“No one can go into our self for us and bring back up whatever we ought to know; we must each make our own dive. This solitude may unnerve us, the water looking deep and cold. Yet what awaits us is the first hand experience we could not have otherwise, of our true source, and upon returning to the surface we can not wait to go in again.” — Rev. Dr. Jesse G. Jennings
Something I realized recently is that even with integration, even with healing to the point of thriving, trauma will always be part of who I am. As unfair as that is, it is an unavoidable fact. Sometimes reminders come from casual conversation with friends. I remember multiple conversations of people discussing their first times at different sexual experiences. No one notices the inner turmoil that takes me over, the flash backs of images and feelings, the rage that boils my blood, and the out of body distant feeling I get as I mentally excuse myself from the conversation. No one sees the frustration at feeling and thinking about that when everyone else is happily reminiscing. They are members of a club that I do not belong. And that feeling of not belonging amongst them overwhelms me.
But that is nothing new, I should be used to it by now. Still, the amount of reminders in the most obscure situations still catches me off-guard. A very recent example of this occurred at a doctor’s office. First of all, I had a full radical hysterectomy before my 30s, without having ever been pregnant. At doctor’s offices they give you paperwork that you fill in surgeries or answer their questions of your menstrual cycle. I clearly mark all of these for what they are. And yet…almost as soon as the nurse is alone with you, the questions come about ‘when was your last period’, or the famous, ‘is there a chance you could be pregnant?’ I genuinely try not to get angry at these people. I get it, they are simply doing their job and these are their standard questions to ask. They don’t see the words hysterectomy on my paperwork in eye-catching blood red the way I do. They don’t know the pain that comes with it. And so I sit, gritting my teeth as I kindly answer their questions. It wouldn’t be fair to take it out on them. And yet…that desire is there. The desire to lash out at them, to throw my pain in their face, to react physically in sync with my mental suffering, as though scorched by fire – it is sometimes all I can see and hear as they continue with the rest of their believed-to-be mundane questioning.
I wish that were all. Sometimes – not as common – but still possible, are the questions about violence or sexual abuse. Sitting uncomfortably surrounded by strangers, writing neat answers to the deepest questions that used to stir shame or disgust. Sometimes I’m honest, but it depends on the circumstances. With a new gynecologist, yes I was honest about sexual abuse and trauma. But with the heart doctor? With a random primary through ever-changing health insurance plans? I struggle internally as I sit there, trying to be invisible to onlookers. Is the suffering perceivable on my face? Slapped across the face by the suddenly invasive questions, can anyone see it blossom across my cheek?
One question recently was actually about if I have ever been threatened or hurt by someone. It was a yes or no question with a follow-up of the date of the last time it happened. I debated in my head: was this information the doctor legitimately needed? Are my ACE scores (Adverse Childhood Experiences) somehow involved or indicative of my illness or symptoms? The last time it happened I was a child so do they really need to know this? Perhaps the question is geared towards someone who is currently being abused, perhaps some kind of domestic violence insinuation? So, in that case it would be a question for someone who needed a discreet way of getting help. And that doesn’t apply to me. So, I will just put no.
Meanwhile the whole issue caused me to get stuck for five minutes on an ‘easy’ yes or no question. I wonder how many other people have squirmed in their doctor’s waiting room, feeling the heat of the past on the back of their neck, silently fighting to stay present in the discomfort of the company of strangers. It isn’t as bad as it used to be for me. I’m thankful for that. My alters, the voices, they used to get so riled up over such dilemmas. Certain parts of me never failed at finding a way to turn everything into my fault, filling me with guilt and shame. Yeah, definitely not as bad anymore.
But still, the examples feel endless. I recently went to the eye doctor and while waiting for the attendant to process my frame and lens order, another employee spoke loudly to a customer about her daughter always being a child in her mind despite her obvious adult age. The woman handling my order laughed and addressed me, ‘my parents do the same thing, I guess that’s just what parents do no matter how old you get’. Black sludge churned in my stomach. I smiled and nodded. What do I say? I don’t know what it’s like to have parents? I’m an orphan twice removed? Or do I steer the conversation to the easier to identify with subject of being a parent and reference my own daughter? By the time I thought of all the possibilities of what to say, after strongly rejecting the desire to snap back an answer immediately that would make her recoil from me, that conversation had passed. My lackluster response and silence must’ve had her rethink trying to have casual small talk with me. Even now, I don’t regret that.
No one sees the internal struggle I deal with during simple and regular conversation. I don’t want them to. I have alternatives of how to handle this issue. I could easily bark an answer, startling the questioner by my harshness. My answer could even be uncomfortably honest. It could turn these tables and make them squirm under the weight of my truth. I could make them think twice before so brazenly making assumptions about my life, as if I were their equal, their peer, a normal person. I could make them stay up at night still feeling the shame and embarrassment of eating their own foot. But would that be fair to them? Their innocence radiates from them like a stench. Isn’t it rude to tell someone they smell?
I do question though, is my reasoning based on consideration and kindness for the naïve and generic? Is it only about decorum? Doing trauma work often means questioning how and why you feel the way you do. Working to understand its deeper psychology. With this in mind, I wonder how much of it is fear or shame that keep me from being honest. Perhaps not slap-you-across-the-face honest, but honest enough to stop the conversation in its tracks. Still, the pity from people. Their apologizes, falling over themselves with their own horror at the possibilities they never considered. Their sympathy or self-questioning of their own ability to handle it, if it had been them. Their wide eyes, their avoidance of being caught, and instead offering sidelong glances. All from a fear of looking me in the eye after my revelation.
No…no I don’t want that. Maybe it wouldn’t be that, but just in case, I would rather avoid it. Reject the attention before I even garnered it. Smile politely and wait for the earliest opportunity to excuse myself from the company, or more honestly worded, the reminder. Then bounce back into the present and live as if the reality isn’t hanging over your head, replaying like a doctored video, a loop of the cringe-inducing questions and mental pictures of the truth to each one. I try to acknowledge the anger, the frustration, and the justification for how I feel. Giving myself the room and permission to feel my own response.
Mostly, though, control over self-disclosure offers me more control than I was afforded as a child. Not sharing is sometimes healthier than sharing under duress. It is very important to take back your right to make choices, to revere your own feelings and comfort levels more than the curiosity of a stranger, or even a friend. Privacy is very important to me, hence the anonymity I utilize now. Privacy gives me mastery over disclosure of anything I choose. Not sharing, although dangerous in terms of its roots in shame and secrecy, can sometimes have the opposite effect. It depends on what it makes you feel safe. I feel powerful knowing that I have governance over the knowledge others have of my experiences or feelings. It is a byproduct of integration that I did not truly anticipate, but I certainly appreciate: my own willingness and preferences are where my true loyalties lay and taking them into account I make a decision.
I suppose, despite the empowerment of self-disclosure, I still do feel shame when the subjects are broached. It doesn’t cut me as deeply though. There was a time I didn’t think it was possible to not hemorrhage and I speculate about a future with no bloodletting at all. I am able now to move on and not sit – all day or for multiple days – in the emotional aftermath of such reminders. The crippling dissociation, distance from and discomfort in my body, that is not always a guaranteed response anymore and when it is, it is fleeting, seconds or minutes of agony rather than days or weeks. I’m grateful for any improvement and sometimes awed by the major differences in my singular thinking or intensity of emotion. A good reminder that I am proud of myself. That facing the fear and doing the work are worth it.
