Why the Language?

When I told my dear spouse about this blog and its title, he shook his head just as I'd known he would. You have such a good vocabulary, he said. Do you really need to use that language?

I've been a writer all my life, and I've taken a fair amount of criticism about it. I like to think I can handle a bit of judicious editing and even some radical suggestions. Depending on the source, naturally. And generally Floyd's feedback counts for a whole lot.

However, I knew I wasn't going to waver from "It's Your Shit," even if Floyd's lovely conservative family might be exposed to the scatological side of my language. I've thought about this project for years, and always knew exactly what I would call it. The language can't be any more polite than the experience. If this kind of language is too unpleasant for you, that's fine; there are many good sources on trauma recovery out there that are more polite in their word choices.

See, for a long time I've conceptualized trauma as a pile of shit the universe hands you.

You didn't ask for it, you didn't want it then, you don't want it now. But it's yours. Stinking, steaming, sticking to everything that touches it. Yours, all yours. My question is, What are you going to do with your pile of shit?

I'm sure you know some people who've also been handed piles of shit. You've seen some of the various ways people adapt: Some sit for years silently staring at their pile. It's as if they are waiting for a crew from the city to come clean it up because certainly someone will come.

Some people just curl up in a ball beside their pile, paralyzed by hopelessness and unable to conceive a single thing that could be changed about it. This is my life now, they sigh. After a while their depression encases them in a thick glass bubble, and no one can touch them any more.

Other people run around the room with steam billowing from their ears. They grab handfuls of their shit and throw them at anyone who tries to enter their space. I hate you and you and you and you and you...! All they have is their shitpile and their rage.

What are you going to do with your pile of shit?

It's true I'm a psychologist, but this blog is not therapy. Nor is it a substitute for professional help of any kind. It's just a space where I (wouldn't it be nice if that turned to "we?") talk about transforming a pile of shit into something you can live with.

Think about the kind of people who sit with their shitpile for as long as it takes, feel about a million different things, then go down to the art supply store for some sculpting tools. They set to work carving something out of that pile of shit. They fire it in a kiln, they glaze it, they decorate it with precious stones and found objects from the alley behind their house. At some point they go on tour with it. Maybe the tour goes on for the rest of their lives; maybe after a while they put their sculpture in the garden or the trash can and go on about doing other things.

I truly believe that most people can transform their pile(s) of shit into something they can live with much more comfortably. It's true that some people are constitutionally not very strong or resilient, and some people have been harmed past their ability to repair. These are sad, even tragic, examples of  life being just too terrible for some people.

It is also true that modern America has very limited resources in terms of affordable professional help for dealing with trauma. I'll write about resources I know, and maybe other people will share about resources they know, and if you are reading this you know how to open a thousand doors in the internet community.

Not everyone who has been harmed has Post-traumatic Stress Syndrome; I'll talk about that, too. Not everybody needs therapy!

What people do need to know is that if you have a pile of shit in front of you, you can learn to make it stink a whole lot less. It does not have to be the center of your life for the rest of your life.

And you don't have to apologize for calling it what it is.