"Tomas did not realize at the time that metaphors are dangerous. Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love." Milan Kundera--The Unbearable Lightness of Being
I don't know if it's a trauma thing, a deep personality flaw, or the secret to my resilience (or somehow all and yet also none of the above), but I am addicted to metaphors. Metaphors help me find light in the darkness and meaning in the most inarticulably painful circumstances. Metaphors are probably the reason I'm alive and functioning. And maybe sometimes they contribute to my suffering too...
When you have so many things you're not allowed to talk about (because the consequences are too great, because you don't have supportive people around, because you just can't do it), a huge part of yourself remains in darkness: no colours, no features, no reality, no voice--just darkness. When you have to move forward and exist in the everyday world in spite of a whole lot of darkness pursuing you, a huge part of yourself gets left behind and becomes fused with that darkness (see all the metaphor-ing I'm doing already just to try to explain...).
Metaphors have allowed me to exist and explain that existence in a rudimentary way. Without them, all there would be are terrible feelings and fears I couldn't possibly describe in ways those who hadn't been through it could understand. For example, instead of saying I feel terribly alone (which is woefully inadequate to describe the experience no matter how many "terribly"s "extremely"s and "very"s I add), I explain my situation: "I'm buried alive and part of me can project to the surface and interact in a very surface-level-way with those around me, but I'm not allowed to tell them anything about my true self and history, or ask for their help, and if I break that rule, I won't be allowed even those surface-level interactions and superficial enjoyment of normal above-ground life anymore. But sometimes I can't stand it and I want to break the rules because I know I'm not the only one trapped underground like that and I want to demand to be heard, so even if no one will help me, they might eventually acknowledge and help the others...." And when I can finally tell someone that, and when they sort of get it, then I can start to feel understood. Like I have some kind of existence in the "real" world.
Metaphors were the only thing that made it possible for me to even consider moving forward in therapy and understanding how it could benefit me, even in what felt like hopeless circumstances. I had so many other metaphors I used (because let's get real: they're never perfect so I just keep trying new ones on and modifying old ones) but let's stick with the "buried alive" one. Finding a professional I could trust (something I never thought possible before) was experienced as "still being buried alive with no hope in sight. I don't see a way out. But now there's a compassionate voice with whom I can use my voice to explain the situation, who can offer comfort and support to make an intolerable situation more bearable." Not being alone isn't automatically the same as being "fixed" but it's an extremely big deal after so many years/decades of [that buried part of myself] not being able to truly communicate with anyone. And once I started doing that, there was another unexpected benefit: being able to communicate with a trusted person gave me some strength to occasionally--metaphorically--open my eyes (which I hadn't even noticed had been tightly squeezed shut) and look at my surroundings so I could see the (still very dark) contours of where I'm buried. I still don't see a way out, but if there is one, that's a crucial first step in being able to find it...If not for that metaphor, all I would have been able to see would have been my pessimism about being incurable. The metaphor made it possible for me to be able to benefit despite how hopeless I felt.
And so we come to the title of this post. When I started speaking out about trauma through my writing, it was entirely motivated by metaphor. And like all my metaphors, it was grim and dark, because that's the reality of my experience of trying to navigate trauma while also trying to exist in a "normal" way in the "real" "everyday" world.
For me, I started to speak out not because I felt it would be cathartic for me (I knew it wouldn't). Nor was it because I felt it would be a way to get help, understanding and care from those around me. I knew that for me in speaking out in the only ways I know how I'd be violating the "rules" that allowed me to have surface-level existence (per the metaphor above) and there would be consequences. Socially, some people would become awkward around me and not know what to say, so they'd stop acknowledging my existence altogether. Professionally, I feared it would limit any future advancement. But I spoke anyway. Why? Because metaphor.
Before I describe it further, an explanation of why I hesitated at first to share this: A friend of mine who also truly "gets it" and I were messaging about how in the "wellness" movement, people tend to want only the uplifting stories about the people in dire circumstances who find the strength to "reach out" and then magically, heroically "presto-change-o" are transformed back into normalcy, tranquility and "wellness." After all, it's the only way the "buried-alive" are ever permitted to be seen: when they've magically already been fixed and are beautiful and butterfly-like, and truly "one-of-us." It's like a cautionary tale for those who still suffer underground: "If you haven't been transformed yet, it's because you're doing it wrong, so don't you dare complain. Just try some of that abracadabra stuff that worked for these shining examples of the power of self-transformation. Get a shovel and start digging. Easy-freakin'-peasy and we don't want to hear more from you until you do it.."
My friend wisely said, "[those in the wellness movement] just want to hear about 'unicorns and rainbows' so they may not want to hear about grim dark metaphors." It sorta sounded like a dare so I promised to write a blog entry about my most motivating, undeniably dark metaphor: the serial killer blood one. I laughed as I vowed to do it. "They won't like it. All the more reason to write it. I'm not following the rules anymore."
So here's the metaphor that motivates me in speaking out. It's quite terrible and I don't recommend it for anyone who has access to a better one but it works for me:
When you have so many things you're not allowed to talk about (because the consequences are too great, because you don't have supportive people around, because you just can't do it), a huge part of yourself remains in darkness: no colours, no features, no reality, no voice--just darkness. When you have to move forward and exist in the everyday world in spite of a whole lot of darkness pursuing you, a huge part of yourself gets left behind and becomes fused with that darkness (see all the metaphor-ing I'm doing already just to try to explain...).
Metaphors have allowed me to exist and explain that existence in a rudimentary way. Without them, all there would be are terrible feelings and fears I couldn't possibly describe in ways those who hadn't been through it could understand. For example, instead of saying I feel terribly alone (which is woefully inadequate to describe the experience no matter how many "terribly"s "extremely"s and "very"s I add), I explain my situation: "I'm buried alive and part of me can project to the surface and interact in a very surface-level-way with those around me, but I'm not allowed to tell them anything about my true self and history, or ask for their help, and if I break that rule, I won't be allowed even those surface-level interactions and superficial enjoyment of normal above-ground life anymore. But sometimes I can't stand it and I want to break the rules because I know I'm not the only one trapped underground like that and I want to demand to be heard, so even if no one will help me, they might eventually acknowledge and help the others...." And when I can finally tell someone that, and when they sort of get it, then I can start to feel understood. Like I have some kind of existence in the "real" world.
Metaphors were the only thing that made it possible for me to even consider moving forward in therapy and understanding how it could benefit me, even in what felt like hopeless circumstances. I had so many other metaphors I used (because let's get real: they're never perfect so I just keep trying new ones on and modifying old ones) but let's stick with the "buried alive" one. Finding a professional I could trust (something I never thought possible before) was experienced as "still being buried alive with no hope in sight. I don't see a way out. But now there's a compassionate voice with whom I can use my voice to explain the situation, who can offer comfort and support to make an intolerable situation more bearable." Not being alone isn't automatically the same as being "fixed" but it's an extremely big deal after so many years/decades of [that buried part of myself] not being able to truly communicate with anyone. And once I started doing that, there was another unexpected benefit: being able to communicate with a trusted person gave me some strength to occasionally--metaphorically--open my eyes (which I hadn't even noticed had been tightly squeezed shut) and look at my surroundings so I could see the (still very dark) contours of where I'm buried. I still don't see a way out, but if there is one, that's a crucial first step in being able to find it...If not for that metaphor, all I would have been able to see would have been my pessimism about being incurable. The metaphor made it possible for me to be able to benefit despite how hopeless I felt.
And so we come to the title of this post. When I started speaking out about trauma through my writing, it was entirely motivated by metaphor. And like all my metaphors, it was grim and dark, because that's the reality of my experience of trying to navigate trauma while also trying to exist in a "normal" way in the "real" "everyday" world.
For me, I started to speak out not because I felt it would be cathartic for me (I knew it wouldn't). Nor was it because I felt it would be a way to get help, understanding and care from those around me. I knew that for me in speaking out in the only ways I know how I'd be violating the "rules" that allowed me to have surface-level existence (per the metaphor above) and there would be consequences. Socially, some people would become awkward around me and not know what to say, so they'd stop acknowledging my existence altogether. Professionally, I feared it would limit any future advancement. But I spoke anyway. Why? Because metaphor.
Before I describe it further, an explanation of why I hesitated at first to share this: A friend of mine who also truly "gets it" and I were messaging about how in the "wellness" movement, people tend to want only the uplifting stories about the people in dire circumstances who find the strength to "reach out" and then magically, heroically "presto-change-o" are transformed back into normalcy, tranquility and "wellness." After all, it's the only way the "buried-alive" are ever permitted to be seen: when they've magically already been fixed and are beautiful and butterfly-like, and truly "one-of-us." It's like a cautionary tale for those who still suffer underground: "If you haven't been transformed yet, it's because you're doing it wrong, so don't you dare complain. Just try some of that abracadabra stuff that worked for these shining examples of the power of self-transformation. Get a shovel and start digging. Easy-freakin'-peasy and we don't want to hear more from you until you do it.."
My friend wisely said, "[those in the wellness movement] just want to hear about 'unicorns and rainbows' so they may not want to hear about grim dark metaphors." It sorta sounded like a dare so I promised to write a blog entry about my most motivating, undeniably dark metaphor: the serial killer blood one. I laughed as I vowed to do it. "They won't like it. All the more reason to write it. I'm not following the rules anymore."
So here's the metaphor that motivates me in speaking out. It's quite terrible and I don't recommend it for anyone who has access to a better one but it works for me:
It's like one of those movies. I've been fatally wounded by a serial killer. It's clear that no help is coming and even if help arrives it will be too late. And yet death does not come quickly. It's slow and agonizing (maybe years or decades). There's nothing left to hope for that will take the pain away. So what do I do? It would be tempting to just remain in place on the ground waiting for the end to come: silently, barely moving, feeling the pain as little as possible. Or I could choose instead to do what I can to maybe spare others, even if it makes my death more agonizing. I can painfully drag my injured body to a location where I can use my last bit of strength to write my killer's initials in my blood on the wall, so maybe just maybe, someone will see it someday and prevent the killer from harming others. It won't be enough to save me. And the process of doing it will cause more pain and damage, not less. But it's something to cling to. It's something to keep me moving. It could be a terrible miscalculation. Maybe I was wrong about how fatally wounded I am. Maybe I should have conserved my strength. But it's something to give meaning to these agonizing final moments. When we don't have a way to escape the pain, it can help sometimes to ask, "Is that really the end of it? If I can't rid myself of the pain, does something remain that I can still do that can mean something to me? If I can't have happiness, can I still have purpose?"
Important note: I have two therapists and I think it's fair to say that they do not love this metaphor! (though they validate the fact that this is how it feels for me, while gently encouraging me to explore the possibility of seeing it some other way). I'm not suggesting anyone see themselves this way if they can help it. It's super hopeless and depressing. Yet for me it gives some reality and language to what I actually feel. And once I've given it some reality, it makes it possible for me to wonder: okay, if it's really hopeless like this, what might nevertheless remain? Something human, something meaningful, something real. And it also gives a starting point for a discussion with those who might want to suggest more hopeful ways of seeing the situation in a language that feels legitimate to me (reflecting the emotional reality of where I'm starting from). And most of all, it keeps me alive and functioning while all that can be explored.
Note also: metaphors will never fully be apt. The "serial killer" I reference isn't a person in this case. It's a combination of the complex trauma I've experienced and the society that is often so unkind and invalidating to trauma survivors. I'm pointing to a complex phenomenon, not just naming a person (which I've personally never had the strength to do, even when warranted, and doubt I ever will). But the metaphor helps make it simple: it won't undo my wounds, but maybe it will help save others. And yes I know it's my own blood I'm referring to but "serial killer blood" felt more catchy for a title.
So here is what my metaphors have taught me: even when there is no hope, there can be a way of seeing the situation in which there can be meaning; there can be connection; there can be comfort.
And yet as the quotation at the beginning of this post warned: metaphors can be dangerous if we fall too much in love with them and tie our fates to them or expect them to bring healing to us all on their own, but I stubbornly maintain that--if we use them flexibly--maybe they can help us give birth to a type of love that wouldn't otherwise have been possible for us. Maybe someday my ever-shifting metaphors will help me fall a little bit in love with myself or with my life, or at least help me find a way to tolerate both a bit better....
As always, please note that I am a lawyer, not a mental health professional of any kind. I have no expertise in trauma or mental health. Also, please note that any opinions and views expressed in this blog are solely my own and are not intended to represent the views or opinions of my employer in any way. For more information about the purpose of this blog, please see here and for a bit more information about my personal perspective on this issue, please see "my story" here
I am very grateful to have received a "Clawbie" Award for this blog (which reflects the importance of this topic): https://www.clawbies.ca/2019-clawbies-canadian-law-blog-awards/
For some of my external writing on this topic, see:
As always, please note that I am a lawyer, not a mental health professional of any kind. I have no expertise in trauma or mental health. Also, please note that any opinions and views expressed in this blog are solely my own and are not intended to represent the views or opinions of my employer in any way. For more information about the purpose of this blog, please see here and for a bit more information about my personal perspective on this issue, please see "my story" here
I am very grateful to have received a "Clawbie" Award for this blog (which reflects the importance of this topic): https://www.clawbies.ca/2019-clawbies-canadian-law-blog-awards/
For some of my external writing on this topic, see:
- https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/a-more-inclusive-discussion-on-the-impact-of-trauma-on-lawyers-mental-health-is-needed/276166
- https://www.cbabc.org/BarTalk/Articles/2020/February/Features/Speaking-Up-About-Trauma-and-Mental-Health
- https://www.canadianlawyermag.com/news/opinion/changing-the-conversation/326240
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