It is
interesting the things I take for granted. One of them is a rich inner life. My
interior landscape abounds with colours, shapes, sounds and feelings: ancestral
voices and heart-felt emotions; vivid hues and textured imagery. With my
imagination I am never lonely and, while at times I may doubt the veracity of
my sensations, I generally know how to describe them. It is so much a part of
me that sometimes I forget that not everyone has this connection or ability.
Take my
father. While a fine and capable man he is also one of his generation and
culture. A taciturn Swede of aged years he is a man more used to physical deeds
than explanatory words. The expression of inner feelings, emotional and
visceral, do not come easy if they come at all.
Over the
years, with my near chronic need to discuss such things, he has become more
adept. It is not uncommon (although prompting is still in order) for
him to acknowledge that yes, indeed, he can feel sad or angry, happy or lonely. It
is still difficult, however, for him to find words for somatic sensations. Here’s
an example: For a couple of years now my father takes a rest midway through our
walks. He states fatigue. No problem. But then I got curious. Why can he do water exercises for an hour but
find it hard to walk for half that time. I began to ask questions. Turns out he
was not so much tired as in pain. He just didn’t know how to express it. It
took several more conversations and just as many days to get a better feel of what
was happening for him. It was by no
means easy for either of us but we got there.
This
inability to describe one’s body sensations is called alexisomia. For most
people, as with my father, it is due to never learning (or practicing) the
skill but for others it may be reflective of past trauma. There may be a
history of shame or fear; distrust in the body or a tendency to dissociate. In
any case, whether it is a lack of skill or a history of abuse, I have learned one must go slow
when introducing this new form of expression.
It took my
father time and energy to talk about his pain in a way I could understand. I don’t
know the all the reasons for this but I do know that if I pushed too hard he shut
down. I had to pace my questions, be gentle in my approach and validating of
his responses. In other words, I had to create safety for him to learn this new
way of conversing with his body. Then again, isn’t that the way in learning any
new language? You only have to try talking rapid fire English to someone who
doesn’t speak our tongue to see the distress on their face. Not knowing a
language, or anything for that matter, can feel unsafe and stressful. We learn best,
work most effective and have the deepest curiousity when there is safety.
As a BodyMind
therapist my session work relies on safety. It is a prerequisite for healing
but also a necessity for learning the language of the body. And, to become
adept at this language, one needs a sense of trust in who they are and what
they feel. Trust needs safety and safety breeds trust. This trust not only helps
us when we seek help to alleviate pain (as with my father) but it also helps validates
our emotions, gut feelings and heart openings. In self trust we are stronger and
healthier if only because our body and mind are in cooperation rather than
struggling the never ending (and useless) conflict between logic and emotion.
With
my clients who have difficulty in expressing their physical sensations I start slow.
If touch is safe for them, I may place my hand on their foot and ask how it feels to
have my hand there. Is there pressure or heat; coolness or something else? I may ask
what happens to that feeling when I take my hand off or compare it with the other foot. And so on.
If touch is not safe, I may ask the client to notice their foot as it touches the floor or
how their hand feels as it rests on their thigh and go from there. Eventually, as safety increases, we focus more inward.
Learning the
language of the body reminds me of French class way back when in grade eight.
Our first dialogue was Bonjour Guy, ça
va? Ca va bien, merci. Et toi? Those first few words became the foundation
(if not the fodder of silly jokes) for learning French—words I have never
forgotten and ones I always end up reverting back to when I try to converse
some four decades later. It doesn’t mean I became fluent (I certainly did not) but it does give me
a measure of safety. I know how to begin a conversation in French and that
gives me some reassurance. The same goes for our body. We need a
beginning, a few tools to build a foundation, a way to say hi and find out how we
are doing to begin the process.
Trusting
one’s body increases one’s sense of safety. The more one feels safe the more
they trust. This trust extends outside the body. We cannot trust life until we
trust ourselves, and that begins with knowing how we feel inside.
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