Saturday morning, I woke up crying; that day was one I wish I didn’t have to endure. Friday night—into the wee hours of the morning (before the sun made its debut)—intrusive memories created a whirlwind in my brain that lasted so long I almost watched the sun rise.
Last Tuesday, I hung out with some friends from church at The Glass Knife, a local restaurant. (It kinda reminds me of a pricey Panera). While there, sharing a giant slice of chocolate cake between the four of us, we shared our lives and struggles together and overall had a wonderful time of fellowship. The conversation went through a range of topics from work and life in general, church issues, family relationships, and then…instances of their kids walking in on them during sex.
Unexpected Triggers at The Glass Knife
When that topic was brought up, instantly, my hippocampus started playing the cadences of my mom and stepdad together. That alone was enough to start the flashbacks but then it got worse: as my friends shared more and more instances of their kids walking in on them and then childhood memories of them walking in on their parents, my memory orgy train took a sharp turn and started displaying flashes of Voldemort; I could instantly feel his hands on my body and, in the present moment, tried not to outwardly squirm as I remembered the ways he would use affection to lower my defenses to get what he wanted even as my body language screamed “I don’t want this!”
Using Chocolate Cake to Ground Myself
While my friends chatted, I was silent (because PTSD is excellent at making sexual assault survivors forget how to use their voices) and fought hard to remain seated instead of leaving abruptly. At some point in the night, I realized I had a half-eaten spoonful of chocolate cake with mousse icing held out at eye level.
As I forced myself to focus on the morsel of sugary sweetness, their voices and laughter started to fade. My internal dialogue went something like this:
I’m eating chocolate cake. This fork is gold. The chocolate cake has 2 different shades of brown. The cake color is like mud. The icing color is similar to some makeup I saw on TV. Some Matte color…
As the surrounding conversation continued and some slivers of it got past my chocolate cake defenses, I started experiencing body memories (i.e. I felt my abuser’s mouth on me). My body instinctively tensed up as I tried to escape the invisible threat and my internal dialogue grew more frantic as the busy restaurant slowly transformed into the quiet chaos of Voldemort’s bedroom:
I’m safe. I’m safe. He’s not actually here. I have my yellow butterfly shirt on. I didn’t have this shirt back then. Stay present, Ru! I’m safe; I’m safe; I’m sa…
Anchored by Friendship, Burdened by Silence
At one point, my friend Emily playfully hit my arm while laughing and wondered aloud why I wasn’t eating the cake on my spoon. Her playfulness helped ground me but the reprieve was a temporary one. Multiple times throughout the night, I swallowed back the bile in my throat. Throwing up chocolate cake in a public restroom would not have been a pleasant experience…
***
I feel conflicted. On the one hand, I am proud of myself for not going into full-blown flashback or panic attack mode in front of them—(and in public no less!)—but, on the other hand, even after getting to an “okay” state where I could engage in conversation and laugh with them through the night, even after we prayed and went our separate ways, I still felt gross when I lay down for bed. And guilty for some unknown reason and I think I now know why:
I never told them what I was experiencing that night on the grounds of not wanting to potentially “kill the vibe” or make them uncomfortable. I think that’s where the guilt is coming from: I wasn’t honest with them or myself.
I even had the perfect opportunity to do so when Anggie, another friend in our small group, offered to drive me home. And still, during the car ride, I never brought it up. I thought about it but kept my mouth shut.
The Guilt of Hiding Pain
I woke up in tears this morning. I’m dissociated and almost to the point of tears now.
Initially, I started this blog 7 years ago to process my trauma and mental health as I walked with Jesus. I haven’t written about my trauma experiences in a while; I didn’t want to write about this—didn’t want to give myself space to sit with this because it’s hard and painful. I can hear J. now reminding me to “sit with your feelings and feel them. Without judgement.” I hope he knows just how hard that is sometimes, especially now.
It’s been 10 years since those traumatic experiences and I still, too often, beat myself up for experiencing the typical symptoms of PTSD (triggers, flashbacks, etc). That’s a huge burden to bear and Galatians 6:2 urges believers to “bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.” In choosing to self-isolate—by not letting my caring friends know of my distress—I did not allow them to fulfill their role as sisters in Christ and aid me in my time of need. I’ve gotten so used to carrying this particular weight alone—save for J.—asking for help is still hard.
Vulnerability with God and Community is a Good Thing
My mid-week hangout with my church friends at The Glass Knife showed me that not only is chocolate cake a good grounding tool but that being in community is good and necessary, especially because they can help bear burdens that are too heavy to bear alone; I just need to practice being honest and proactive in asking for help when overwhelmed.
And speaking of not bearing burdens alone, Holy Spirit just reminded me of previous words I wrote. Years ago, I wrote a post called “When Divinity Interrupts Humanity.” In the ending paragraph, I said this: “I’m carrying a lot of guilt over my emotional state. Nonetheless, God wants my pain and that’s a hard thing for me to wrap my heart around. He wants to disrupt my trauma narrative by stepping in my pain to love me, heal me, comfort me.”
I’ll have to keep reminding myself of that this week. I cannot hide myself or my trauma from God; neither should you. As He is Jehovah-shamma, the God who is there, He is the One who is closer than your next breath, the One who is intimately acquainted with sorrow and can be trusted with everything (even panic attacks and flashbacks and a broken fight/flight/fawn/freeze response).
I know that God can handle whatever is thrown at Him but He created the Church to be His hands and feet. When we self-isolate, we do our community a disservice to be like Jesus in the moments when we need help or comfort most.
Musings of a Wanderer 