Trauma

I want to write about Trauma. I’ve been thinking about this post for some time. Writing it, deleting it, writing it again, revising it, then deleting it, and so on. It’s not something that people talk about casually, and that’s appropriate. It’s a big topic – and an emotional one in most cases. But it IS something we should talk about.

Why? Because of all the trauma’s out there, the worst kind of trauma is “Silent Trauma.” The one that no one else sees. The one that buries itself deep inside the soul of the victim and sits there, menacing, dark and heavy. It isolates its victim and twists it into all sorts of knots, until the person feels like they’re going to turn inside out. It tears them up inside, minute by minute, second by second. It never goes away. It is ALWAYS there. Its voice is harsh, grating, and tireless. It is unrelenting. It is unforgiving. It thrives on secrecy and shame.

And you still have to get up in the morning and go to work. And you still have to smile and tell everyone that everything’s great, when you don’t mean it. And you still have to go to church and learn about how the gospel is supposed to fill your life with joy, except that you don’t believe that that really applies to you… Trauma, secrecy and shame make you a liar every single day.

Secrecy and shame are really the two best reasons to talk about trauma. Getting it out into the open and shedding the light of day on it allows a person to acknowledge that it’s there; to see it for what it is, and – hopefully – to be rid of it. The honest, thoughtful expression of trauma removes its secrecy and it gives the victim a chance to challenge the shame they feel for what they’ve experienced. It takes a great deal of courage to be that vulnerable.

I’m not saying that we should walk around dropping trauma bombs on people, willy nilly. That’s sort of “borderline personality disorder-ish.” We should have appropriate boundaries with people, but we should also be thoughtful about how we express it and maybe more importantly, who we express it to.

It should be someone you trust, but also someone whom you know truly cares about you. Once you can do that, there is a relief that comes that can’t be described. It may sound funny, but to express this secret shame and NOT die as a result, is honestly an empowering moment. It’s a feeling that says, “ I just did something unimaginably hard, and I’m still here – I’m ok.” Slowly, you begin to realize that, while whatever trauma you experienced hurt you, it didn’t kill you. That is a profound moment. I hope that others in that situation are able to feel what I felt – gratitude. But it’s more than just gratitude… ugh, words fail me here. It’s the beginning of a shift. It begins to take you from, “I hate you, God, for letting this happen to me,” to “thank you, God, for helping me survive this…”

I don’t mean to make this sound like a linear process, because it’s not. I didn’t move along a line from one belief to another, it’s more like a spiraling pendulum. I still have days where I pray and demand to know “why did you let this happen to me…? I was a good kid… I didn’t deserve this.” Then other days…? I don’t know, I guess I just feel like He’d scoop me up in His arms and hold me, and I’d just know that everything was going to be ok.

To be honest, I don’t know with 100% certainty what happened to me. I know that sounds ridiculous after what I’ve just described. But while I don’t have 100% certainty, I have very real emotions and flashes of memories. I know I was sexually traumatized at a young age, somewhere between the ages of 6 and 9. I don’t know who it was and I don’t know where it happened. Do I have my suspicions? Yes. But I’m not about to fling accusations around without having 100% certainty. I’m not going to run the risk of wrongfully accusing someone and casting aspersions on their character when there’s a chance I could be wrong.

So for the time being, I’m just going to express it here. Not because I need to, but because I want to. I’m tired of living with silent trauma. I’m tired of the secrecy that I feel every single day. I’m tired of living with the shame of something that happened to me. You can give me all the logical arguments you want – I already know “it wasn’t my fault,” “I didn’t choose this,” “I didn’t deserve this,” etc. But all the logic in the world isn’t going to replace the deep-seated secrecy and shame that I’ve lived with for roughly 30 years. Because the truth is, I DO feel like it was my fault. I DO feel like I could have avoided this if I had just been better. I don’t recall, but what if the Spirit warned me and I didn’t listen?  Then it WOULD be my fault, wouldn’t it? Because I was disobedient. Or because I wasn’t good enough. Or because I wasn’t worth protecting.

I’m just going to tell you right now, you can’t believe horrible things about yourself and have a good life. Because no matter what good happens, you don’t feel like you deserve it. No matter what blessings you receive, you don’t feel like you’re worth it. You don’t measure up and you never will. The judge has passed sentence and the result is immutable. You are defeated before you even begin. That doesn’t lend itself well to feelings of joy. It doesn’t make a relationship with God satisfying. It’s also not in harmony with the gospel of Jesus Christ.

All the more reason to encourage people to talk about trauma, to acknowledge that it’s there, and end its silent tyranny. To free yourself from shame and to begin to believe that you have worth, and that you are still good and that you do deserve to be happy. I know this shift hurts. It isn’t easy. Trauma will dig its claws in and refuse to let go. After a lifetime of being a victim, what am I without this trauma? What am I without the struggle to fight this trauma? What will I have without it? I may not like it, but it’s familiar; it’s comfortable and it’s how I learned to live my life. Without it, I don’t know who I am… and that’s terrifying.

This is where faith meets darkness.

I get scared because sometimes I don’t know which is stronger.

But I am tired of living a life of fear. Wasn’t there something about that in the movie Strictly Ballroom?!? “A life lived in fear is a life half lived!” or something like that? I know what a half-life feels like. Hell, I know what a quarter-life feels like!! And I don’t enjoy it. It hurts to see other people successful, and happy and pursuing their dreams, because I just look at them and think – why is that ok for them, but not for me? Why is it okay for other people to lose weight and be confident and feel good about themselves, but not me? Why do I have to live with this burden and they don’t? Why are they so blessed/special/better than me that they don’t have to have these burdens? That’s when I begin to feel like my life – no, my existence – is somehow wrong. It’s maybe why I have often felt that Jesus Christ has the power to save all mankind, but not me…

This is why trauma is insidious. It robs you of hope. It robs you of happiness and joy. It robs you of feeling able to change, let alone feeling worthy to change. It robs you of your identity. It keeps you stuck; stuck in misery, stuck in doubt, stuck in fear, shame, helplessness, hopelessness and so on. What is someone to do when they feel this way? I can tell you what I’ve felt and done. Sad, depressed, ugly, worthless, and a desire to avoid it all or make it go away, hence my love of pasta, pizza and every other comfort food out there! In my darkest times it made me feel like there was only one way out – suicide. I’ve never come close to committing suicide, but there were times in my life where I had decided it was the only option.  Times when I had decided that I just needed to find the right way to do it.

I don’t know why I’m still here, to be honest. I think I can do more than sympathize with people who attempt or actually complete suicide, because I know that darkness. I do know that the Spirit has intervened. I know that happened on at least one occasion. But it didn’t really take anything away. It didn’t change my past, it didn’t resolve what happened to me. I have gone through many rounds of counseling and I do thank God for every single person, whether therapist or co-survivor, that I’ve come in contact with. I have needed every single one of them.

Maybe we don’t talk about these things because they are so personal, or maybe we just don’t want anyone else to think we are damaged as badly as we are. I don’t know all the reasons and I certainly don’t pretend to understand every type of trauma out there. I know for a fact that many, many people go through, and have gone through, horrific things a thousand times worse that what I’ve been through. But only because these people have had the courage to talk about it. To open up and express it. I wish I had all the answers. I wish I had a program that could help people verbalize their trauma and help them move through it, but I don’t. All I have is what I went through. All I have is what I experienced. And all I can offer is a listening ear or a shoulder to cry on. Maybe that’s all we really need. Maybe that’s all I’m asking for.