Trauma is a Four Letter Word

“Have you had any trauma?”

When I heard this question, my first instinct was to say “no.” The things that came to my mind as being traumatic were extreme; abuse, the sudden death of a loved one, living through poverty, being in a serious accident. Surely, nothing about my journey would stand out against the horrific tales of true, textbook trauma.

I was experiencing a level of denial that can only be found in the dark depths of mental illness. A place where no amount of pain can be considered sufficient, and there is always someone who is more deserving of sympathy than you. Where there is not enough confidence to consider the wounds you’ve acquired significant, and any suffering, past or present is warranted. I could not admit to myself or the people trying to treat me that what I had been through was in fact trauma. There were a series of events that I minimized, ignored, and powered through because I didn’t think I deserved to dwell on them; facing them head on threatened to break me.

But here I was, broken anyway. The path I chose to take still resulted in misery and hopelessness, but with no possibility of ever healing or having closure. As much as I’d attempted to purge the harrowing memories, they were still very much playing on a loop inside of my head. And while I was still unsure that my experiences met the standards for trauma, I knew that I had nothing to lose by trying a different, albeit still painful approach to eradicating the way that they affected me.

It was a few weeks into residential treatment when I finally spoke about the events in my life that got me there. My reaction to unleashing those memories into the universe was unexpected and visceral. I couldn’t control the sobbing, and my body shook uncontrollably as I relived each experience. As I closed in on the most recent painful occurences, they became more and more difficult to recreate.

I told the therapist about my fifth pregnancy; how after having two healthy children, followed by two consecutive miscarriages, I finally allowed myself to be hopeful we would have our third child. We heard a heartbeat, and passed the point where statistically another miscarriage was a real threat. With a false sense of security, we told our family, friends, and our young children about our miracle baby.

I described to her how I felt when I drove myself to the urgent care after the bleeding started. It was late in the evening and someone had to stay home with the kids; I thought that if my husband didn’t come with me, that would somehow change the outcome. So I was alone in the dark room with the ultrasound technician when she told me, her voice filled with pity, that there was no heartbeat. I lay on my back, stared up at the ceiling and let the tears drip down into my ears, while thinking that I would give anything to never have to get up from that exam table.

After describing this and all of the other events that made up the timeline of my life with an eating disorder, the therapist looked at me with compassion and said:

“You never stood a chance.”

Hearing those five words, from a relative stranger who had an advanced degree in psychology, was unnerving. I didn’t get the impression that she spoke them often, or that she said them in an effort to patronize me. And if the things I told her were enough to illicit this response, then perhaps, for the first time, I should give myself permission to pay attention to them as well.

I told my story a second time in group therapy, to a room filled with people who may not have shared the exact same experiences, but knew how to empathize with the way I’d chosen to cope with them. Their genuine reactions and outpouring of support made me realize that there are not, as I’d previously believed, prerequisites to trauma. I began to understand that only by facing these experiences without judging their validity, or hiding from the emotions associated with them would I have a chance to heal.

Authentically Yours,