Meandering Michele's Mind: In Memorium -- Bill Hering

For those of you who've been following this blog for a while, you know I'm a dancer and how much dance had to do with my PTSD recovery. When all therapies failed me I decided to pursue joy as a way to overthrow trauma's vicelike grip and to habituate myself to something outside of my trauma addiction, and to reconnect to my pure and innocent and untraumatised self, which I believed still existed despite the daily evidence that might have suggested otherwise.

I was a freestyle dancer with no background in partner dancing when I walked into The Ritz Ballroom and said, "Teach me." It was a rocky road at first. My mind and body were so used to being separate they did not speak the same language, nor did they want to. And I, so used to processing in the PTSD fog and dissociative state, found the present, in-the-moment, connected-to-your-partner aspects of dance incredibly difficult to sustain.

But I knew when I danced I felt joy, and when I felt joy I was transcendant, and when I was transcendant trauma and the past ceased to exist and for a little while I was free. I've already written about dance and how it impacted the evolution of my healing. I haven't written much about the man who taught me to dance, my instructor, Bill Hering.

As we're talking about seeking help this month, his portrait (above with dance partner/wife, Sylvie) becomes very relevant in its suggestion of how we can seek help in new, out of the box ways and find more help than we ever expected. I went to the dance studio Bill owned just wanting to dance, and what happened was that I discovered a whole new self, not just from the hours I spent in private lessons with Bill, but from the community he had built at the studio, the other teachers he employed, the dance parties he hosted and the classes he designed.

A few months after taking the dancing plunge (and dancing 7 nights a week because I wanted to develop a joy habit and once I began to feel joy it became addictive -- I wanted to feel that way every day!) an unexpected thing happened: the nightmares ceased. I began to sleep. The anxiety lessened. I became more open. My body and mind slowly renegotiated their connection. I became comfortable in the moment. I became comfortable in my body. I was flooded with good feelings instead of bad. I dissociated less. I began to laugh more. Good things came from my dance odyssey and Bill, for one hour twice a week and as a presence every other moment in the studio, was a big part of that.

Last Thursday while I was in Boston for the trauma conference Bill lost his year long fight with cancer. Our dance community has suffered a great loss. The funeral on Monday was difficult for all of the usual reasons but also because Bill is so entwined with my recovery. He was only 50, way too young for us to lose him.

In recovery we have to have a spirit of adventure. We have to imagine the impossible. We have to not get stuck in the rut of our own thoughts but seek help in new and unsual places. We have to think about who we are and who we want to be and how we can make the transition. We have to think about who can help us make that dream come true.

We think things through. We commit to the desire to heal. We educate ourselves. We educate those around us. And then we're left with the task of finding a way to make the fantasy reality. Help doesn't always come from the most predictable places -- sometimes, you simply pursue joy and a guide emerges to help you do so.

To heal, sometimes you just have to put on a pair of suede soled shoes, step onto the floor, give in to the music, and dance. And if you've searched hard enough you'll find someone with the patience to lead you through.

Phases of Healing PTSD, Part 4:The Achievement

So this is it, the moment we’ve all been waiting for: Today’s the day we consider that PTSD can be – like the event that began it in the first place – a thing of the past.

This week began with my feeling gratitude for how far I’ve come in my PTSD healing. And then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. All week I’ve been writing about the parallel between learning a new physical skill (i.e. dance), and learning a new mental skill (i.e. PTSD healing). We’re all just apprentices and there are phases to our education.

And then one day we graduate. We become not the apprentice but the expert. This can happen for you, my fellow PTSDers. One day, we will all be healed and enjoying:

Phase #6: The Final Achievement – It’s been 1 ½ years since I began dancing. 1 ½ years since John and I first stepped into a Latin club where I was a complete salsa failure; since we went to Argentine tango dance parties and all I could do was walk to the cross .

But that’s not how it is anymore! Now, everywhere we go John and I are regularly asked where we teach, perform and compete. Which means, it’s official: I can DANCE.

It’s been almost 4 years since I sat myself down and decided to do whatever it takes to heal. 4 years since I dove head first into my memories, and trauma and PTSD research. 4 years since I descended into a worse hell than I ever imagined existed (and what I knew and imagined before was pretty gruesome already).

What happened 4 years ago that made me take the plunge? There was a day in February 2005 when I had a complete breakdown on the jogging path that goes up the shore of the East River in Manhattan. And as I stood there in sub-freezing temperatures and cried and sobbed all of my PTSD grief and frustration, the dominant thought that emerged was one of fear. I am so afraid! was the echoing thought in my head.

I came to the realization - was hit hard by a startling discovery - that the crux of my post-traumatic stress and related behavior stemmed from this one fact: I WAS AFRAID. So very, very afraid. Afraid the trauma would happen again. Afraid I would suffer again. Afraid no one would be able to help me or save me or prevent the event again. Afraid the next time I wouldn't survive. Afraid that in the present I would completely disintegrate both mentally and physically. The list was long and the emotion sharp. Fear was such an ingrained habit for me that I had literally lived with it and thought it was normal because it had become my natural state.

And then I thought, I can't live like this anymore. It was this moment that began my healing odyssey. The recognition of the germ of all my PTSD suffering brought with it a certain relief: I knew what needed to be addressed. I knew I had to deal with that echoing thought - my fear - if I was ever going to be free.

And so I did. I went back into therapy for 6 months and then set off on my own path. After the initial black abyss I tumbled into, slowly I began to heal, little by little, small step by small step until one day I emerged from the dark into a small pool of light. Over time that small pool of light has grown progressively larger.

I think an important aspect of my healing came from the proactive path of it; the fact that I engaged in it, steered it, willed it. Healing is not bestowed upon us. We must demand it. We must accept nothing less. In our traumas we are powerless, but in choosing to heal and following through we become powerful.

The healing process itself can be just the act we need to put the demons to rest. In giving us back a sense of our own power it returns to us something that was taken away. Namely, a sense of self that trauma so rapidly destroys. We cannot wait for healing to be given to us. We must actively seek it, and not only by seeking out practitioners, but by drawing up our own strength and implementing it.

(Photo credit: Basilly)

Phases of Healing PTSD, Part 3: Making Progress

Healing takes a while. And so does this topic! Here’s one of two final installments on the parallel between learning a new skill (in my case, dance) and healing PTSD:

Phase #5 – Making Progress – Salsa and Argentine tango became my passion and I set goals for developing my dance skills. I put in the effort to educate myself, plus to practice so that I mastered the forms. All day at work I listened to salsa music on Pandora so I could learn how to find the beat without looking for it. Every night after work I came home and practiced the special tango walk until I could do it in a straight line without wobbling.

It took about six months for me to really learn to dance. For me to understand the lead/follow relationship, learn how to follow, learn what it means to embellish on my own, to interpret the music on a second’s notice, to place that extra heel tap, to perfectly distribute my weight. It was six months before I could get out on the floor and feel like I not only knew what I was doing, but I was doing it well and with some level of technical expertise.

During those first five months, however, there were experiences that let me know I was making progress. There was the night I found out what to do with that extra salsa beat (kick, tap or roll!). There was the evening I finally (finally!) executed a perfect tango molinete. On these nights I’d leave the dance floor flush with exhilaration that I was getting better and better!

It took a little longer to develop my expertise for healing PTSD. It took 3 full years for me to heal, start to finish. Three years of research. Three years of writing out the whole story: all of what I could remember about the original trauma, and then all of what PTSD turned my life into after that, symptom by symptom. I tracked who I had been before trauma, who I was during, and who I became after so I could find the kernel of my real self, and then coax her back out. It took me three years to untangle what was trauma and what was chronic PTSD and to understand their impact on me and my life. Three years to find the right practitioner to help me achieve what I could not do alone.

[NOTE: I’m not recommending this technique of writing it all out to everyone. It worked for me. It may work for you, but it’s a tough way to purge the poison. Deliberately writing, remembering and examining provided many triggers along the way.

While I do believe it is critically important (as Jean-Martin Charcot and Pierre Janet dictated) to integrate all of our traumatic memories into our current selves so they do not exist separately, this writing process itself can be traumatic and there are other treatments that can help. Unfortunately, I had tried every other treatment except medication and I was still seriously suffering. (If you’re interested in trying this writing tactic, let me know. I think it’s best to structure your approach and I’d be happy to offer more details of my own effort so you follow a planned path.)

During those 3 years of healing, though (and this I can recommend), I came up with the idea that in order to heal PTSD and get beyond my trauma it was necessary to begin to imagine myself outside of PTSD and trauma. By this I mean, imagine who I was, wanted to, or could be without all the junk of experience.

In the middle of all this research and looking at the past I began doing little things in the present that would move me into a new future. I began taking pilates so that I started rebuilding strength and trust in my broken down body. When I was well enough I started learning to dance because I wanted to be every day that joyful person I was on the dance floor any night.]

Because at the outset of my healing journey all of my PTSD symptoms initially intensified, it seemed at first that I was on the wrong path, as if I was doing something more harmful than good.

And then there came the day I could look at photos of my illness and my stomach didn’t turn.

There was the day I read a piece of writing that described and explained all of my PTSD symptoms and I recognized myself and no longer felt like such a freak.

There was the day I wrote about the most horrible aspect of my illness and afterward felt a swell of relief, like, Whew! Now that’s out!.

There was the day I realized all the joy I felt dancing was giving me the courage to slog through the rest of the muck, and so I felt it was possible to get it all done and finally be free.

Little by little I could see myself developing a strength to cope with this ominous thing, to bring it down to size, to use my own power to contain it and developing myself to make it shrink so that I enveloped the past instead of the other way around. The goal in trauma/PTSD healing is to contain experience within the larger scope of who we are; to flip the balance of power from our being controlled by the past, to our controlling it in the present.

The more we develop ourselves outside of trauma/PTSD the stronger we become. I clung to each moment of progress and believed - every time it all came crashing down again - that those healing moments were my truth. I reached toward them. This belief in myself inspired me to get up and carry on.

After trauma, the hardest thing to do is believe in ourselves and yet, this is the most important thing we have to do.

(Photo: Jim Donaldson)

Phases of PTSD Healing, Part 2: Stumbling & Moving Forward

Picking up from yesterday’s post about the phases of healing:

Phase #4: Stumbling & Moving Forward – I went to a group salsa class for a few lessons and did well, so when John (whom I met in my very first group Argentine tango class) asked me to go salsa dancing, I thought I was prepared. We went to a fabulous Latin club in West Palm Beach. It was a large space with a sunken dance floor. We got out on the floor and I immediately discovered… I couldn’t dance at all! In group classes they slow the tempo of the music; in Latin clubs it’s a whole new ball game. I had no idea what I was doing. I couldn’t hear the beat. I couldn’t follow the rhythm. I had to concentrate. I had to watch other people dance so I could learn from their style and expertise.

Tango was even more difficult. Of all the dances it is the most complicated to learn. Unlike other dances, tango lacks a set pattern of steps. This makes following and learning more difficult, as does the complexity of the footwork in general. There were many nights in class that my brain went into overload and I left the dance studio with a wicked headache and a strong sense of the futility of what I was trying to do.

With both of these dances I had several moments when I thought I can’t do this! and I’ll never be good at this! But I wanted to be able to dance both dances well, so I made the commitment to learn. I quit the salsa class and John and I went to Latin clubs 2 – 3 nights a week. I watched. I tried. I stumbled. I watched some more. I tried again. Eventually I got the rhythm and figured out the steps, timing, and embellishments.

We continued going to tango class and I would come home and practice the special tango walk and other footwork. We went to weekly milongas (tango dance parties) so we could practice. Comfort came slowly. My capability developed a tiny bit at a time. My technique slowly evolved.

Healing PTSD became like this, too. I began researching my trauma and writing out my memories and thought I was prepared to do the work. I thought if I could handle looking at photos of my illness and learning statistics and other trauma information, I was making positive progress. I thought if I could write out what I remembered that proved I was stronger the trauma.

I began doing all of this and felt like I was in control. But then my memories and nightmares increased in frequency and intensity, the insomnia raged, my emotions swung like a pendulum; I became more depressed than ever. I couldn’t think about anything except my trauma twenty-four hours a day.

For weeks, every PTSD symptom grew worse until I’d break down, renounce the struggle, wail I can't do this!, put away the research, turn off the computer and walk away – for a day, or a week before the old desire was back; before the determination to be healed needled me until I sat down in the middle of it all again for as long as I could stand it before the next breakdown.

This process repeated itself over and over, but each time I made forward progress. Each time before the breakdown there was a surge in knowledge, understanding, education and empowerment. I went from not being able to think about my illness to being able to look at pictures of others afflicted by it. I went from not being able to speak about my trauma to developing a vocabulary for it and the ability to discuss it out loud.

As humans we should be used to this sort of method. As infants we learn to walk, stumble, fall and get up again, competely determined to master this skill. As adults it’s a mental experience and so, much more difficult. But we’re wired for this, we know how it goes and that there will be struggles and pitfalls and injuries. The thing is, we also know: One day, we’ll be able to run.

(Photo: temp13rec)

Phases of Healing PTSD, Part 1: Desire & Commitment

When you attempt to do anything, or learn something new, there's usually a plan. You have an idea of where to begin and what steps you'll need to take to follow through. You appreciate and accept there'll be a process, a learning curve, a period of time to develop the situation or new skill. You know you'll be out of your element sometimes, and out of your depth. Because you desire the outcome of this situation or the development of this skill you don't mind these things, you know they come with the territory.

I think we have to approach PTSD healing like that, too. We have to really desire it, and we have to know that there will be phases of it. I’ve been thinking more about the similarities between learning to dance and PTSD. Actually, the processes (and you could substitute learning any activity here) have similar phases. When I started writing about this topic I realized I have a lot to say; this is going to take more than one day...

So, here it is today, the first 3 things on the list of Michele's 6-Phase Outline of PTSD Healing:

Phase #1: Discovering the Desire – All of a sudden there comes a day you discover you really, really want to do this thing. In regard to dancing, this night caught me by surprise. I was miserable, deep into a dark and shaky PTSD depression – and then I found myself on a dance floor full of joy and I was shocked it was possible to feel that way. I decided I wanted to feel that way more often; I decided to make dancing a weekly event.

Likewise, the idea to heal my PTSD came out of the blue. I had just moved from Manhattan to South FL and was really enjoying the beach and the idea that just crossing state lines could eradicate memories of my trauma (OK, so I was naïve!) when I read THE YEAR OF MAGICAL THINKING, by Joan Didion. This simple memoir of a woman’s struggle with grief inspired me: through a series of chapters that alternated between a research oriented approach and an exploration of her grief-inducing memories, she made a peace with it all. I thought, Maybe I could do that... So, I started researching my trauma, and then PTSD, and then I started writing it all out, as if it could be transferred and then contained by 8 ½ x 11 inch margins. I developed a plan; I saw an end goal.

Phase #2: Finding the Way – I had no idea how or where to learn dance. I showed up at a dance studio near my house and just dove in without a clue.

I did pretty much the same thing about learning about my trauma and PTSD. I didn’t know much about either. I dove into the research and a whole world of understanding opened up. When we have the desire we find the way. The path shows itself to us when we begin to imagine the path exists.

Phase #3: Committing to the Path – My first dance lesson was a huge revelation. While I’ve always been an avid and comfortable freestyle dancer, partner dancing is something else entirely. I wasn’t used to following a lead. I wasn’t used to being hemmed in in my physical expression. I wasn’t used to having to coordinate my body and mind (which PTSD made very, very difficult). I wasn’t used to being held in the arms of a stranger. I could go on and on. There were many things about learning to partner dance that made me uncomfortable and pushed me beyond that zone in which we live where all things are reliable and known. But I wanted to learn, so I pushed those things to the side and barreled ahead.

I did the same thing with my trauma and PTSD research. It was horrible to read about the facts of my illness and disturbing to read about PTSD. But I had the idea that demystifying it all would allow it to become something of which I was no longer so afraid. Despite the discomfort I pressed on.

PTSD Healing – Take A Moment of Gratitude

Something very exciting happened this weekend: I danced well with many different men. Before you completely give up on me and wonder why this is remarkable - and what this has to do with PTSD - let me explain:

I began dancing salsa and Argentine Tango (classic salon style and Nuevo tango) a little more than a year and a half ago. I did it as a concerted effort to pursue joy, which was part of a larger effort to deliberately construct my post-trauma identity, which was part of my desire to heal my PTSD. As many of you know, this dance experiment worked in spades.

What made learning to partner dance incredibly difficult though, is this small problem I have: I don’t like being touched by strangers. I have trouble trusting. I don’t like getting close. This makes partner dancing particularly tough. With John it’s different. My connection with him is unique and he’s become my partner both on and off the dance floor. This has been a good thing, although it has spoiled me. Instead of learning to dance with a variety of men and many different leads, I’ve become extremely comfortable with John and one or two friends. Otherwise, I stay away from strangers, which in the world of social dancing is pretty limiting and ridiculous. But dancing with strangers was out of my comfort zone. I was tentative, unsure, anxious, and afraid I wouldn’t be able to follow an unknown lead.

Over the past few months, however, as my dancing expertise continues to define itself, something has shifted in me. The anxieties I’ve felt began to wane until, this Friday night we went to our favorite Latin club and I danced with several men besides John – and I was able to match my salsa style to theirs and follow the leads that were clear and improvise for those that weren’t. We went to a milonga on Saturday night and I danced with many men and the same thing happened so that by the end of the weekend I was basking in the realization of how far I’ve come. That 1 ½ years ago I could not salsa or tango at all, and now I am completely proficient. And I thought:

It’s just like healing PTSD. Three years ago, when I first began my quest to be healed I was very sick. It seemed impossible to imagine I would ever be well. That I could ever be healed. But then I did some research. I educated myself. I decided on a plan of attack. I developed a process, stuck to it, went waaaaayy outside my comfort zone and found relief.

And now here I am, taking a moment to feel gratitude for the fact that it is possible to find liberation; for the hard work I did during the times I thought it was all useless; for the things I tried that didn’t work; for the things that worked but not too well; for the things I stumbled on that brought me one step closer to a life that’s now PTSD-free.

We’re all on the same healing path and as we move forward through the days it’s important to remember that healing is a process. It doesn’t happen overnight. We have to go out of our PTSD comfort zone. This takes dedication and commitment. Some days we fail; we don’t hear the rhythm of healing or put together the right sequence of steps. Some days we make great progress and execute a move that a month ago seemed impossible. And then, some day down the line we look back and see how far we’ve come. We take small steps and eventually something shifts.

Don’t forget to feel gratitude for the fact you’re on the path. You’ve come this far. We all survived our traumas, and now every day we survive PTSD, too. We’re pretty strong. We’re fighters. We’re survivors in the best possible way. Don’t forget to appreciate yourself in the struggle.

Don’t forget to applaud yourself for being here, reaching out, looking for answers, trying to heal. Despite how difficult PTSD makes each day, what can you be proud of doing? Make a list. Honor yourself, even if the list begins with, “Today I got out of bed.”

And then: Reward yourself! Give yourself a treat. All the tough days can't be without their upsides. Last night I splurged. For the first time, I bought a real dance skirt when John and I were at Gold Coast Ballroom. Something a pro would wear. I figured I deserved it: To overcome PTSD and become a good dancer I've worked so hard!

Feeling Free From Trauma & PTSD

Yesterday I was thinking about that October 1998 Depeche Mode concert in Manhattan because this week I've been thinking about how far I've come because this past October weekend I went to another concert and right from the very beginning I danced and sang (what few choruses and phrases of Spanish I actually know) for over three hours in the heat of the Floridian fall afternoon and into the sweet breeze of a yellow-mooned evening.

My dance partner, John, and I are big Latin fans. We love anything Spanish. It begins with the music and the dances and extends to the language, the food, the culture, the people. We are slowly (very slowly, in the few minutes of free time we can capture off the dance floor) teaching ourselves Spanish. We can now say, I want to dance (Yo quiero baillar), which is a huge improvement over our first Rosetta Stone sentence that explained the fish is blue. At least now we can say things that actually pertain to us.

Our favorite dance is salsa. I won't go off on a riff here about why, although I probably won't be able to stop myself on another day. But it wasn't salsa that brought us to downtown Lake Worth last Saturday night; it was bachata, another Latin dance that is, hands down, the most romantic, sexy, fun Latin dance possibly ever. When I first began partner dancing a little over a year ago, salsa's complicated jazz-like rhythm was too difficult for me to be proficient right away, but bachata -- well, I took to it like the blue fish into water. The music has a slow, dependable beat that just gets into my soul and takes over. (Here's a great clip if you're curious to see what bachata looks like. The couple are not professional dancers, but you'll get the basic idea: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SyaxbEcvu9k).

Anyway, after Aventura, Monchy y Alexandra (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QWcZBy_mDEQ) is our favorite bachata band and they were playing a farewell concert in an amphitheatre in a park on the Intracoastal. It was a concert not to be missed. This duo is legendary and after many years are finally splitting up. Their performance would be the peak of Hispanic Fest de Lake Worth, which is a big party in Bryant Park that lasts all day and deep into the night. In addition to booths selling Spanish goods and foods, the amphitheatre has a full list of hourly bands. John and I went early in the afternoon so that we could salsa (because I am now, finally, really good at it!) before the bachata concert.

The salsa band was large, about 10 musicians and a great singer. In front of the amphitheatre a concrete area serves as a dance floor, behind which are about 30 rows of benches and then the park beyond that. It was so crowded that for a little while John and I kicked off our shoes and salsa'd in the grass. But then we moved up into the dance area. We wove through the crowd of young and old, fat and thin, proficient and learning dancers and found a small space for ourselves. And there, with the sun beating down, the crowd moving close and the music blaring we danced and danced and danced. That familiar joy high came over me, I rode it, I looked around and saw how many other people seemed to be feeling the same thing. There is not a single unsmiling face on the floor. There is not a frown or unhappy, sad-eyed look. There are only smiles and laughter and this is partly what I love about dance: that everyone is so joyous when they are doing it.

By the time the salsa band ended we were drenched with sweat and thoroughly warmed up for the concert. Here's the funny thing about Florida -- or maybe many places are like this, but as a New Yorker I'm not used to it. If this $5 concert with one of the top bachata bands ever had been in NYC the crowd would have begun assembling early in the morning, if not the night before. In FL, however, the crowd for the concert showed up only about 20 minutes before the band took the stage. I'm always surprised by this. No one in FL seems stressed by time. In NYC if I wanted to see the free, celebrity-studded Shakespeare in the Park I would have had to sleep in the park the night before to get a ticket. In FL, when I wanted to see Shakespeare by the Sea I went 2 hours early to get a seat and --- I was there all alone, until 30 minutes before curtain, and even then the crowd, which did eventually pack the park, didn't really arrive until 15 minutes before curtain. It's such a much different life here.

So, the salsa band had a crowd, but the bachata frenzy didn't begin until about 15 minutes before Monchy y Alexandra took the stage and then the crowd flowed in and pressed forward and John and I, who had been dancing right in front of the stage, suddenly found ourselves surrounded and cluttered by a mass of people. Everyone jostled for position, but in a polite way. This was not a crowd that would yell or push or shove. Everyone silently and with a smile snaked their way around and through to where they wanted to be.

John and I decided to remain standing by the stage instead of seeking seats. When Monchy y Alexandra took the stage we cheered and clapped. They spoke mostly in Spanish, welcoming everyone from Cuba, Puerto Rico, Guatemala, Mexico, Dominican Republic... the list of Latin countries went on and on and its representatives roared their heritage. Eventually the concert began and in the now very tiny space we had, John and I danced an abbreviated bachata for an hour and a half.

Every now and then, I still dissociate. I still split off from the scene and recede far back into my own head. Having so long ago developed the habit, maybe this will always be the case. In the throes of trauma and then PTSD, this was the state in which I perpetually lived. It was safer, easier -- and above all, not really a choice I made so much as a sort of survival mechanism that kicked into place and I didn't have either the strength or the desire to grope back toward the surface of life. It felt so much better to split off, in which case I only had to hold myself together, rather than attempt to hold myself together and also participate in the world.

Now, though, when I split off it is for a different reason. Since my PTSD has been cured, the habit still remains, but its use is changed. I split off for a moment of thankful appreciation, for a few seconds of gratitude. And then I come back. My selves are whole, so they don't splinter and then it's just impossible to regather them. I split off, the whole Michele, for a second or minute of reflection, and then I pick up time right as it is continuing along. This happened to me a lot during the concert. John's and my bodies are moving in rhythm, the music sounds wonderful, Alexandra's voice is crisp and clear and so beautiful, the breeze off the Intracoastal is a warm caress, the smell of the not-too-distant Atlantic Ocean wafts over us from time to time, the palm trees reach their fronds up and wave them toward the sky, the moon hangs low against an indigo background, this crowd around me pulses with joy and life and I split off for a moment and transcend it all to realize that life has become good; very, very good. That I am well, that I have suffered and endured and wandered through a Sahara of trauma and pain and I have finally found an oasis where the joy of life freely flows and it is my right to drink it. Here I am, finally, able to dance for over 3 hours without a single pain, without thinking about my body at all except in terms of pleasure. Here I am, wholly connected to myself, my partner, this crowd and this evening without any little bits of trauma creeping in to ruin the party.

I come back into the present moment where John's hand is on my hip leading me into a tiny turn in this little space and I think, It is really over. I am free.

More PTSD Joy, Or: The Night I Realized I Wanted to Learn to Partner Dance

There are four of them approaching the dance floor, two women and two men, all dressed in black. One woman is lithe and petite. She wears a black skirt about calf-length and a black tank top. The other woman is taller, a little plump. She wears an unflattering black wrap dress and a basic black pair of shoes that are round-toed, low-heeled and have a T-strap across the ankle. The men both sport black pants and black button down shirts. One couple looks American; the other looks Latino. All four look unremarkable and uninspiring and self-contained; they do not blend with the crowd, which is chic and self-conscious and needy.

I see this little group, these four people, come to the edge of the dance floor. They do not, as most people do, stand and survey the crowd. They do not study the geography of the floor as if looking for where they might slip in unnoticed, or noticed, depending on some personal agenda. They do not appear to have any agenda that includes those of us already dancing. Instead, they advance to the edge of the floor like a small battalion, sure-footed and disciplined. Then the women turn toward the men, and the men hold out a hand, and the women place their palms inside the offered hands and the four of them step onto a corner of the dance floor and begin to dance – not like any of the rest of us are dancing, but really dance. The song is a disco which, in the world of dance, translates to a hustle.

Based on older dances such as mambo, the hustle originated in Hispanic communities in New York City and Florida in the 1970s. Originally, it was a line dance, but after a fusion with swing and some alteration of the count, it became a ballroom and club dance. Think, Saturday Night Fever and you’ll have a clear idea of how this partner dance looks. There is an ease and flow. There are simple turns and windmill arms and the steps are just that – steps. On the most basic level hustle is really just a matter of a syncopated stepping to the &,1,2,3 beat, and making it look cool.

These two women syncopate and turn and hip-swivel. The men lead them through their moves with a simple rotation of the arm, a soft caress of the shoulder and the women spin around and around. These couples glide over their small corner of the floor with grace and uninhibited restraint. While the rest of us are stomping and shoulder-shifting and wiggling in place these couples move around each other with the energy of tightly coiled springs. They are units of precise and fluid and unpredictable mechanisms. I am mesmerized. All of the longing I’ve ever had for dance, for freedom, for that high I always feel when I dance – for joy – wells up and says, This is how you can possess me!

The men are styling, their hands and arms perfectly placed, but it is the women I can’t stop watching. Both of them are incredibly light on their feet. The illusion is that they are skating over the wooden floor following an undetectable lead. There is no obvious communication between the partners, yet they dance flawlessly. They are a synchronized extension of the music. Each pair is the ebb of the music’s flow.

Bret and I take a break. We sit at our table, faces flushed and moist with sweat.

“Watch them,” I say, pointing to the two couples.

Bret turns and observes. The Latino leads his partner into a series of five successive, individual spins. She comes out perfectly on the beat into a back break without looking the slightest bit dizzy.

A small voice in me whispers, I want…

“Cool,” Bret says, nodding his head.

The man leads her into a dip and then out into a diva walk. She is wonderful and fluid and beautiful. As we continue watching them, the small voice becomes louder and louder until it unexpectedly erupts from my lips.

“I want to dance like that!” I shout over the music.

“You could!” Bret answers.

“I want to be that good!”

Juliette laughs.

“I want to look like her,” I say, pointing to the taller, plumper dancer. She moves with an unusual ease in her body. Her face is focused but at peace. There is a genuine softness to her movements, as if she sinks into each step as an afterthought and expects to land against a feather pillow. A small smile plays at the edges of her lips as if she harbors a secret only her partner might guess.

“I want to look like that,” I say aloud to myself. “I want to be able to dance like that.”

We watch the dancers for a while and then Bret and I get back on the floor. Suddenly, freestyling seems amateur. How difficult is it, really, to flail your arms about or gyrate your hips or shift your weight? How difficult is it to stand opposite someone and do your own thing? There’s no finesse, no style, no communication. Freestlying suddenly feels lonely and disconnected and boring. I am still high on the music and movement, but suddenly, not high enough. Somewhere in the pit of my stomach a small coil of joy has begun to stand up like a snake being charmed in a basket. It hums and thrums and writhes. It is a very small sensation, but I sense its great desire and potential to grow. I steal a peek at the two couples again and again while we dance. Each time I do, the coil in my stomach tightens and springs. Each time I watch them spin and wrap and lollipop something in me reaches out to touch their image on the floor.

But Enough About PTSD; Let's Get Back to Joy

The night of New Year’s Eve 2007 remains on my mind as life resumes its post-holiday routine. I decide I need at least a weekly dose of joy to buoy me through the upcoming year. It’s January 20, 2007, a Saturday night, when I take Bret and my friend, Juliette (an English teacher for gifted students at BAK Middle School of the Arts), to Noche, a new local dinner/nightclub in Palm Beach Gardens. The space is only about six weeks old and I have heard there is a good DJ, which is a rarity in Palm Beach County; I don’t quite believe it. As a New Yorker transplanted to Florida, I’ve learned how easy it is to be punk’d here. Things aren’t always the way they’re presented. A restaurant boasting “Asian fusion” really just means they smother some dishes in soy sauce. A museum’s “Premiere Matisse Exhibit” really just means they’ve hung six of his least known works in a very small back room. A public garden’s “Japanese Inspired Display” really means there are some bonsais planted in a corner. In the case of Sonny’s ‘BBQ Pit’, it really just means that a machine is pumping the smell of ribs into the parking lot. In Florida, you learn not be believe the hype. You hear the description and then scale down your expectations.

Noche, however, has gotten some pretty good independent press. The review in the Palm Beach Post (written, as a matter of fact, by an ex-New Yorker) opened with, “Let me start by warning the staff at Noche that I am moving in,” and went on to describe the hi-tech dance floor and sound system and the wonderful crowd. I think maybe this time I can take the credentials at face value. Try not to be so cynical. At the very least, it will be a fun night out with Bret and Juliette.

Located in a marina in a cove off the Intracoastal Waterway, Noche is owned by Carmine, a short, unattractive Italian man with a permanent scowl who, it is rumored, had and then broke ties with the Mafia, who then broke one of his knees in a late night attack he escaped with a knife. The space – including a lounge, a bar and a dining room – is beautiful. Decorated in bronzes and golds with soft yellow lighting, it is both trendy and homey with a working fireplace that divides the lounge from the dining room. Word on the street is that the building is cursed. Not one single restaurant has lasted a full year. But Carmine owns two other successful Italian restaurants nearby, so he’s tapping a new market with this Latin fusion menu and the variety of music. On Thursday nights there’s a live Latin band that plays salsa, bachata and merengue. On Friday and Saturday nights a DJ plays everything from 70s disco, to Top 40, to rock.

The article highlighted the wonderful outdoor patio and I particularly want to sit out there for dinner, but the temperature is too chilly and the breeze too strong, so Francisco, the gorgeous Latin lover-looking maitre d’, seats us at a table beside the dance floor.

“The perfect table so that later you can dance, no?” He winks as he holds out Juliette’s seat.

Juliette hates to dance.

“No!” This is Juliette's favorite word. She loves to punch it out with the official force of an agent stamping a passport. “I’m only here to watch,” Juliette says, as we settle into our table.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Francisco croons in his Italian accent. “The music will be very good.”

“That won’t matter to me!” Juliette says with a sort of sing-song lilt. She has a habit of speaking like this when she’s being particularly snooty, which happens whenever she feels self-conscious, which happens a lot. Juliette turned fifty-four this year. She’s a tiny woman, with straight, shoulder-length brown hair that she streaks with tones of warm blonde. She’s slender, a little hippy and slightly pockmarked. She wears a lot of Capri pants and camisoles. The single mother of an arty daughter she doesn’t quite understand, Juliette has parented alone since her divorce from Mark after he and a local cop were caught using a small commuter plane to fly firearms from Florida to somewhere deep in the rebel hills of Columbia.

“We’ll get you on the dance floor,” I tease her.

She laughs a haughty, sort of condescending laugh. “Oh, no, you won’t!”

“I bet we will,” Bret says.

Juliette shifts uncomfortably in her seat. She lowers her eyes and sets about deliberately arranging her napkin in her lap.

“I doubt it.” Juliette always likes to have the last word.

We order a smothering amount of tapas. The conversation is slow going. Juliette is clearly out of her element and feeling anxious about our proclamations for the rest of the evening. She constantly looks around the restaurant and lapses into deep silences at which Bret and I uselessly try to chip away.

Around 9:30pm we polish off the remaining bites of a shrimp quesadilla just as waiters and busboys begin clearing dinner tables from the dance floor. It’s like this a lot in South Florida. You think you’re in a restaurant, and then all of a sudden the tables are removed and the space transforms into a nightclub. At 10pm Noche’s DJ appears and music suddenly erupts from the speakers mounted around the ceiling of the dining room.

A few people immediately step onto the dance floor. The clientele is older and wealthy. They wear Chanel suits and cultured pearls, Brioni ties and Gucci loafers. Their generation doesn’t really know how to freestyle. Like my parents, they learned to dance at sock hops, so mostly they partner dance, which means a sort of East Coast Swing, no matter what the music is. After a minute or two of watching, Bret and I can no longer sit still. We abandon Juliette who shoos us away with a flick of her wrist.

Within an hour the crowd becomes younger. Hipsters in their thirties and forties take up residence at the bar. They wander around the space. They lean against the walls and sip mojitos while observing the dance floor which has now filled with a younger element that, not knowing how to partner dance, bops to the beat in a wholly other fashion. The music is good, the crowd sings the chorus to popular songs; everyone is friendly and everyone is having a good time.

I get caught up in the music and the freedom and the flow of unstructured movement. That familiar energy surges through me the minute Bret and I step onto the floor. The music enters my body through my feet and squirrels up through my limbs and my spine through my neck into my head where it whirs around like a mental massage releasing some sort of joy endorphin. I am consumed by sound and a happy feeling of excited freedom. No thoughts exist, no determinations hover, no decisions linger, no problems await. Everything is transcended in melody and harmony and movement so that I am transformed from someone struggling with the past to someone who lives only in the present, from someone who resides solely in her head, to someone who is fully in her body. My history, my depression, my physical symptoms are all neutralized to puffs of smoke that curl up to the ceiling and disappear.


A huge smile involuntarily curves my lips. I’m having a good time. I’m wonderfully moving and grooving to the beat. I’m allowing the music to infuse my soul. For once, my body and mind are not suspicious of each other, are not fighting with each other for control, are not about to deceive and/or betray each other. Instead, a temporary truce has been called and my body and mind are actually uniting for a little fun, which, as the night goes on, becomes a big fun and I’m filled with a sort of energy that makes me levitate to a plane of delirious freedom. I’m released and cheerful and content. I’m feeling like I can dance! Like I’m sexy and divine. I’m rocking my hips and shaking my ass and feeling invincible. I own the floor. I’m some kind of fabulous. I am good out here!

And then they arrive.

Even with PTSD Some Days You Find a Gift

It is New Year’s Eve 2007 and my thirty-ninth birthday is only one month away and I am such an emotional PTSD wreck that I am about to burst into tears in the middle of a massive New Year’s Eve party at the Breakers Hotel on Palm Beach Island, Florida.

The Breakers on New Year’s Eve is a rocking, international, black tie, high society party. Mom, Dad, and my brother, Bret, and I attend every year. There is a large floor show, fabulous band and five course meal. Dressed in their finest tuxedos and ballgowns everyone is dancing and tooting horns and throwing party hats in the air and there I stand, surrounded by falling balloons and confetti and happy faces fighting back tears that threaten to stream down my cheeks like their own New Year’s Eve display. It’s pathetic. I can’t step out of the PTSD grip for even just this one night.

Somehow, it’s always when I reach the seemingly lowest point, when I see myself and cannot stand what I see, that I find the strength to decide to pull myself out of the hole I’ve sunk into. Tonight is no exception. It’s New Year’s Eve; resolutions are in order. As I wipe a stray tear I resolve: By the time I am forty, I will be finished with all of this.

I have no idea how I am going to satisfy this mandate. Nothing has changed. I am as confused and distraught as ever. But something about making the resolution gives me a clear focus. Now, I have a deadline and a view toward the ultimate freedom. It makes it all seem plausible, even if I don’t yet know how to make it possible.

"Let’s dance!" I pull Bret from the table. "Forget about dessert!"

Bret has been my steady dance partner since I was six and he was three. We shared our first dance in a restaurant at the top of the Polynesian Hotel in Disney World. I vaguely remember holding his hand and showing him how to (sort of) bop to the beat. There was one other couple with us on the floor. In their forties, they had obviously been dancing together for quite some time. They partner danced and moved together in one seamless flow of body and beat. They took a shine to us. They asked my parents if they could invite Bret and me to their table for a drink. My parents allowed us to sit with them a few tables away and Bret and I chatted them up as we sipped Shirley Temples.

Since then, Bret and I have danced all over the world together. On beaches in the Caribbean, in nightclubs in Israel, Italy, France, England, and of course, our hometown, New York City. We slip into a simple symmetry when we get on the floor. Give us a beat; we’ll give you a groove. We dance with each other although we are each on our own. Sometimes we mirror each other’s style; sometimes we do our own thing. The three and a half years that separate us are purely chronological. We look so much alike many people mistake us for twins which, in spirit, we are.

Since we began dancing before Bret was old enough to lead, whenever we do any partner dances – which we do sometimes make up on the fly – I always lead. This has made me very aggressive on the dance floor and Bret pretty laid back. When we got old enough to be equal partners, we tried to get out of the habit of my leading, but it’s been a tough habit to break and since Bret doesn’t mind, I still pretty much control our moves no matter what the style of dance.

On the dance floor tonight all of my pent up anxiety pours forth into a transformative freedom. Something about moving my body to music is magical. It settles my soul with a subtle strength and veracity. My body relaxes and my mind suspends until I become only the feeling of every dance, only that soaring, surging feeling of liberty that courses through me when music demands a partnership with my limbs. Suddenly, everything else ceases to exist and the present, happy, carefree moment seems all that survives in the wake of traumatic experience. When I dance, pain and fear and depression appear wholly within my capability to transcend – as if all I have to do is give myself up to the magic and then embrace and embody this way that I feel.

So now Bret and I are dancing and I am floating in a bubble of this unfamiliar, surging emotion. When I dance I usually enjoy drifting on it while it lasts, but I don’t think twice about its ending. Tonight, however, is different: I am enamored with the magic and I don’t want it to abandon me. I cannot remember when I last felt this excitement to be in my body and in the present moment. And then I do remember: it was last New Year’s Eve, when I was dancing here with Bret.

Tonight, I listen to the music with extra attention. I feel the beat in my bones with added clarity. Something strange is happening. I am waking up from a very long, deep sleep and the phrases of music are luring me back to consciousness. I want to run and leap and shout and laugh and sing. I try to calm down and describe to myself what it is that I’m feeling, to give it a name, to pinpoint exactly what it is so that I might find a way to grasp and hold on to it because whatever it is, I NEED MORE.

Can I choose to feel this way more often? Can the simple act of deciding to do something that will make me feel this sort of crazed freedom unite me with a new self? I am tired of taking things apart, of analyzing and researching and dismembering what went wrong and how it has distorted me. For a change, I’d like to put things together, to feel a definite wholeness rather than a complete separation.

The band is banging out a Black-Eyed Peas song and I burrow into myself to consider this dancing sensation. While my body sways and moves I allow whatever emotion this is to nestle up to me and it is then, when it climbs into my lap and rubs itself against my chest that I recognize exactly what’s brewing in my heart: I feel an exorbitant joy. I’m not used to this feeling. I’m not sure what to do with it.

And just at that moment I realize that this is the answer to how I will fulfill my resolution by the time I am forty. I will free myself from the angst of the past through the pursuit of joy in the present. Not the same maniacal sort of pursuit I’ve been waging up until now, but a sanguine, languid focus that will, if it works, allow me to release yesterday because I have found joy in today. Perhaps it is time to define my identity as who I am not and then allow that to lead me to whom I am. For example, I am not an invalid. I am not a patient. I am not a thirteen year old girl. I am not a victim. I am not only 'a survivor'.

I am a woman on the verge of becoming purely herself. I am a woman taking charge. I am a woman strong enough to set herself free. I am a survivor who has moved on.

It is after midnight. 2007 has begun. If I am to replace all of this bogged down fear and depression with the thousand unbound effects of joy, I will immediately need to find a way to bring more of this joy into my life. I will need to dance. A lot.