It was a black and white photo of 11-year-old me, sitting sideways in an overstuffed chair, reading a book with wet hair and a matching pajama set on. Something twisted in my chest.
“Huh. Let me see that.” I took the picture from her and she continued about her sorting and filing. As I stared at the picture, unfamiliar feelings danced and warred within me. A warmth spread through my chest, remembering that young girl. Eleven was a good age for me. I was goofy and confident, feeling comfortable in my own prepubescent body. I hadn’t yet hit the age of body insecurity or boy obsession or major middle school drama. I loved reading and visiting the library (I routinely completed the summer reading program and sometimes even volunteered to work for it). I still played make believe with my friends. We pretended to be a pack of foxes. I was always a large black, male fox named Shadow. I knew the males were the alphas, and I wanted to be in charge—that might deserve a therapeutic look at someday, but for now that’s not my problem. I thrived in school and felt a deep sense of home.
The fingers of a deep chill inched their way into my fond reminiscences and the young girl before me became a distant memory. I am not her. That deep sense of home has been replaced with a deep sense of shame and ever-present distrust of the world. Her free spirit has been chased off and a spirit of sadness and fear has filled the void. My body is not my vessel for play anymore, but a crime scene. My body isn’t an instrument of exploration or imagination, but a vulnerable, damaged, weak and betraying cage.
And yet—she has my lips—thin and slightly down turned in thought. And the subtle slope of her nose is the same as mine. And even the look of comfortably being lost in her book isn’t so foreign—I do still have a profound love of stories. I am no longer this girl and I never will be again. I feel outside myself and trapped inside myself all at once as I look at this faded photograph. Accepting the change trauma has forced upon my life isn’t easy. Waves of grief, relief, understanding and disorientation swirl in my mind as I awkwardly step from day to day in an unrecognizable life.
I suppose it was folly to assume I knew where my life was going. The illusion of control was sickeningly strong before July 8, 2013. The smooth brow and tangled hair of that 11-year-old girl seem like fragments of another story, another life—but her stories and memories are my own. I miss her and her light, innocent stride. I wish I could whisper to her some instruction or preparation for future comfort, but not a single word comes to mind. She could not prepare, protect or alter the life that would eventually lead her here.
Grand and detailed visions of my future used to swim before my eyes giving hope and confidence to my steps. I knew what I wanted and I was going to get it. I marched blindly forward on the path spread out before me. Now it’s a laborious task to conjure up any wispy, ghostlike apparitions of my future. Sometimes if I focus, I think I can imagine our son. But I mostly wonder about him. Will he have deep set eyes like Gabriel? Blue eyes like me? Will his hair be blonde, thick and curly like both of us when we were toddlers? But my future trails off into a grey, dangerous fog in my mind. I no longer trust the “path” I was marching before. It led me to a gangway in Chicago, abandoned, beaten and utterly alone.
This trauma takes away who I formerly was. This, I know is true.
A friend of mine sent me this article. Its well written wisdom resonated deeply with me. Read it. It might help make sense of trauma in your own life. Or it might help you understand a trauma survivor you know. I’m still trying to understand it myself.
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