
When you look at this photo, you probably see nothing more than a plastic bag.
I see the trigger that caused me to have two panic episodes in the hospital â the first roughly three years ago, and the second about a year ago â and ultimately, the catalyst for me realizing I was struggling with unaddressed childhood trauma tied to my momâs sudden death 25 years ago, and needed to seriously consider trauma therapy (which I began almost five months ago).
Unfortunately, due to current events with the coronavirus (COVID-19) pandemic, social distancing and the transition to virtual therapy sessions as âthe new normalâ for the time being, my therapist and I came to the decision together to table any further trauma âdiggingâ until weâre able to meet in-person again. I quickly learned just how emotionally triggering and draining these sessions are, and that I need as much support as I can getâ âin-personâ âto get through them.
Iâm proud of the difficult trauma work Iâve already done. Iâm proud of myself for taking the first step (despite how long it took) to recognize that I needed this help, and then getting itâ ââ without any shame, explanations, justifications or apologies. And I know I still have a lot of hard, emotional work ahead of me when we resume. But that grueling work is what needs to be done in order to begin peeling back many complex layers, and prying beneath the surface Iâve just barely scratched after all these years of loss, trauma, triggers and how this has all manifested in my adult life.
It has taken me a while to open up about all of this, but recently I had to pick something up for some medical labs, and was sent home with this bag. I didnât think anything of it at first, because I only saw the white side of the bag. It wasnât until I got home, put it down and saw it in my dining room, and the words on it, that I realized it wasnât just any plain old white plastic bag â and felt the familiar panic rising up.
I crumpled the bag up in a ball and threw it in the trash. I crumpled myself up in a ball and threw myself into bed. I took the bag back out of the trash and broke down crying and wanted to set it on fire.
Because 25 years ago, I saw this very same âpatient belongings bagâ in the dining room of the house I grew up in. Its contents were the clothing and jewelry my mom had been wearing when she entered the hospital, and died less than two days later.
In April 2017, I was in the hospital for a diagnostic procedure (my first time in a hospital as a patient) prior to surgery, and suddenly found myself inconsolable. Then I had an epiphany: the plastic belongings bag I had been given by a nurse. A light bulb went off in my head. Then everything got very dark.
And this is how a plastic bag became the thing that makes me come undone.
My hope is that over time, addressing and talking about this and other trauma triggers and memories (and addressing associated cognitive distortions) will help to lessen the panic and intense emotion an inanimate object or other visual association has been causing me.
Because right now, it feels like a plastic bag has control over me.
I keep catching myself saying itâs âstupidâ or itâs âsilly,â because⦠itâs just a bag. But in truth, nobody else can possibly know or understand how âjust a bagâ makes me feel. And now I recognize this as trauma.
My plastic bag is someone elseâs fireworks that trigger the memory of an explosion that nearly killed them while deployed overseas. Or another personâs certain smell they associate with someone who abused them.
This is hard, heavy stuff, and I understand not everyone is comfortable with it. Iâm still not completely comfortable with it. But if youâre still reading, please remember to be gentle and kind with yourself and with others.
Because these are the invisible battles people are fighting as they go about their day, doing the best they can and just trying to be OK. These are the silent struggles we so often donât see or know about that keep people up at night. These are the reminders we all need that everyone carries an invisible burden on their back, and what we see portrayed on social media is rarely a complete picture of what people are dealing with internally.
At 8 years old, I watched my mom being loaded into an ambulance in our driveway from a bedroom window. That was the last time I ever saw her. That was the last time I would ever see her again for the rest of my life. Will I ever âget overâ that? No.
Certainly loss and traumatic experiences change shape over time, and we somehow figure out how to continue on with life and adapt with that massive void in our hearts. I know many, many people who have experienced and witnessed horrible, painful things that have changed them forever. They will never be the same. They will never âget over it.â They will be forced to learn a ânew normalâ and to figure out how to breathe with a piece of their heart missing. They will survive and maybe even thrive eventually. But there is no date they will circle on a calendar with a note: âBe done hurting about this by today.â
These experiences are a key part of our stories. But do they define us? No. Neither does how long it takes us to process them, to feel a little less broken apart, to start to patch our shattered hearts back together, to feel âOKâ again. And itâs OK if weâre never completely OK again.
A note about grief now that Iâve recently survived the 25th anniversary of my momâs death, and another Motherâs Day without her: grief is not linear. Neither is trauma. There is no straight line from point A to point B. There are no shortcuts. There is no right and wrong; no mathematical equation or formula.
It has taken many years for me to figure out that the reason Iâm still carrying around such a heavy burden of grief and trauma from my childhood is not because Iâm broken, weak or somehow defective at healing. Itâs because I experienced a significant loss and associated trauma at an age where my brain was still growing and developing, and simply was not capable of processing the loss and its magnitude. The result in these cases is typically a sort of delayed processing that only really begins to occur later in life.
And then one day at 30 years old, you have a panic episode in a hospital (followed two years later by another), and suddenly realize the sheer weight of this grief and trauma youâve been carrying on your back for 22 years is actually crushing you. Itâs winning.
So I decided to take back my power and start on the path of turning trauma into healing. Iâm giving myself credit for doing the hard, painful work⦠and giving myself grace that itâs not going to be an overnight process.
This bag is my cross to bear. It is the tidal wave that keeps trying to ravage my boat, knock me down and drown me.
But Iâll be damned if Iâm going to let it steer this ship.
Follow this journey on the authorâs podcast, âGood Grief, Weâre All Mental.â
source https://www.programage.com/news/What_a_Plastic_Bag_Taught_Me_About_Healing_Traumatic_Grief_1606332614810214.html
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