Early this afternoon, I bailed for a bit to run an errand. On my way home, I found myself listening to the playlist that kept me company while writing the book - my first - I finished a few months ago, now. That group of songs is eclectic, as my musical taste almost never fails to be, running a gamut from … Alice In Chains to Don Ho, with a whole, whole bunch of equally mismatched stuff threaded in between.
Yep.
Really.
Sitting at a stop light, I was treated to a helluva song — Porch, sung, of course, by that unmatched, dreamy ass dreamboat of grungehood - Eddie Vedder - and that fucking miraculous band, Pearl Jam. And for the first time I can recall, having listened to that song countless times across decades, I found myself …
In the Summer of 1992.
At the Kitsap County Fairgrounds.
In the mosh pit.
Because … Yeah.
I was there.
And that’s not even a humble-brag.
That’s just a whole ass, not even a touch humble, brag.
Today, something wholly unexpected, brief and as yet unidentified ripped briefly, through me, hearing that song. The thing is, I totally love that song. I love it so much, in fact, that if anyone ever threatened me with the awful, awful fate of listening to just one PJ song for the rest of my life … Porch may likely be it. It both engenders, and then somehow also releases, something in me that no other song does, quite the same way.
At least it did in 1992.
And then all over again, just a few minutes ago.
I cannot think of an experience, either from today or the lifetimeuptodaysofar, that any better encapsulates what these last few weeks of my life and health have so often sounded and felt like. Treating a health condition rooted in trauma and stress, as it turns out, involves a whole, whole bunch of … unexpected jolt. A metric fuckton of at least initially mysterious reaction. A long, long stretch of days in which having any sort of stable, ongoing purview over one’s associations and their freewheeling rollercoaster-y impacts proves damn near impossible to grasp and hold onto.
And this control freak?
I am not super into that shit.
When you talk about trauma - and given that the word “traumatic” appears in the very acronym for these few (C)PTSD letters attached to me and my own health, reader-friends, you just know we’re gonna - there’s a tool for trauma treatment that often enters into that conversation. It’s called the Adverse Childhood Experience (ACE) Survey, and it’s designed, as I understand it, to serve as a screening tool for the treatment of health conditions from which health issues may, at least in part, emerge from one’s childhood (Birth to 18) experiences.
The ACE survey certainly does not count every awful thing that happened, or even how often it happened. Instead, it identifies categories — abuse, neglect, and household dysfunction — that research has linked with increased risks for health problems. Not surprisingly, the higher your ACEs score … Well. Any number of less-than-illustrious lovely parting gifts may prove yours to own, according to current research. Those include:
• A shorter lifespan, with some research linking high ACE exposure to significantly reduced life expectancy.
• Exponentially increased risk of substance abuse.
• Higher prevalence of autoimmune disorders, chronic pain, heart disease, and at least some cancers.
• Remarkable increases in risks for depression, anxiety and even suicide-related behaviors.
And just so we’re clear … I did mention that whole shorter lifespan thing, right?
In current ACE land, there are ten questions used as a screening tool, and they are meant to address those key areas of abuse, neglect and household dysfunction that put children who experience them at greater risk for … Well. All of that. Those ten are by no means exhaustive, and in fact, it’s my understanding that the ACE framework — and resultant ACEs scores — may be undergoing an evolution that encompasses a broader array of potentially impactful experiences, systemic traumas, and other, surely relevant circumstances.
Still, and at least for now … We’ve got ten ACE questions to work with. Based on researched outcomes, risk starts to climb steadily with any score of 4 or higher, with those risks really jumping off their own sort of cliff once a score reaches 6 or higher. In recent months, and in seeking out much more expansive, allied treatments for the impacts of my own early and ongoing traumatic stresses, a handful of providers have asked me to complete an ACE survey.
And my ACEs score?
It’s an 8.
Well … Hell.
Just in case you find yourself wondering which two I did not “qualify” for, reader-friend —
1. No one in my family who lived directly in my household spent time in prison, before I was eighteen. To be fair, my aunt - who also served as my Godmother, in that whole Catholic family sense of the role - was in prison for a second degree murder charge for a few of my high school years. But, we never lived together.
2. In addition, I did not check the box for whether a parent or adult in my home ever hit, beat, kicked, or physically hurt me. At least not in any way I felt warranted checking the box. Of course, being held at gunpoint, at nine, by the man destined to become my stepfather who was, just a short while before, my father’s closest friend … Well. Not on the list of ten, so let’s not count it either, for our purposes here.
Besides …
My long-term propensity for overachievement may also be at work, here.
I mean …
If your score’s already an eight,
Aiming for ten just seems …
On brand, at least.
Anyway.
Here we are.
At eight.
Yaaaaaaa … aay?
I ended up listening to Porch, today, four times, back-to-back. Unmitigated Gen X fucking magic, you know. That song. That band. That front man. And that musical genre. Though this Proud Music Nerd may also argue that hip-hop belongs to the geniuses of our generation who, in my view, created that art form … I think the argument is even stronger that Grunge is a quintessential, Gen X created art form as well.
And today, from what feels like all the way inside this particular few, initial weeks of trauma-focused treatments, I am struck by how much of grunge sounds like some sacred, Holy Trinity of rebellion, recognition, and resurrection. At its heart, I tend to think grunge is arguably trauma-coded. And I certainly don’t mean that in some tidy, shinily therapized, every phrase and note is surely diagnosable sort of way. Nope.
I mean trauma-coded in the way …
That bodies know.
Apparently, often before brains do.
That signature wail.
That genius, intentional distortion.
That outright refusal to somehow make it …
Pretty.
Easy.
Comfortable.
Listen, if you haven’t lately.
Hear the wail?
Feel the anger.
And then …
Experience the underneath.
Do you hear it?
Can you feel it?
Abuse.
Neglect.
Household dysfunction.
In 1992, feeling increasingly and worriedly trapped in that mosh pit … I didn’t know much of any of that. But thirty-four years later, at a stoplight, with an ACE score of eight … Well. Maybe that shit hits a bit different. Or - and even more likely - I am finally, fully coming to feel what it has pretty much always, actually felt that way. It’s what’s underneath, best I can tell for now, that those pesky ACEs scores point toward, at least for some of us. And it’s my own eight I am working on, and through, in real time, decades after the fact. Veritable eons after the avalanche of repetitive injuries. I have made some real, albeit complicated headway, and that good news is on its way, sometime soon.
In that meantime though …
Don’t come lookin’ for me in a mosh pit, reader-friend.
The Summer of ‘92 proved my sole experience.
As it turned out …
This trauma-impacted chick has a bit of claustrophobia.
And I always, always need an exit strategy.