Hug Yourself

One of my most enduring sense memories of my childhood is that I was cold. I grew up in Eastern Washington where “cold” is part of the topography. Winters begin at the end of September and include many feet of snow. Spring is a long, slow, damp, chilly progression into mild, often rainy summers. My childhood home was a cheaply constructed, 1970s split level and my bedroom was in the poorly insulated underground basement. To add insult to injury, I was a Gen X latchkey kid; scrawny, under-attended, under-dressed, and under-fed. 

Cold like that seeps into your bones. It becomes a part of your identity. It’s one of your three basic facts, “My name is Jen, my favorite color is yellow, and I am always cold.” To know me is to accept that I will put on a sweater and fuzzy socks in May, that I will wear flannel every night of the year. 

When I was a kid, I would climb onto the bathroom counter, fill the sink with hot water and soak my feet and hands to warm up. I would sit and soak for a long, long time. The water would cool, I would add more hot water. My feet would acclimate to the heat and I would add hotter water. I would soak until I was sweating. 

Sometimes I did things while I soaked; I would scratch the dead skin off my feet and ankles and watch it float around on the top of the water, I would dig all the dirt out from my fingers and toes and watch it float around with the dead skin. Sometimes I would take the hand mirror and look up my nose and at the roof of my mouth, my back teeth. I would try and see if I could catch myself looking at myself sideways. I studied my knees, picked at scabs. I would shove my eyes into knees until it hurt and then pulled my head up quickly so I would see stars. Most of the time though, I just sat there, allowing my mind to go blank, enjoying the comfort of the water and the warmth.

No one bothered me while I was sitting on that counter. There was never any “what are you doing?” incredulousness or “stop it!” demands. Maybe seeing a gangly, skinny kid hunkered over the sink, trying to get warm was just too pathetic; or maybe it was just the 80s. Whatever the reason; whenever I put my feet in the sink it was as if a wall went up between me and the world, a bubble between this and that.

I needed that bubble because my chills were not always conditional; sometimes they were situational. My childhood was fraught with trauma and trauma makes you respond differently to external factors. The volatility and uncertainty of my home made me more vulnerable to the cold outside while worry and the fear chilled me on the inside. The sink soaks warmed me up, calmed down and made me feel safe. 

Three years ago, we moved back to Eastern Washington, and despite the fact that I am now colder than I have been in years, despite my mother’s illness, her death, and all the subsequent stressors, I hadn’t thought at all about my sink soaks until this current period we find ourselves in. Two weeks into quarantine, I contracted a chill. It was deep down, in the marrow, kind of crippling chill. I was overcome with a weird, cloying kind of fatigue. I just couldn’t get warm. 

One particularly frustrating day, after complaining about how cold I was, I heard this voice inside my head say, “put your feet in the water.” 

I drew a hot, hot bath and put my feet in. I scratched all the dead skin off my ankles and feet, I picked at a scab. My mind went blank. I felt … warm. 

For weeks I had been triggered, traumatized by fear and anxiety. I did not know how to claim safe space. Because I have been here before, I had a way to control one small aspect of my experience, something I could control. Thankfully, it helped. 

When people trivialize trauma, they say things like “it makes you stronger,” or, “use this time to reflect, to accomplish those things you’ve been putting off.” But here’s the thing; trauma doesn’t make us stronger, or bolder, or better in any way. It is not a time to get better at things. Trauma is not good. Trauma is a challenge we did not ask for. It is something we get through.

When you claw your way out of the confusing maze of trauma, when you get to the “survived” side, you remember the things that helped you and you hold onto them because they are lifelines.

And so, my friend please do not worry if you are not “doing so well.” We are all trying to make it through in whatever messy way we know how. You do not have to do anything. This is not a vacation. This is trauma. Be gentle and be careful with yourself. If you can, do the things; drink water, meditate, yoga it up, but if watching cat videos and eating cheese is helping you get by, that’s OK too. Hold your expectations lightly, put your feet in the water. And, if it appeals to you, practice this self-hug I just learned:

  1.   Start just where you are

  2. Take you right hand and place it in your left armpit chest, so you can feel the pulse of your heart

  3. Place your left hand on your outer right arm and squeeze: 


It should feel nice and supportive. I hope it helps. 

Love yourself, wash your hands, stay safe.

With love,
Jen

PS - If you do find yourself struggling with your mental health - there are resources available and you do not have to go it alone. We have gathered a few here from Gov. Cuomo's Covid-19 press conferences. Reach out!