Dynamic Dialectical Introspection: A Literacy Narrative of Healing

Awarded to Danielle D. for work submitted in Spring 2023 to Dr. Matt Brown in ENGL 1010: Expository Writing

Sitting still, unconscious memories my brain had blocked out years ago began to emerge in disturbingly vivid third person detail. I can almost feel his rough hands on the nape of my neck as he jerked the young girl, barely 9, around the soccer field like a ragdoll. The back of his shirt reads coach in big, bold font. She stiffly stares at the ground in humiliation before the other children, hopelessly paralyzed beneath his aggression. Tears seep from my eyes at the memory. My dad had mercilessly coached me spring and fall since I was five years old, the pressure only growing over the years as the expectation of perfection became harder and harder to reach. My therapist’s voice cuts through the memory, and I begin to ground myself in my current surroundings. I am seated on a sofa, two black ovals disperse between my hands, vibrating alternately left and right. This is a type of trauma therapy known as Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing, or EMDR. I received it in response to the domestic abuse I endured as a young child. EMDR’s journey desensitized me to my past trauma, but also led me to establish the valuable literacy of dynamic dialectical introspection (DDI); the concept of rationalizing the developmental process of personal beliefs or perspectives through past experiences to irrationalize a current negative psychological behavior.

My first reported expression of suicidal ideation was in kindergarten readiness; after my teacher pulled me out of class for behavior problems, I wept that I wanted to die. My parents had messily divorced when I was five years old, my dad was found abusive to my mother by the court, but not to my brother and I. This triggered a thirteen-year custody war between my parents, and they began to use my brother and I as ammunition. My feelings were neglected and manipulated as I was tossed from house to house. My living situation was so inconsistent I often
didn’t know who was picking me up from school. Behind the closed doors of my father’s house, I was emotionally and verbally abused with little incidents of physical abuse. With no solid evidence to present to a court and my father’s front of ‘super dad’ in which he would take us on trips across the country, coach us in soccer, take videos interviewing us about how we loved him, and overall hyper involvement in our lives I had no hope of escape. With the endless gaslighting, my age, and no effective coping skills, I internalized my abuse; my suicidal ideology festered.

By sixth grade I had begun self-harm behaviors in private and had frequent violent outbursts at my mother’s house in which I would throw things or bang my head against the wall, often puncturing the drywall. This continued until eighth grade when the COVID-19 pandemic hit. Without school I was trapped for a week at a time in my father’s house and the abuse escalated to more than I could bear. At fourteen I was willing to defend myself in court and my mother filed an order of protection. It was approved. Despite the protection from my father, my mental illness persisted; I was hopelessly suicidal, anxious and depressed.

My abuse had colored my vision of the world: vulnerability meant weakness, grades reflected my value, mistakes were blatant incompetence and laziness, love was conditional, pain was deserved and earned, and everything I experienced was my responsibility alone. Words had meanings different from their definitions and connotations. The way I defined my world was warped and my interpretation of it was miserable and intolerable and I never knew there was anything different or a cause. As my suicide risk became more alarming, I was led to EMDR treatment. During EMDR, I revisited memories of buried traumatic events and monitored my emotions and thoughts in reaction. I could vividly see my dad’s abuse, the raised hand, the name calling, the belittling, the threats, the humiliation, the belligerent yelling, the invalidation, the ignoring, and the blame for it all. Week after week, for 8 months, I began to have a different perspective of the same memories, and even experience them differently. I lived these memories with a pattern; beginning with feelings of fear and sadness, then anger, disgust, and horror until slowly I felt nothing and saw everything. I saw myself; I saw my abuser; I saw those around me and the absence of those not around me; I saw the action and the response; I saw the cycle; I saw the reason behind each, and I forgave. When I felt what I was experiencing, I could feel my thoughts and emotions; when I saw what I was experiencing, I could see my thoughts and emotions, and reason.

I began to develop my literacy of DDI as I understood the things that happened to me were not my fault or in my control, and it had left me with open wounds I couldn’t yet see that bled the thoughts that manifested into behavior. With an understanding of how my past influenced my current interpretation of reality, I could finally grow. I began to recognize that I had seen suicide as the only way to end my pain and escape my abuse, and that through the untreated, repeated thoughts, and my learned hopelessness, it had become a tunnel-visioned habit to see it as a rational option. Through dynamic dialectical introspection, suicide no longer appeared as a rational solution or an option once I learned its origin and why I had unknowingly fabricated the belief that it was.

Despite the extensive therapy, the engrained thought processes that resulted from my abuse were still deeply affecting my life, but now I had the skills to recognize, validate, and heal through DDI. I had always held a very high standard to myself, aiming at absolute perfection. I felt that my worth was defined by my achievements, but as I began to reach high levels of success, I still felt worthless; I was a division one showcase soccer player, but still believed I was bad at soccer; I had never made below a B+ on a report card, but still believed I was unintelligent. I began to realize the hypocrisy the more frustrated and distressed I became. Questioning my value of perfection led me to dynamic dialectical introspection. I traced memories of my dad yelling at me over small mistakes like leaving a cereal box on the counter, elaborating to me how I looked pathetic on the soccer field, and threatening what he would do to me if I ever made a C, and I realized that the value of perfection wasn’t my value at all. At the root of it all, I was afraid of a failure to be perfect because of its supposed consequences. I then developed the understanding that mistakes are necessary to learn, and instead of being taught how to learn from my mistakes, I had learned how to strive to avoid mistakes altogether because they enabled my father to make me feel belittled. Knowing I had shaped myself in this way to survive my environment of abuse allowed me to negate my fears of imperfection because I was no longer in danger of its ramifications. Through dynamic dialectical introspection, I changed the way I measured my worth and viewed learning, which then irrationalized my beliefs that I was unintelligent and bad at soccer.

Throughout our lives, we accumulate trauma that can have lasting effects on our psychological health and interpersonal relationships. Dynamic dialectical introspection allows people to help guide themselves toward helpful change by identifying problems with their root cause and connecting the unknown relationship between them. This results in less internalized and externalized trauma because the steps of DDI make us metacognitively analyze and identify our subconscious brain processes that lead to behavior. This literacy also helps develop an understanding of empathy. The psychological products of our environments and experiences help create us and drive behaviors, therefore applying this to others can better help us understand where other people are acting from, even if you don’t know, and that they have a reason personal to them and not you. My dad was a victim of abuse, the same as I, but never learned to properly cope and therefore projected his turmoil and perspectives onto me as externalized trauma. Dynamic dialectical introspection can create kinder communities with less social issues and allow people to overcome abuse, suicide, a negative self-image and other psychological distress issues. Our brains compute ways of fixing problems under specific situations and then apply them to other situations that appear the same, even if they’re not. Combating the negative effects of this is a literacy beyond importance that can fundamentally change the world. Because of dynamic dialectical introspection, I am alive today and I have the skills to fight my psychological problems and therefore reduce their effects on other people as well. DDI gives strength in the knowledge that we are not helpless to our internal struggles or daunting experiences and works as an active solution toward life change; a tool to turn some of our greatest weaknesses into fluent wisdom and insight.

From Biter to Writer

Awarded to Karen Safeen for work submitted in Fall 2023 to Jonathan Hernandez in ENGL 1010: Expository Writing

As an Egyptian immigrant with limited English skills, my early days in kindergarten were filled with challenges. I remember feeling completely isolated, unable to communicate or connect with my classmates due to cultural differences. I was often misunderstood and my frustration grew. One particular day stands out in my memory. I desperately needed to use the bathroom, but I had no idea how to ask my teacher. Feeling helpless, I resorted to drawing my request. My drawing skills were far from perfect, causing confusion among the teacher and my peers. “What is she trying to say?” One of my peers mentioned. “Why can’t she just say it with her words?” Another said. Overwhelmed by emotions, I couldn’t hold back my tears. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, my teacher deciphered my message and granted me permission to go. In that moment, a sense of relief and happiness washed over me. That experience became a turning point for me, igniting a fierce determination to master the English language, overcome my shyness, and improve my communication skills. The journey of learning a new language has been filled with countless hardships and challenges, but it has also granted me invaluable insights. Through my own struggles, I’ve learned the importance of patience and allowing non-English speaking immigrants to navigate their own path of learning, without fear or discouragement. It’s a journey that requires resilience and support, and I strive to offer that to others who face similar obstacles. However, my struggles and experiences go way back.

When I was around 4-5 years old, I had my very first experience interacting with people from a different cultural background. It happened when my mother took me to apply for pre-k. At that time, I had no knowledge of the English language, not even the simplest greetings or how to engage in a small conversation. However, despite the language barrier, I was filled with excitement and anticipation, eager to meet new people and forge friendships. Little did I know, my expectations would be shattered. While my mother went to speak with the person in charge of the applications, she left me in the company of other children. It was during this time that I began playing with the toys. Suddenly, a girl approached me, showing interest in the same toys I was engrossed with. In my culture, sharing possessions was not a common practice, and being young and unaware, I reacted impulsively. I became upset when she took one of my toys and, in my frustration, I grabbed her arm and bit her with intensity. The girl’s reaction was immediate – she started screaming and crying, attracting the attention of my mother and the application staff, who quickly rushed to our aid. “What happened? What’s going on?!” These were the only two questions being passed around. Since I couldn’t understand any English, I found myself at a loss when the staff tried to communicate with me. It was only when my mother noticed my distress and inquired about what was wrong that I was able to explain the situation to her. She then stepped in and conveyed the details to the staff, shedding light on why the girl was crying. As a result, I was separated from the other children and escorted to a separate room where my mother and the staff engaged in a meeting to address the incident.

أمي ، ماذا تقول“ ؟” (mom, what is she saying?) I asked my mother. After a brief silence, my mother finally responded, her words piercing through my tiny heart, ” لا یسمحون لك بالذھاب إلى الحضانة .” (They’re not allowing you to go to pre-k.) In that moment, my entire demeanor shifted. The realization hit me like a ton of bricks – I was being rejected not only because of my biting incident, but also because I struggled with communication. It was a lot for my young mind to
comprehend, and I reacted in the only way I knew how – I burst into tears and threw a tantrum, just like any other child would. These two incidents I’ve mentioned have served as a powerful reminder of the cultural differences that existed and the need for understanding and learning in such diverse environments.

Fast forward to middle school, where I dedicated myself to mastering the fundamentals of English, forging friendships, and honing my communication abilities. Through relentless effort, I diligently cultivated my reading and writing skills, achieving a remarkable 12th grade reading level by the time I reached 3rd grade. As a result, I was placed in an advanced language arts class during 5th grade. Despite my initial confidence in handling the workload, my expectations were shattered as I realized the magnitude of the challenge ahead. I soon discovered that all the challenges I had overcome to reach this point paled in comparison to the daunting workload and English proficiency I was about to encounter. As a 5th grader, one wouldn’t typically be expected to grasp complex vocabulary or excel in writing. Crafting persuasive essays had always been my Achilles’ heel. It became evident that not only did I struggle to express myself effectively or construct well-planned arguments, but I also lacked the ability to comprehend texts accurately. That year proved to be my greatest struggle yet, but I refused to give up. I persevered, determined to maintain my high standards and continue my growth.

In 7th grade, I came to the realization that I was struggling mentally. Coping seemed impossible, and thoughts of suicide consumed me. My doctor suggested therapy, and I decided to give it a shot. My therapist recommended journaling as a way to cope. At first, I questioned how writing could possibly help me. But against all odds, I decided to give it a try. Writing became my refuge, a place where grammar, spelling, and fact-checking didn’t matter. All I had to do was pour out my feelings onto the page. Surprisingly, as I delved into journaling, I noticed a positive impact on my writing skills in school. Writing not only saved my life, but it also enhanced my educational abilities. I developed a deep connection with writing, determined to master it and explore its many facets. It became a powerful tool to express myself, and I finally understood its profound importance. Now why is this year really important to me? I’ll tell you.

In 7th grade, it became clear to me that this year would be pivotal in my life. Being a child of immigrant parents, I understood the struggles they faced, particularly with the English language and the need to obtain citizenship. Driven by my determination, I made it my mission to utilize everything I learned at school, including my skills, to assist my parents in their journey. It wasn’t always easy, and there were moments of frustration as I taught them. However, I came to realize that mastery of a subject doesn’t guarantee the same level of understanding for others. It required patience and extra effort to help them navigate through the challenges they faced.

“Ma, can you read this paragraph for me? Take your time and let me know if you need any help.” It was truly remarkable to witness the progress my parents made in their English language journey. Whether it was my request for my dad to write lengthy essays or their enrollment in English speaking lessons, their dedication was evident. Within a year, they were engaging in fluent conversations in English. In order to obtain their citizenship, they diligently studied American history, a subject I thoroughly enjoyed and gladly shared with them. After two years of collective effort, they were well-prepared for the citizenship test. The mixture of nervousness and excitement filled the air as we eagerly awaited the results. Their unwavering commitment truly deserved to be rewarded with success.

Can you guess what happened next? “We’re finally American citizens, we passed!” That sentence meant the world to me, as it symbolized the incredible journey my parents and I had undertaken to be where we are today. I couldn’t contain my happiness and excitement for them, knowing how much they deserved this moment. Whenever I come across someone who reminds me of my own beginnings, I’m reminded of this pivotal moment. I understand that learning English is challenging and not everyone will share the same passion and experiences I have with writing. However, I’m grateful that I never gave up, as I can now see the progress I’ve made by comparing my first essay to the ones I’ve written in recent months. Reflecting on the obstacles I’ve overcome, I couldn’t be more appreciative of every experience and opportunity that has come my way. Now this is the story of how I went from a biter to a writer.

You Are Not As You Seem

Awarded to Evie Mitchell for work submitted in Fall 2023 to Barb Collie in ENGL 1010: Expository Writing

When I was twelve, I read a novel that effectively changed my entire perspective of the world.

The trip to Barnes & Noble was a very ordinary one. As usual, I walked in not knowing what I wanted to select, leaving every possibility open. The bookstore has always smelled like coffee to me, enticing and soothing even though I am never inclined to have some of my own. In particular, the aroma reminds me of early mornings before school, with my dad’s coffee brewing softly in the warm kitchen. This feeling of bliss and peace continues to accompany me on every visit.

On this specific day, I did not wander, nor linger. Instead, I headed towards the area I have long since called my favorite—the thriller section. The simplicity of life back then, with only the fear of adjusting to middle school, seems long gone. I was merely excited to be able to obtain some new books.

Just by chance, I happened to pick up the novel Luckiest Girl Alive. And, just by chance, I went home that day with it in my pile of books to read, unaware of the ramifications it would bring.

There is nothing quite like the refreshing description of a new author. As I was immediately pulled into the sharp-witted and vibrant prose of Jessica Knoll, I experienced my initial introduction to the main character, Ani Fanelli. In short, the story revolves around a present-day Ani, engaged and on the verge of a well-deserved promotion, who is suddenly confronted with the events of her past that transpired in high school. With this, I felt the workings of a more serious undertone, even if I could not imagine what would be the cause. This mystery—for it was indeed one at the time—served its purpose of enticement and spurring interest. I had no interest in stopping, wanting nothing more than to devour the contents as fast as possible. In truth, the ache of not knowing what occurred was too much. I could not prevent my greediness from consuming me.

The core of this story, with such raw pieces of darkness, continued to emerge before my very eyes. The events are twofold: Ani experiences a traumatizing, violent sexual assault and later is present at the sight of a deadly school shooting. I distinctly remember my twelve-year-old self reaching the point of the flashback where Ani was assaulted. I was caught completely off-guard, having not even a sliver of warning. She was only a few years older than I was at the time of my initial read, a detail I still find incomprehensible. This devastation she felt, her utter heartbreak displayed for every reader to see, was piercing. I, too, felt destroyed, mourning and weeping over the sudden loss of her childhood innocence. In a matter of hours, her assailants’ actions upended the world as she knew it. In an attempt to detach my emotions and thoughts, I placed the book aside, intending to return to it later. This period only lasted about a week, or perhaps even less. I was ultimately searching for answers, a resolution, a better outcome, anything. Thus, I picked the book up again and continued to read.

Unbeknownst to me, I had yet to reach the culmination of my understanding and anguish. One vital piece of information to mention is that in the aftermath of her assault, Ani sought comfort not from her family but from an individual named Arthur. His brashness—but never towards her—was her armor from her three assailants. He, in a separate way, still took advantage of her, playing on her emotions and promoting her hatred. As is later revealed, Arthur himself was unhappy with the attackers. He was convinced that the only solution was to seek his form of justice, a method involving the use of weapons and destruction. This is where the school shooting becomes a central focus of the plot. As a direct result of severely harbored bitterness and violence, seven students are killed in the final climactic scenes of the novel.

Both tragedies Ani undergoes are the foundation of her character and individuality; these are the reasons she is permanently scarred and unable to process her trauma. Her inability to move forward in her life illustrates how, even over time, some wounds do not—or cannot—heal. When I discovered that Jessica Knoll was assaulted herself when she was fifteen, my heart completely shattered. I was still young upon this discovery, but I knew then why it resonated so strongly with me: she wrote from experience. The creation of this very book allowed its author to admit to herself that she had the right to be angry over what happened to her teenage self. It was a story she had shaped from fiction and truth, and it was utterly life-changing.

By the time I had finished my initial read, my head was swarming with thoughts. The emotions that overcame me were unyielding, but I would never again be shocked by the tiniest of details. My heart would continue beating, the blood flowing through my veins as usual, but I would feel as Ani did when she forgot how to breathe. I could see the environment around me, but my vision created images of her world. It was this immersion that gave me a new perspective on my surroundings. With age comes new, natural changes, including seeing things as they are instead of how you wish them to be. In this case, I came to understand how fragile and unpredictable life is. Six years ago, this idea came to fruition, as if a large wave had encompassed me from head to toe. Undoubtedly, there is good in this world, but the scale of evil seems to be magnified. I was, and continue to be, devastated by the life of this fictional character, knowing that even small fragments of her story could be a reality for any of the billions of people in the world.

Due to my young age, I felt newfound reasons to fear human nature. I was afraid for my safety and unwilling to feel comfortable allowing myself to fully trust others. To this day, pieces of this distortion are cemented in the back of my subconscious. As a female, the odds are automatically stacked against me from birth. Simply due to my gender, I am undeniably more at risk for any of the various crimes under the sexual assault category. Ani was not attacked by some stranger on the street or a psychotic criminal; she was attacked by her peers, some of whom she considered friends. Words will never be enough to explain how that made me feel or the array of concerns it presented. As a student, it is also incredibly difficult to walk through the halls and accept that I cannot determine the intentions of every individual I am crammed against. My brain perceives reality to be the fact that our safety, regardless of the situation or place, is not guaranteed. We do not walk in a perfect, indestructible bubble. I have grappled with this for six years now and remain unsurprised that it continues to resonate with me.

Unfortunately, there is no answer on how to process these thoughts. We, as a species, are accustomed to fear. It makes us wary and alert in situations that require our senses to be at their sharpest. It gears our minds to be ready to dictate how our bodies should act. By instinct, my eyes constantly scan new areas, looking for something amiss. I wonder endlessly what the future will bring, asking myself difficult questions to gain any advantage I can. How, in adulthood, can I raise a family, knowing I cannot fully protect my children? Is such a thing even possible? The truth is ugly, but it is clear: I do not know.

In the end, I continue to consume similar content not because I know it will haunt me but because it is still relevant to the world today. This insight prompts my thinking, sparking new ideas that stimulate the desire to write for hours on end. It would have been impossible to predict the lasting reverberations of this book all those years ago. What would have happened if I decided against purchasing Luckiest Girl Alive? Would such a shift in my mindset have inevitably occurred? Since I will never know the difference, it does not matter in the end.

Every time I write, I provide myself with the freedom to formulate whatever I choose. The power here is the freedom of choice. My temporary thoughts and even more temporary feelings become permanent, reflecting what I have experienced at various moments in my life. When done well or even poorly, writing is powerful. It can be daunting to chronicle personal experiences, but it has been one of the greatest rewards. After all, the benefits only remain as impossibilities if you neglect to begin the process.