Rewriting the Script: Changing the Song and Scenery of Our Now

Part I:

As I listen to Elton John’s “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” on a loop, I mentally counter the lyrics with the fantasy that the sun will just fall from the sky. Can’t it do me the courtesy of burning out and shrouding me in complete darkness at long last? All it does is illuminate the scorch of my pain. The cruelly ironic side effect of CPTSD is that it often leaves us longing for invisibility even as we are desperate to be seen. It seems to “force” us into actions that are counterproductive to our well-being. Take, for example, my self-imposed exile to a darkened room, where I  repeatedly listen to a song that only makes me sadder. I’m not doing myself any favors, but

In a deep depression, compounded by the uncomfortable weight of a generalized sense of claustrophobia, I want to hide from the light. As an added bonus, my seasonal depression, which swings in the opposite direction of what many people experience, buries me deeper in despair. Most people afflicted with Seasonal Depression Disorder experience it at a time of year when the world is overcast, gray, and cold. Meanwhile, in the middle of the hottest and brightest month of the year, I find myself barricaded in a completely darkened room, longing for the forlorn and lazy days of winter to wrap me in a blanket of security. I lay shrouded in the comfortable embrace of darkness and the familiar numbness of profound loneliness. I don’t see any reason to get out of bed or find the light in anything. Right now, I only have room in my heart for darkness.

Part II:

Fortunately, before I sank too deeply into the cave of my pain, my therapist coaxed me from my hole. In the previous day’s therapy session, I voiced profound despair; today, I reached out to her via the patient portal to let her know that the spiral continued downward. She asked if a quick call would be beneficial; that’s usually the part where I say “I’m okay” before covering my head with my pillow. Fortunately, a part of me knows that I don’t want to live that way anymore. I’m tired of burying myself in my head and hiding in the darkness. On the opposite end of the spectrum, my other go-to “coping strategy” of working myself so hard I don’t have time for contemplation also holds no allure. I’m exhausted with being a prisoner of the extreme coping mechanisms that long “saved” me while also suffocating me. Things have needed to shift for a long time, and I’ve allowed myself to shift in increments; I thus accepted my therapist’s offer for a call. Accepting help is a sharp deviation from my usual script. I grabbed hold of the metaphorical hand she offered, partially out of curiosity. What would happen if I didn’t fall into my usual patterns?

Our conversation, short but impactful, represents a slight but mighty shift from my “norm.” The fact that I allowed myself to even participate in an introspective discussion while locked deep in the jowls of depression constitutes a bit of a “miracle.” I am not someone who reaches outward when in despair; instead, I deflate, falling inward. So why wouldn’t I use my coveted vacation time to hide in my room and drown myself in a self-defeating soundtrack of sadness? Knowing my appreciation for Bob Dylan, my therapist encouraged me to change the tune to “Forever Young” and venture out into the sunshine. I said I would try, thinking I would do no such thing. After some contemplation, I admitted to myself that she’s usually right about these things. I begrudgingly dragged my emotionally exhausted carcass outside. 

Part III:

Although I have not teleported into the land of rainbows and lollipops, I am surprised to discover beauty in the day. When I close my eyes, the sun glimmers across my eyelids like glitter. Even as the darkness beckons me inward, I feel the current of hope tugging patiently at my heart. I am gently reminded by the breeze that lands upon my cheek that I will be okay. I’ve changed the soundtrack, and tears of gratitude trickle down my face. I reflect on the irony that the words and sentiment of this song, “Forever Young,” make me think of my Grandma (whose upcoming death anniversary has contributed to my spiral). I reflect on how her “youth” rubbed off on my old soul in many of our moments together. I smile in silent remembrance. I am grateful for the love she planted deep in my heart, even as others stripped me bare. It’s a reminder that things don’t have to be “all or nothing.” It doesn’t have to be pitch dark or glowingly bright. I can sit in the sunlight while feeling the darkness within. I’m in pain, and I’m healing; one does not negate the other. 

Healing is a nonlinear process filled with fluctuating moments of despair and hope, sometimes existing simultaneously. Some days I move forward, and others I fall backward. I often stand motionless. Every once in a while, I take a gigantic leap forward. I am taking it all in stride and am confident that I will eventually arrive at a place where I feel at home in my body and mind. For now, I’ll just sit here, patiently waiting for what comes next.

Lesson Learned:

Sometimes, small shifts can flip the script, which matters because we are the story we tell ourselves.

Sometimes, small shifts can flip the script, which matters because we are the story we tell ourselves. Although power may have been out of reach in the small and big moments that eroded our confidence in the world, in other people, and ourselves, we do have the power of choice in the small things as we move forward. Shifting just a little bit can be enough movement to redirect our trajectory in a healthier direction, ground ourselves in the place we are meant to be, and/or return us to our path of healing after we have temporarily lost our footing. Although we can’t change what happened to us, we can adjust trauma’s impact within us. We can learn to dance with, rather than battle with, the ghosts of the past. As a child, I could not liberate myself from the isolation created by the secrets that I carried around like an invisible suitcase. Decades later, I finally have the power to unpack the pain. I can’t change where I was then, but I can change where I am now. I can’t change who I was (or was not allowed to be) then, but I can be who I want to be now. 

Much of the pain I feel today lies rooted in the turbulent landscape of the past; it feels simultaneously ancient and new. The truth is that sometimes I need to wallow in it because when I lived it the first time in real time, I did so in survival mode. I couldn’t sit in anything too long. So, now, as an adult sometimes I do surrender to the pain. I’ve earned that right. And…I don’t want to stay in a place of deep pain. I don’t want the there and then of my life to dominate now. I can still honor what I survived, but I now hold the power to remove myself from the darkness. I can change the song and shift the scenery. Doing this enough times allows me to rewrite my script. 

I think that most of us who live with CPTSD have developed coping mechanisms that, over time, have crystallized into patterns. Although these coping strategies are born in efforts motivated by self-protection, they can hurt us and keep us stuck in places we don’t want to be anymore. None of us is ever going to wake up miraculously healed. Some days, it truly is a matter of just getting through the day. That piece by piece, day by day reality of healing can be excruciating and…it can be empowering. Each day is an opportunity to make small shifts that allow us to change the song and scenery. We can rewrite our script one action and one day at a time. We are the writers and directors of our lives now. 

Photo by Hannah Olinger on Unsplash

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