The Vortex

On the mornings that Kathleen vowed to give me a “good hiding” when I got home from school later that day, I found it impossible to concentrate on my lessons. All day long, my body would buzz as if it were connected to an electric socket and waves of nausea ruined my appetite so much so that I was unable to eat. It was a sickening feeling that made me wish she’d given me the hiding in the morning, before school started.

Kathleen found endless reasons to make such a threat and she always remembered to carry out the punishment. Annoying my father was one reason. On such days she would arrive home as usual at 8.20 in the morning, having finished her night shift on the geriatric ward. Firstly, she would talk to Dad in the bedroom; then my sister and I would be summoned to the living room, where we were informed of what would happen next. Annoying Dad, by giggling during a programme he was watching, or breaking a glass while doing the washing up, warranted punishment. Another reason for a beating was stealing cheese from the fridge, as was sneaking my “good” shoes into school to wear instead of the awful slingback black patent plastic ones she had purchased for fifty pence in Woolworths. Once she even lied blatantly for an excuse to give me a “good hiding”. She claimed that I had tripped up my sister while she was getting out of the backseat of the car. I knew it was a lie, and so did Kathleen. My sister was too afraid to tell the truth.

Neither Kathleen nor Dad took any interest in my schoolwork unless my results were poor. In this case, with this excuse she would give me a good hiding. Maths results were usually poor, so Dad sat down with me a couple evenings every week to offer help. It was help that I resented because I had no interest in the subject and neither he nor my stepmother offered me any praise for the other subjects in which I usually scored a high mark. Besides, Kathleen had finished school at fourteen and had very little academic ability and she was, therefore, unable to give me any guidance or correct whatever mistakes I made. Silently, I sneered at her stupidity and revelled in the feeling of superiority, transient though it was. Ironically, I have spent a significant part of my career in teaching, helping adults such as Kathleen, who were discriminated against at school.

Not surprisingly, anxiety rooted in childhood trauma came to dominate a considerable part of my life. As I’ve said elsewhere, it was “released” by a bicycle accident in Bournemouth when I was 24 years old. After that accident the “buzzing feeling” became part of my life once again, and it would be triggered by practically any happening whatsoever. Mostly it was triggered at night, subconsciously, in my sleep. A “bad night” would leave me exhausted, anxious and in despair of ever being able to extricate myself from that electrical socket.

Years went by like this, until I met Anna wise woman in Belfast who explained what trauma is, how it operates and what could be done to free myself. I met her some years after I returned to Belfast from Cuba, precisely when I was struggling with a heavy teaching schedule at the local university, made even more challenging by PTSD symptoms. Anna pointed me in the direction of the relevant literature and, I began to explore academically the nature of trauma. Perhaps the most important point I learned was that “experiential avoidance” does not lessen the impact of trauma; it reinforces it, just as denial can have counterproductive consequences. I determined to face my anxiety fully and openly. 

This meant that instead of groaning and rolling over in bed in despair on the mornings when anxiety was again in control of my body, I should turn to face it. Considerable time passed by before I felt courageous enough to do that because panic tended to overwhelm me and I fled. Nevertheless, the more I read, the more convinced I was that avoidance was harming me by strengthening anxiety. Finally, early one morning I decided that today was the day to act, to trial this new approach.

I began by acknowledging the terror I was experiencing; I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Instantly, I saw a vortex, one not unlike the black holes that populate our universe. It was frightening. The size and power of the vortex terrified me, but I approached anyway. There was no sound beyond a constant hum that was similar to the sound made by the engines of a powerful ship. I continued to approach slowly and reached the inner limits of the vortex which were a whirl of incorporeal blackness turning at speed. The terror in me continued unabated, but I kept moving toward the centre, which was dark blue on the outer rim and a deep purple hue at the very core of the hole. Acknowledging my fear, I moved forward a little, but then felt that the closer I got to the centre, the more dangerous it was becoming. The edge of the purple nucleus I teetered on was too close to the void, I thought, but in reality, it was the void and its immense power threatened to suck me into its depths.

I retreated in fear, the fear of something real. Madness or death, maybe, or becoming lost in an alternative reality? I didn’t stay long enough to find out. I opened my eyes, not certain as to how or indeed whether to assimilate the experience; it was unlike anything I’d ever gone through before. What happened that morning taught me to be much, much more cautious of such power. I’m not sorry that I merely teetered on the edge of the vortex and didn’t take a step into the centre. That power is out there; it exists somewhere and I am not tempted to seek it out again…ever. Maybe one day I will be able to talk more knowledgeably on where this experience, and my fleeing/avoiding it, leaves me in relation to PTSD.