—
I even joined a childhood trauma support group. It was very ad hoc—a small group of friends-of-friends put together by an acquaintance. We didn’t go around and say, “My name is Stephanie, and I’m a survivor of abuse,” but we might as well have. Everyone shared their stories and their day-to-day struggles. There was a lot of crying. And it was hard not to compare my trauma with everyone else’s. My story was not the worst by far. One of the members was explicit about it. When I said I had a boyfriend, they replied, “It must be nice for you that you weren’t sexually assaulted so you can have a healthy romantic relationship. I wish I could have that.” I flushed with guilt and said, “I’m sorry,” because I didn’t know what else to do.
But despite our differences, I recognized that all of us exhibited very similar patterns of behavior. I could see myself in all of their struggles, in their outsized reactions, in their sadness and anxiety. Unfortunately, instead of finding kinship in the fact that we all had similar insecurities and struggles, I couldn’t help but silently pathologize them in the same way I’d been pathologizing myself over the past few months. Ah, they won’t answer phone calls from people. Classic case of avoidant attachment disorder. Blaming themselves for someone else’s bad mood even though they did nothing wrong. Anxious attachment, maybe anxious/avoidant—also, warped self-perception!
It did not help that of everyone there, I’d gone through the most therapy. I found myself in the awkward position of being an incompetent pseudo-therapist, trying to provide comfort for people and suggesting books and therapies, even though I was decidedly not okay, either. It occurred to me that there is a reason trained, experienced facilitators are always a part of support groups—so nobody in a crisis is expected to take on this role.
Still, one aspect of this group made my attendance worth it—the ability to see that C-PTSD did not inherently make a person monstrous.
Each of the group’s members was profoundly shattered. But they were all trying their damnedest to piece themselves back together in a way that didn’t hurt anyone else. They told darkly funny jokes, set out good cheese when they hosted at their apartments, and wrapped their arms around one another when they cried. They all had fierce protective streaks and passionately defended one another against the negative voices in their heads. They were talented and charismatic, quick to be introspective. They read self-help books and danced all night and painted bright, joyful canvases.
So it broke my heart to see this: At the beginning of each meeting, we would go around in a circle and say how we were doing that month. And we almost never said “good.” Okay, we said. Meh. There was always a current struggle, a friendship on the precipice, a narcissistic parent sending passive-aggressive texts. We were all deserving. Why couldn’t any of us just be good? I wished so badly for us to be good.
* * *
—
Soon my calendar was packed with trauma-centered activities. Sound baths, yoga classes, my support group, Buddhist talks, massages. I hightailed it on the subway to make a meditation class in Midtown after a yoga class in Brooklyn, then hustled back for a physical therapy appointment. On these hectic journeys, I of course made mistakes. I forgot to bring a healthy snack, or I wasted too much time huffing essential oils in a gift shop and arrived too late to a yoga class, where I lost my $15 deposit. Each time I fucked up, I chastised myself: You’re jobless and bleeding money! You’re living like an entitled socialite! Except without any of the fun parts! Like octopus carpaccio! Or yachts!
One day, I arrived at a meditation class five minutes late and had to step over crossed thighs, shuffling apologetically to my spot, where I stewed in shame on my pillow. Everyone thinks I’m an asshole! They can hear me panting! I’m ruining the vibe! And then it dawned on me: I was stressing out about not being perfect at my relaxation class.
I was approaching “wellness” with the same obsessive, perfectionistic tendencies I’d brought to my job. This was no less disordered than being a workaholic, and the pattern had a distinct echo: moments of intense joy through achievement followed by anxiety over finding my next success.
I decided to cut down on the number of wellness activities I participated in, keeping only my favorites, the ones that brought me sincere and easy joy. And I spruced up my at-home meditation routine, setting down a special cushion in front of my bay window, surrounded by my plants. I told myself that self-care shouldn’t cost money or come from a place of obligation. Being truly healthy should feel like a pleasure.
CHAPTER 22
If I was going to meditate and stick needles into myself and chug strange concoctions, I of course had to try the ultimate alternative treatment, the one that has gone in and out of favor with the human species since our inception: hallucinogens.
Let’s be real: I went to college in Santa Cruz. I am no stranger to magic mushrooms. They facilitated some excellent raves in my early twenties.
I first did shrooms alone when I was twenty-three, after my terrible breakup with the cyberpunk boy who was afraid of me. He dumped me in October, and I partied heavily until December, when everyone left the city and went home for the holidays. I had nobody to celebrate with, nothing to lose. So on Christmas that year, on a warm and sunny San Francisco day, I ate an eighth of shrooms and chased it with orange juice. Then I went up to my roof and lay on a lounge chair, watching magnificent fractal blossoms and skulls rotate in the sky. Just as “The Sunshine Underground” peaked in my headphones, the shrooms opened a door. I left behind my tiny, mortal, self-loathing self and osmosed into the universe. I saw that creation was beautiful and I was a part of that gorgeous creation. Every part of my body filled with compassion and admiration for myself, and I could barely contain this powerful joy. I was almost afraid that if I took off my sunglasses, rainbows would beam like searchlights from my eye sockets.