I want to call it.” Rupert put the note in his pants pocket, his handsome features taking on the bullishness Anaïs complained about. His stubbornness made me think, go ahead, call it; it’ll serve you right. But I remembered the repercussions if I didn’t stop him. She’d crash off her trapeze, and I, the one who was supposed to be holding her safety line, would be responsible. I tried again. “Do you want Anaïs to think you don’t trust her?” “You want to know the truth?” Rupert now sounded drunk himself. “I don’t trust her.” I could see I wasn’t going to get anywhere with him. “May we go?” “You go.” He sprung up. “I want to find that guy.” I grabbed his arm. “I don’t know how to get home from here without you leading the way.” “Then wait.” He pulled his arm back rudely. He stalked out of the living room and stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. His long legs were braced to pounce, but Bruce had disappeared. I had to get that piece of paper. I sidled up behind Rupert and slipped my hand into the right pocket of his chinos. I caught the folded note between two fingers, but before I could extract it, I felt something fleshy touch my index finger. I quickly withdrew, the note slipping and remaining in Rupert’s pocket. I didn’t dare try again. The maid serving punch had been watching me and waved an admonishing hand. Pretending nothing had happened, I tapped Rupert on the shoulder and when he turned I pleaded, “Please, can you lead me back to your place?” [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] He drove the Thunderbird too fast, weaving in and out of traffic. Tailing Rupert was like driving on a motor speedway. While trying to avoid a crash, I mentally raced through options to stop him phoning the New York number. If I could distract him with a kiss, I might be able to slip my hand into his pocket again.

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

  [image file=image_rsrc3R3.jpg] Several weeks later, Anaïs phoned sounding much better. “I didn’t get a chance to speak with you the other evening, you got here so late. Jamie and I talked for two hours before you arrived.” Damn, I’d been hoping that she hadn’t noticed how late I’d been. She continued, “Come tomorrow while Rupert is out so we can have a visit just the two of us. We need to talk about my authorized biography.” Oh no! I’d thought that freighted idea was dead. Now I really knew I couldn’t write it. With the fraudulence I’d felt while pretending to be Anaïs at Royce Hall, and having witnessed her spiritual despair, I wanted to be done with her lies. I’d seen the guilt her falsehoods had caused her, and I didn’t want that in my life. I’d lost faith in her myth of “living the dream.” I wasn’t alone. The Women’s Movement had become more tough-minded and now found Anaïs to be an embarrassment whose soft “difference feminism” identified women stereotypically with emotions and intuition. I, too, felt myself pushing away from her. I tried to suppress a recurrent thought: the sooner she was gone, the sooner I would be free of her and her outdated philosophies. Options other than writing her biography were pulling on me, not ones I necessarily had the wherewithal to follow, but I knew if I agreed to write her faux biography, it would curtail any other options. My apprenticeship now felt like servitude, and I was eager for it to end. When I arrived, Anaïs appeared remarkably recovered from her hysterical collapse, her eyes bright aqua stones. We settled on the built-in couch, and Anaïs for some reason began, “We never talked about those horoscopes you had drawn of the two of us.” Why was she bringing those up now when I’d given them to her the previous Christmas? Not knowing what to get her, I’d been talked into a commission by an astrologer who wanted to do an analysis of Anaïs’s horoscope overlaid with mine, our “paired charts.” I didn’t believe in astrology, but I’d given Anaïs the beautifully hand-painted charts and analysis because I thought she did. She was always talking about being “under the sign of Pisces.” She’d never thanked me for the Christmas gift, which baffled me because ordinarily she had exquisite manners. Nor was she thanking me now. “I really do not believe in astrology.” “I thought you did. Both you and Henry Miller wrote about that astrologer Moricand you were friends with in Paris.” “Oh, him. I thought he was interesting for a while, but I learned a chart is no better than the person who makes it. It just tells you about the mind of the astrologer, and I prefer my own imagination.”

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  3There was some one who went every step of the way with Stephen during those miserable weeks, and this was the faithful and anxious Puddle, who could have given much wise advice had Stephen only confided in her. But Stephen hid her trouble in her heart for the sake of Angela Crossby. With an ever-increasing presage of disaster, Puddle now stuck to the girl like a leech, getting little enough in return for her trouble—Stephen deeply resented this close supervision: ‘Can’t you leave me alone? No, of course I’m not ill!’ she would say, with a quick spurt of temper. But Puddle, divining her illness of spirit together with its cause, seldom left her alone. She was frightened by something in Stephen’s eyes; an incredulous, questioning, wounded expression, as though she were trying to understand why it was that she must be so grievously wounded. Again and again Puddle cursed her own folly for having shown such open resentment of Angela Crossby; the result was that now Stephen never discussed her, never mentioned her name unless Puddle clumsily dragged it in, and then Stephen would change the subject. And now more than ever Puddle loathed and despised the conspiracy of silence that forbade her to speak frankly. The conspiracy of silence that had sent the girl forth unprotected, right into the arms of this woman. A vain, shallow woman in search of excitement, and caring less than nothing for Stephen. There were times when Puddle felt almost desperate, and one evening she came to a great resolution. She would go to the girl and say: ‘I know. I know all about it, you can trust me, Stephen.’ And then she would counsel and try to give courage: ‘You’re neither unnatural, nor abominable, nor mad; you’re as much a part of what people call nature as anyone else; only you’re unexplained as yet—you’ve not got your niche in creation. But some day that will come, and meanwhile don’t shrink from yourself, but just face yourself calmly and bravely. Have courage; do the best you can with your burden. But above all be honourable. Cling to your honour for the sake of those others who share the same burden. For their sakes show the world that people like you and they can be quite as selfless and fine as the rest of mankind. Let your life go to prove this—it would be a really great life-work, Stephen.’

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  The symptoms of trauma can be stable (ever-present), unstable (will come and go), or they can hide for decades. Generally, these symptoms do not occur individually, but in constellations. These “syndromes” often grow increasingly complex over time, becoming less and less connected with the original trauma experience. While certain symptoms can suggest a particular type of trauma, no symptom is exclusively indicative of the trauma that caused it. People will manifest traumatic symptoms differently, depending on the nature and severity of the trauma, the situation in which it occurred, and the personal and developmental resources available to the individual at the time of the experience. And Around and Around We Go Relaxing makes me nervous. Unknown As I have mentioned repeatedly, the perception of threat in the presence of undischarged arousal creates a self-perpetuating cycle. One of the most insidious characteristics of trauma symptoms is that they are hooked into the original cycle in such a way that they are also self-perpetuating. This characteristic is the primary reason why trauma is resistant to most forms of treatment. For some people, this self-perpetuating cycle keeps their symptoms stable. Others develop one or a variety of additional behaviors or predispositions (all of which may be considered trauma symptoms) to help the nervous system keep the situation under control. Avoidance behaviors. Trauma symptoms are the organism’s way of defending itself against the arousal generated by an ever-present perception of threat. This defense system, however, is not sophisticated enough to withstand much stress. Stress causes the system to break down, releasing the original arousal energy and its message of danger. Unfortunately, when we live with the aftereffects of trauma, simply avoiding stressful situations is not sufficient to prevent the breakdown of the defense systems. If we tiptoe around arousal, our nervous systems will create their own. When this happens, we cannot rebound from the impacts of everyday frustrations as easily as we could if our nervous systems were free to function fully and normally. Ordinary circumstances can disturb the delicate organization of energy in the traumatized individual’s nervous system. A traumatized person may develop so-called “avoidance behaviors” to help keep the underlying arousal in place. Avoidance behaviors are a form of trauma symptom in which we limit our lifestyles to situations that are not potentially activating. Fearing another near accident, we may develop a reluctance to drive. If the excitement of a ball game triggered a panic attack, ball games may suddenly be less appealing. If flashbacks occur during a sexual encounter, this may lead to a diminished interest in sex. Any event that causes a change in our usual energy levels has potential to trigger uncomfortable emotions and sensations. Gradually, our lives will become more and more constricted as we try to avoid circumstances that might cause the usual balance of energy to shift.

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  I bumped and spilled my glass of water, which called even more attention to us. She, however, had grace as she carefully left change for a tip, and we walked back to her house. Soon thereafter I was summoned to my soon-to-be mother-in-law’s house. I was nervous. I had been warned by anyone who could take me aside that she was jealous, overprotective, and mean. They were right. What they didn’t say was how attractive she was, how she was still in good form despite the rough years, her dark hair thick and lightly curled. It was her dark eyes that told the other story. They took in the edges of things, the tatters, and left the good behind. My lively new daughter ran up to us as soon as she saw us. My new sister-in-law quietly drew pictures of horses at the table. I moved in with the family in my mother-in-law-to-be’s tiny one-bedroom house that afternoon, because, as she told her son, “You can’t stay there and live off your grandmother.” That much was true. But she also wanted to think she had some control of the gossip. If I was in her house, she would know my whereabouts and could be the authority. She was also pragmatic: I could watch the children. I adjusted. I had no choice. I hated the days when she was moody and critical. I could smell those days coming from far off, like the ozone in a storm front. She might start with “Why aren’t you with your mother?” meaning, why doesn’t your mother take care of you? She reproached me as I washed dishes after eating food bought with her hard-earned money. Or she would say, “Your mother is rich. Why can’t she send us money?” She assumed my mother was rich because she was a lighter-skinned Cherokee who passed for white and lived in Tulsa. I promised myself that as soon as the baby was born we would find our own place. I would swallow hard. I didn’t like being at the mercy of someone else’s kindness. I did everything I could to make myself useful around the house. “My mother isn’t rich,” I answered. During my last visit to the clinic at the Indian hospital I was given the option of being sterilized. It was explained to me that the moment of birth was the best time. I was handed the form but chose not to sign. I didn’t think much of it at the time. Many Indian women who weren’t fluent in English signed, thinking it was a form giving consent for the doctor to deliver their baby. Others were sterilized without even the formality of signing. My fluent knowledge of English saved me. As a child growing up in Oklahoma, I liked to be told the story of my birth. I begged for it while my mother cleaned and ironed. “You almost killed me,” she would say.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  When we learn to recognize these four components of the traumatic reaction, we are well on our way to recognizing trauma. All other symptoms develop from these four if the defensive energy mobilized to respond to a traumatic event is not discharged or integrated within a few days, weeks, or months following the experience. Hyperarousal During times of conflict or stress, most people experience symptoms such as increased heartbeat and breathing, agitation, difficulty in sleeping, tension, muscular jitteriness, racing thoughts, or perhaps an anxiety attack. Though not always indicative of traumatic symptoms, these signs are usually due to some form of hyperarousal. If hyperarousal, constriction, dissociation, and a sense of helplessness form the core of the traumatic reaction, then hyperarousal is the seed in that core. If you reflect back on the previous exercise, you will realize that it invoked at least a mild version of hyperarousal. Whenever this heightened internal arousal occurs, it is primarily an indication that the body is summoning its energetic resources to mobilize against a potential threat. When the situation is serious enough to threaten the organism’s very survival, the amount of energy mobilized is much higher than that mobilized for any other situation in our lives. Unfortunately, even when we know that we need to discharge the aroused energy, doing so is not always easy. Like many instinctual processes, hyperarousal cannot be voluntarily controlled. The following exercise is a simple way to experientially confirm this. Exercise During the three scenarios you experienced in the last exercise, did you imagine or create the responses in your body or were they produced by your body as an involuntary response to the scenarios you envisioned? In other words, did you make them happen or did they happen on their own? Now attempt to deliberately make your body have such a response without envisioning a threatening scenario. Use a direct approach and see if you can make your body produce responses similar to those you experienced in the three scenario s In your eyes. In your posture. In your muscles. In your level of arousal. Now try all the parts of the experience together at the same time. When you compare your experience in this exercise to your experience in the earlier one, how is it similar? How is it different?

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Turn to the next picture and repeat the process. Remember to go slowly enough to be able to notice the sensations that arise in response to the pictures. For each picture or page of your scrapbook, stay with the sensations that are evoked for a few minutes and see if they change. They may stay the same or disappear, but they may also become stronger. Whatever happens, just notice it. If the feelings or sensations become too intense or unpleasant, deliberately shift your attention to a pleasant experience that you have had, or that you can imagine having. Focus all your awareness on the bodily felt sensations of that experience instead. Shifting your attention to the other sensations will help the intensity of the uncomfortable feeling to subside. Remember that unresolved trauma can be a powerful force. If you continue to feel overwhelmed by the exercises or any of the material in the book, please stop for now, try again later, or, enlist the support of a trained professional. If an image of a horrifying scene shows up in your mind’s eye, ever so gently notice what sensations come with it. Sometimes, when sensations are intense, images come first. The sensation is ultimately what will help you move through the traum a - whatever it is. You may end up knowing what it is and you may not. For now, just be reassured that as you move through your reactions, the need to know whether it was real or not will loosen its grip. If there is an objective need to know whether it is true, such as to protect a child who may be at risk, you will be in a better position to handle the situation effectively. Be aware that the energies of trauma can be bound up in beliefs about being raped or abused. By challenging these beliefs, especially if they aren’t true, some of that energy may be released. If this is the case for you, rest and give yourself plenty of time to process this new information. Stay with the sensations you experience as much as possible, and don’t be alarmed if you feel tremulous or weak. Both are evidence that normal discharge is happening. Don’t force yourself to do more than you can handle. If you feel tired, take a nap or go to bed early. Part of the grace of the nervous system is that it is constantly self-regulating. What you can’t process today will be available to be processed some other time when you are stronger, more resourceful, and better able to do it. There are both physiological and psychological elements of the felt sense. I’ve outlined some of their key differences in the following two subsections. The first subsection focuses on how the organism communicates through its physiology; the second focuses on some of the psychological conventions and customs from which the organism operates.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Few people question the seriousness of the problems created by trauma, yet we have difficulty comprehending how many people are affected by it. In a recent study of more than one thousand men and women, it was found that forty percent had gone through a traumatic event in the past three years. Most often cited were: being raped or physically assaulted; being in a serious accident; witnessing someone else being killed or injured. As many as thirty percent of the homeless people in this country are thought to be Vietnam veterans suffering from post-traumatic stress. Somewhere between seventy-five and one hundred million Americans have experienced childhood sexual and physical abuse. The conservative AMA estimates that over thirty percent of all married women, as well as thirty percent of pregnant women, have been beaten by their spouses. One woman is beaten by her husband or lover every nine seconds (the beatings of pregnant women are also traumatic to the fetus). War and violence have affected the lives of nearly every man, woman, and child living on this planet. In the last few years, entire communities have been wiped out or devastated by natural disaster s- Hurricane Hugo, Andrew, and Iniki; flooding of the Midwest and California; the Oakland Fire; the Loma Prieta, Los Angeles, Mexico City, Cairo, and Kobe Earthquakes; and many more. All of the people affected by these events are at risk or are already suffering from trauma. Many other people have traumatic symptoms that go unrecognized. For example, ten to fifteen percent of all adults suffer from panic attacks, unexplained anxiety, or phobias. As many as seventy-five percent of the people who go to doctors have complaints that are labeled psychosomatic because no physical explanation can be found for them. 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.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  2Anna worried continually over her daughter; for one thing Stephen was a social disaster, yet at seventeen many a girl was presented, but the bare idea of this had terrified Stephen, and so it had had to be abandoned. At garden parties she was always a failure, seemingly ill at ease and ungracious. She shook hands much too hard, digging rings into fingers, this from sheer automatic nervous reaction. She spoke not at all, or else gabbled too freely, so that Anna grew vague in her own conversation; all eyes and ears she would be as she listened—it was certainly terribly hard on Anna. But if hard on Anna, it was harder on Stephen who dreaded these festive gatherings intensely; indeed her dread of them lacked all proportion, becoming a kind of unreasoning obsession. Every vestige of self-confidence seemed to desert her, so that Puddle, supposing she happened to be present would find herself grimly comparing this Stephen with the graceful, light-footed, proficient young athlete, with the clever and somewhat opinionated student who was fast outstripping her own powers as a teacher. Yes, Puddle would sit there grimly comparing, and would feel not a little uneasy as she did so. Then something of her pupil’s distress would reach her, so that perforce she would have to share it and as like as not she would want to shake Stephen. ‘Good Lord,’ she would think, ‘why can’t she hit back? It’s absurd, it’s outrageous to be so disgruntled by a handful of petty, half-educated yokels—a girl with her brain too, it’s simply outrageous! She’ll have to tackle life more forcibly than this, if she’s not going to let herself go under!’ But Stephen, completely oblivious of Puddle, would be deep in the throes of her old suspicion, the suspicion that had haunted her ever since childhood—she would fancy that people were laughing at her. So sensitive was she, that a half-heard sentence, a word, a glance, made her inwardly crumble. It might well be that people were not even thinking about her, much less discussing her appearance—no good, she would always imagine that the word, the glance, had some purely personal meaning. She would twitch at her hat with inadequate fingers, or walk clumsily, slouching a little as she did so, until Anna would whisper: ‘Hold your back up, you’re stooping.’ Or Puddle exclaim crossly: ‘What on earth’s the matter, Stephen!’ All of which only added to Stephen’s tribulation by making her still more self-conscious.

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  But Mary could see that she was far from all right; the warm weather was proving of little avail, even care and good food and sunshine and rest seemed unable to ease that incessant coughing. ‘You ought to see a specialist at once,’ she told Barbara rather sharply one morning. But Barbara shook her head yet again: ‘Don’t, Mary—don’t, please . . . you’ll be frightening Jamie.’ 2After their return to Paris in the autumn, Jamie sometimes joined the nocturnal parties; going rather grimly from bar to bar, and drinking too much of the crème-de-menthe that reminded her of the bull’s eyes at Beedles. She had never cared for these parties before, but now she was clumsily trying to escape, for a few hours at least, from the pain of existence. Barbara usually stayed at home or spent the evening with Stephen and Mary. But Stephen and Mary would not always be there, for now they also went out fairly often; and where was there to go to except the bars? Nowhere else could two women dance together without causing comment and ridicule, without being looked upon as freaks, argued Mary. So rather than let the girl go without her, Stephen would lay aside her work—she had recently started to write her fourth novel. Sometimes, it is true, their friends came to them, a less sordid and far less exhausting business; but even at their own house the drink was too free: ‘We can’t be the only couple to refuse to give people a brandy and soda,’ said Mary, ‘Valérie’s parties are awfully dull; that’s because she’s allowed herself to grow cranky!’ And thus, very gradually just at first, Mary’s finer perceptions began to coarsen. 3The months passed, and now more than a year had slipped by, yet Stephen’s novel remained unfinished; for Mary’s face stood between her and her work—surely the mouth and the eyes had hardened? Still unwilling to let Mary go without her, she dragged wearily round to the bars and cafés, observing with growing anxiety that Mary now drank as did all the others—not too much perhaps, but quite enough to give her a cheerful outlook on existence. The next morning she was often deeply depressed, in the grip of a rather tearful reaction: ‘It’s too beastly—why do we do it?’ she would ask. And Stephen would answer: ‘God knows I don’t want to, but I won’t let you go to such places without me. Can’t we give it all up? It’s appallingly sordid!’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  It seems you want to break my heart, but I shall break yours, so help me God, or have you hounded off the face of the earth.’ Whereupon she ran her hands through her hair, leaving it all rumpled and dishevelled, after which she tore open the front of her dress, at the same time calling out in a loud voice: ‘Help! Help! The Count of Antwerp is trying to ravish me!’ When he saw what was happening, the Count was far more concerned about the envious proclivities of the courtiers than reassured by his own clear conscience in the matter; and for this reason he feared that the lady’s wicked lies would carry greater conviction than his own protestations of innocence. He therefore hurried out of the room, got quickly away from the palace, and fled to his own house, whence, without pausing for further reflection, he took horse with his children and set off at breakneck speed in the direction of Calais. The lady’s caterwauling brought several people running, and when they saw her and heard what she was shouting about, they were convinced she was telling the truth, more especially because they now assumed that the Count had long been exploiting his charm and his elegant ways for no other purpose. There followed a wild rush to the Count’s residence, with the intention of placing him under arrest. But on finding that he was not at home, they ransacked the whole of the premises and then razed them to the ground. When the story, embroidered with various obscenities, reached the King and his son in the field, they were greatly distressed, and condemned the Count and his descendants to perpetual exile, promising huge rewards for his capture, dead or alive. Meanwhile the Count, full of misgivings for having turned his innocence into apparent guilt by his hurried departure, arrived at Calais with his children,

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Father, as I shall explain to you presently, there is a certain matter about which I am compelled to seek your advice and assistance. Having already told you my name, I feel sure you will know my family and my husband. He loves me more dearly than life itself, and since he is enormously rich, he never has the slightest difficulty or hesitation in supplying me with every single object for which I display a yearning. Consequently, my love for him is quite unbounded, and if my mere thoughts, to say nothing of my actual behaviour, were to run contrary to his wishes and his honour, I would be more deserving of hellfire than the wickedest woman who ever lived. ‘Now, there is a certain person, of respectable outward appearance, who unless I am mistaken is a close acquaintance of yours. I really couldn’t say what his name is, but he is tall and handsome, his clothes are brown and elegantly cut, and, possibly because he is unaware of my resolute nature, he appears to have laid siege to me. He turns up infallibly whenever I either look out of a window or stand at the front door or leave the house, and I am surprised, in fact, that he is not here now. Needless to say, I am very upset about all this, because his sort of conduct frequently gives an honest woman a bad name, even though she is quite innocent. ‘I have made up my mind on several occasions to inform my brothers about him. But then it has occurred to me that men are apt to be tactless in their handling of these matters, and when they receive a dusty answer they start bandying words with one another and eventually somebody gets hurt. So in order to avoid unpleasantness and scandal, I have always held my tongue. Since, however, you appear to be a friend of his, I decided I would break my silence, for after all it is perfectly proper for you to censure people for this kind of behaviour, no matter whether they are your friends or total strangers. For the love of God, therefore, I implore you to speak to him severely and persuade him to refrain from his importunities. There are plenty of other women who doubtless find this sort of thing amusing, and who will enjoy being ogled and spied upon by him, but I personally have no inclination for it whatsoever, and I find his behaviour exceedingly disagreeable.’ And having reached the end of her speech, the lady bowed her head as though she were going to burst into tears.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  Do the exercise again to reinforce your ability to recognize dissociation when it happens. Remember, the point of these exercises is not to prevent dissociation from happening. The point is to be able to recognize it as it happens. It is possible to be dissociated and to simultaneously be aware of what is occurring around you. This dual consciousness is important for beginning the process of healing and re-association. If you feel resistant to learning about this dual consciousness, your organism may be sending you a signal that dissociation plays an important role in organizing your traumatic symptoms. If you do feel resistance, honor it and proceed slowly. Remind yourself from time to time that dual consciousness is possible, and occasionally attempt it. Dissociation, as it is presented here, occurs in a variety of ways, each having a common fundamental disconnection between either the person and the body, a part of the body, or a part of the experience. It may occur as a split between: 1. the consciousness and the body. 2. one part of the body, such as the head or the limbs and the rest of the body. 3. the self and the emotions, thoughts, or sensations. 4. the self and the memory of part or all of the event. The way dissociation occurs will influence the way that more complex symptoms develop. In addition, there seems to be evidence that the use of dissociation as a response to trauma is influenced by both genetics and personality structure. Spaciness and forgetfulness are among the more obvious symptoms that evolve from dissociation. However, there are other symptoms that are less easily recognized as originating from it. Among these are the following:  Denial is probably a lower-level energy form of dissociation. The disconnection is between the person and the memory of or feelings about a particular event (or series of events). We may deny that an event occurred, or we may act as though it were unimportant. For instance, when someone we love dies or when we are injured or violated, we may act as though nothing has happened because the emotions that come with truly acknowledging the situation are too painful. Then suddenly, we may be consumed with intense emotion. Denial gives way to fear, anger, sorrow, or shame as the feelings once again integrate and the energy that has been bound up in the denial is released. However, when the bound-up energy is too great and the feelings too painful, denial can become chroni c= a “set in stone” insistence that an event never happened.

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  No one could see the force that wanted to kill me. Nor did anyone know how I had to coax each breath, each swallow. I had to count, so I could live. I had to make it home. For months I continued to will myself to walk and swallow. Vast holes of panic appeared to open in the atmosphere. Crossing streets was particularly difficult. As I came to a corner, I’d hold on to signs, lampposts, or grip the handle of the baby stroller. Then I’d cross in a blur of fear. One night I was driving back late from Acomita from visiting friends. Just as I started over the Laguna Pueblo overpass, the panic yanked the steering wheel toward the edge of the bridge. I fought to gain control of the car. Just before I was close to going over, I prayed for help. The panic let go and I was able to pull the car into the driving lane. I was introduced to a native woman who was a psychic. She helped police find the dead. Two of my concerned friends asked her to read me while she was having coffee in the student union. She agreed. She asked me to open my hands. She looked at my palms. I saw what she was seeing. I saw the wreckage of my life, what no one else could see when they looked at me. I appeared normal, as I took care of my children and went to school. She warned me, “Be careful. You are in great danger.” Then she gently closed my palms. [image "6706.jpg" file=Image00008.jpg] [image "6709.jpg" file=Image00009.jpg] [image "6711.jpg" file=Image00010.jpg] One night when the baby’s father was away in California teaching poetry, I felt a small island of peace. The children slept. I painted, listening to the song of the cricket who lived in the corner of the living room, near the front door. The cricket sang about the coming rain. It would be a light, misty rain. It was a day away. I turned on the television, the story box that changed the story field of the world. The commercial aspect of stories threatens the diversity of the world’s stories and manners of telling. The television stands in the altar space of most of the homes in America. It is the authority and the main source of stories for many in the world. Once when I was a student I had two televisions. In one the picture worked and not the sound. In the other the sound worked and not the picture. Together I had a working set—an Indian television set, I often joked. That night as I sat in the quiet house alone, I was taken in by a story. I was taken to somewhere in the Pacific; it could have been Indonesia, Malaysia, or New Guinea. I watched as a shaman was called to assist someone in need of healing. There was an exchange between the patient’s family and the shaman.

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  “It means you’ll marry a drunk.” Yet night after night after dinner she would drag my little chair to the sink and my dress would get soaked, no matter how hard I tried to keep from marrying a drunk. Every morning that I woke up with a hangover after trying to keep up with the poet with whom I was so in love, I’d remember the wet belly of my dress. I’d promise myself I’d let him go. I knew I could not save him, but to let him go felt unbearable. One morning he mentioned that his brother was coming into town from California and wanted to have dinner before heading out to the pueblo. He asked if I’d like to go to Jack’s for pizza with them. I knew that his brother was a hard drinker. I tried to ignore the premonition and remembered his words after the last binge, when he had promised that he was going to quit drinking. Jack’s, though it was also a pizza joint, was one of his favorite bars. They did make the best pizza. I decided to go. That night after cleaning the house for company, I took my son to the babysitter. When I handed him over with his pack of clothes, toys, and snacks, I hugged him close, savoring his freshly shampooed hair. When my son saw the babysitter’s new puppy, he wriggled free to go play with it. The babysitter was roasting green chilies and had just pulled out of the oven a fresh batch of little fruit pies that her people made. She offered me some. I wanted to stay put in her warm house, to wash dishes, set the table, and visit and forget the teeth of anxiety. If I followed it to the source, I would be slammed back into childhood, to my father staggering in drunk and beating my mother. The first time the poet hit me was on a Saturday night. We hadn’t been together long. We were in that amazed state of awe at finding each other in all the millions and billions of people in the world. We were partying at Okie Joe’s up the street. He was talking politics with his buddies while I played pool with some of the other native students in the back room. I kept feeding the jukebox quarters, playing the Rolling Stones, “Wild horses couldn’t drag me away,” over and over again. He was down about the anniversary of the death of his best friend, who had been his idol. He had been the only man from a pueblo to finish law school at the university, and he fought the U.S. legal system by any means possible, including his fists. But he couldn’t fight alcohol. He was taken down by drink, his body found in a field weeks after his death. His grieving brothers were honoring him that night at the bar by drinking themselves to oblivion. They were getting rowdy.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  By reason of these things I feel myself alike ill at ease here and abroad and at home, more by token that meseemeth none, who hath, as we have, the power and whither to go, is left here, other than ourselves; or if any such there be, I have many a time both heard and perceived that, without making any distinction between things lawful and unlawful, so but appetite move them, whether alone or in company, both day and night, they do that which affordeth them most delight. Nor is it the laity alone who do thus; nay, even those who are shut in the monasteries, persuading themselves that what befitteth and is lawful to others alike sortable and unforbidden unto them,[17] have broken the laws of obedience and giving themselves to carnal delights, thinking thus to escape, are grown lewd and dissolute. If thus, then, it be, as is manifestly to be seen, what do we here? What look we for? What dream we? Why are we more sluggish and slower to provide for our safety than all the rest of the townsfolk? Deem we ourselves of less price than others, or do we hold our life to be bounden in our bodies with a stronger chain than is theirs and that therefore we need reck nothing of aught that hath power to harm it? We err, we are deceived; what folly is ours, if we think thus! As often as we choose to call to mind the number and quality of the youths and ladies overborne of this cruel pestilence, we may see a most manifest proof thereof. [Footnote 17: This phrase may also be read "persuading themselves that that (_i.e._ their breach of the laws of obedience, etc.) beseemeth them and is forbidden only to others" (_faccendosi a credere che quello a lor si convenga e non si disdica che all' altre_); but the reading in the text appears more in harmony with the general sense and is indeed indicated by the punctuation of the Giunta Edition of 1527, which I generally follow in case of doubt.]

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘He ascertained which road he should take, but since nobody else appeared to be going there, he was afraid that he might be unlucky enough to lose his way, and arrive at some spot where a meal would not be so easy to come by. So in order to be on the safe side, he decided, by way of insuring himself against total lack of sustenance, to take along three loaves, reflecting at the same time that he would always be able to find water to drink, although this commodity was not much to his taste. And so he set out, with the loaves stuffed inside his tunic, and made such excellent progress that he arrived before breakfast at the place where the Abbot was living. Once inside, he took a good look round, and saw that a great number of tables had been set, the kitchen was a hive of activity, and various other dining arrangements had been put in hand, whereupon he thought to himself: “This man is truly as excellent as people say.” He spent a little more time surveying the scene, and then, since the meal was now ready, the Abbot’s steward ordered in the water for them to wash their hands, after which he seated them all at table. By a pure coincidence, the place where Primas was seated happened to be directly opposite the door of the room from which the Abbot would emerge as he came into the hall to dine. ‘It was a custom of the house that neither wine nor bread nor any other food or drink was ever placed on the tables till the Abbot came and occupied his seat. So when the steward had got everybody settled, he sent word to the Abbot that the meal was ready and they were awaiting his pleasure. ‘The Abbot ordered a servant to open the door of his room so that he could proceed into the hall, but as he was on his way in, he looked straight ahead, and the first man he happened to catch sight of was Primas, who was very scruffily dressed and unknown to him by sight. No sooner did the Abbot see him, than a malicious thought suddenly crossed his mind, of a sort he had never entertained before, and he said to himself: “Why should I give my hospitality to the likes of this fellow?” And turning on his heel, he ordered the door of his room to be shut, and asked his attendants whether any of them knew the identity of the uncouth fellow who was seated at table opposite the door of his room. But nobody knew who he was. ‘Primas had worked up an appetite from his walk and was not in the habit of going without food, so after waiting for a while and seeing no sign of the Abbot’s return, he took out one of the three loaves he had brought with him, and started to eat.

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  If you notice that you are using words that are usually thought of as emotions, take each one and ask yourself: How do I know that I feel emotion? Because emotions are based on connections with the past, the picture or memorabilia may bring memories of other events. Just notice the sensations that come with these memories in the same way. Keep reminding yourself to sense and to describe what you sense as sensations, not as emotions or thoughts. Turn to the next picture and repeat the process. Remember to go slowly enough to be able to notice the sensations that arise in response to the pictures. For each picture or page of your scrapbook, stay with the sensations that are evoked for a few minutes and see if they change. They may stay the same or disappear, but they may also become stronger. Whatever happens, just notice it. If the feelings or sensations become too intense or unpleasant, deliberately shift your attention to a pleasant experience that you have had, or that you can imagine having. Focus all your awareness on the bodily felt sensations of that experience instead. Shifting your attention to the other sensations will help the intensity of the uncomfortable feeling to subside. Remember that unresolved trauma can be a powerful force. If you continue to feel overwhelmed by the exercises or any of the material in the book, please stop for now, try again later, or, enlist the support of a trained professional. If an image of a horrifying scene shows up in your mind’s eye, ever so gently notice what sensations come with it. Sometimes, when sensations are intense, images come first. The sensation is ultimately what will help you move through the traum a- whatever it is. You may end up knowing what it is and you may not. For now, just be reassured that as you move through your reactions, the need to know whether it was real or not will loosen its grip. If there is an objective need to know whether it is true, such as to protect a child who may be at risk, you will be in a better position to handle the situation effectively.