The Legacy of Childhood Trauma

Emotional-Freedom-Quote-1.jpgThis morning I read a piece in “The New Yorker” by Pulitzer Prize winning author Junot Diaz called “The Silence: The Legacy of Childhood Trauma” and found that his words, his experiences, resonated eerily with my own regarding relationships. This came as somewhat of a shock considering that the trauma he describes was his repeated rape, at the age of eight, by a grown man whom he trusted.

Now before you click on the link and read what he wrote, which you pretty much have to do in order to appreciate the rest of this blog, let me be clear about the differences between his and my experiences: I was not raped as a child (note the caveat: “as a child”) and I have never tried to take my own life (unless driving recklessly, drinking enough tequila to induce a five-day hangover at the age of 16, or any number of reckless behaviors count). In other words, I’ve never consciously, in the overdosing, gun-to-head, or standing-on-a-cliff-considering-jumping kind of way tried to end my own life. I’ve never tried and I’ve never thought about it. Nevertheless, there were things about Diaz’s piece that spoke to me and that therefore gave me pause to think, “Was there enough “trauma” in my childhood to create the behaviors that he describes that I am also guilty of?”

I know. You want me to tell you in detail what those behaviors were. I’ve alluded to at least one above – the drinking. Yes, there is a lot of excessive consumption of alcohol in my past. And a lot of morally questionable behaviors wrought of that drinking. Another trait we share(d)[1] is the inability to stay in a relationship past a certain point, usually the point where it looked like it might actually go somewhere good, and especially if the man exhibited behaviors that suggested he might actually be willing to remain in a monotonous, I mean, committed monogamous relationship.

Then there is his reference to cheating. Many would quickly label cheating as classic self-sabotage behavior. For me it was a bit more complex. My first bout of cheating gave me the confidence to leave a not-so-healthy marriage (I discovered that I was, contrary to my insecure belief at the time, desirable to other men) and subsequently over a decade later cheating gave me the excuse to end the next and only other long term relationship I’ve had. At the time I rationalized, “I clearly don’t love him enough if I can sleep with another man.” Next I did the morally righteous thing – I called him up, told him we had a problem and very soon thereafter left him. Because leaving was penance for bad behavior and, I rationalized, released me from moving forward in life as a liar and a cheat to the person who’s opinion mattered most to me.

Diaz’s references to drinking, to bouts of depression, to not being able to look at himself in a mirror, the deep-seated self-hatred are all things I saw reflections of in my own experience.

Given the relatively mild nature of the traumas I experienced as a child, when I finished the essay, I wide-eye wondered how many of us walk around with these wounds, oblivious to how much they shape who we are and what we do.

When I would get into my navel-gazing, self-examination mode, the man I had my second and last long-term relationship with – seven-years to be precise – and whom I still refer to as my second husband despite our never having married[2] used to assert, “You had a roof over your head, food in your stomach. You were not abused!” He was a lot older than me – twenty-six years – with attitudes borne of a time when those were the only measures of abuse, when “spare the rod, spoil the child” was an oft-used phrase. And yet, with the exception of one particularly memorable spanking that employed a plastic brush,[3] my parents didn’t hit us and we did have three squares a day. Was the fact that my mother repeatedly sent me to school with tomato sandwiches that by lunch hour had morphed into a disgusting mess of soggy pink bread enough to call her abusive? Abusive, no. Uninspired-where-school-lunches-were-concerned, yes.

The abuses that many of us suffered as children I would suggest were often much more subtle than those experienced by the Junot Diaz’s of the World.[3] So subtle as to make them unutterable for completely different reasons than those that made Diaz silent, so non-violent that by sharing them we feel embarrassment or guilt knowing that others have experienced so much worse. But that’s what I am most struck by, what made me sit up and take notice – it’s the recognition that even the mildest forms of abuse induce in children and the adults they become symptoms of full-blown trauma the likes of which Diaz experienced. I was struck hard in my consciousness by the reality that as children we are fragile, vulnerable, and sensitive beyond belief. We have a belief in a kind and loving world until we are proven wrong and whatever it is that teaches us that the world is a far more cruel place than we had ever imagined is what creates the pervasive psychological “hang ups” that dominate so many of our adult stories. The point I guess I’m trying to make is that I’m not convinced that enough of us recognize the degree to which even the “milder” forms of trauma[4] experienced in our childhoods are the source of our adult so-called “hang ups.” That in the absence of loving affirmation that we are okay, lovable, perfect even, just the way we are, too many of us try to hide what we perceive as short-comings, to dawn our masks of self-protection against the pain and suffering that is unfortunately a part of life, and thereby subsume the beautiful creature we are meant to be.

I dunno…I’m not a psychologist. I’m just thinking out loud and over-sharing, as I tend to do. But what do you think? I have to wonder, are the vast majority of us damaged and the only difference is a matter of degrees? And what are you doing to undo the damage? See below for one technique.

Lisa Nichols with a way to GET OUT of the pain of trauma that we all carry within us.

 

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The jury’s out on whether this is in the past or not.

[2] I liked to say that he was a better “husband” than the man I actually married a decade earlier.

[3] Don’t get me wrong. I acknowledge and am humbled and saddened by how many children experience abuse on a par with or greater than what Diaz described in his essay.

[4] Emotional trauma comes first to mind.

Dry Docked

I haven’t been much of a writer these past three weeks.

I keep thinking, “There will be time for writing when you are older. Seize the opportunity now to surf and kiteboard as much as possible while your body is relatively healthy and strong. One day, perhaps sooner than you want to believe, you won’t have the stamina and strength to surf for several hours in one day. Then you’ll have all the time in the world to write.”

Perhaps this is short-sighted and selfish. Perhaps it’s avoidance behavior or a rationalization. Whatever it is, it’s keeping me surfing. Surfing and enjoying life so much (aka partying with friends) that I found myself several days ago so exhausted that my body felt like a lead weight I was lugging around. It took concentrated effort to keep moving and get the things done I needed to get done around the house before I left the country (re-potting of two large plants, organizing and packing my bags).

But I’ll have plenty of opportunity to rest up now. A few days ago I flew North to eastern Canada, to the place I will always call home no matter how long it’s been since I’ve lived there, Vankleek Hill, Ontario. I slept on the plane despite the good reading material I had along with me (The Sun magazine). I slept hard, so hard that I didn’t even hear the attendant come by with immigration forms and dinner. I might have even drooled a little bit. Then that night I took two melatonin pills before bed in part to counteract the tiny bit of coffee ice cream I ate while I re-watched the movie Apocalypto, in part because I wanted to sleep the sleep of the dead. I had a serious sleep deficit that I needed to reverse.

Ice cream and a movie, Thai food before that – some of the small pleasures I don’t get much of in Baja, the things that make leaving my beautiful paradise just a tiny bit less painful.

While leaving induces the pain of separation, emotional pain, the truly painful thing I’m focused on right now is the physical pain of a volcano-like hole on my knee that refuses to heal. It’s been there since January when I sliced the top off my knee coming in with a kite that was inside out and dragged my knee over the top of a rock. I didn’t even feel it, it was such a clean cut. But after I got out of the water, I looked down to see watery blood dripping down my leg. Ever since then the cut has grown into a hole that keeps getting deeper and deeper every time I surf despite taking several measures to protect it. I covered it with a waterproof Band-Aid and then with a tubular piece of neoprene cut from an old wetsuit. It seemed to be working and six weeks or so ago, it looked like a new layer of skin had finally grown over the wound. Then I decided to fore-go the Band-aid I’d worn every other surf session and instead applied a layer of New Skin® liquid bandage over the new scar tissue. But I forgot to put the tube of neoprene on over it. At one point when I popped up, my left knee caught the waxed surface of the board, I felt a sharp pain as the New Skin was ripped from my knee taking the new layer of skin along with it. I was back to square one.

Day 1: Healing begins

What I needed to do was stay out of the water, but I was unwilling to accept that increasingly obvious fact. As a result, this hole has threatened to get infected several times. It gets hot and extremely sensitive to the touch and then I clean it with hydrogen peroxide, coat it with antibacterial ointment, apply a bandage and pray. I’ve hit it square in the middle on tables and chairs, which nearly brings me to tears. Yoga and other activities that involve applying pressure to the knees are done gingerly, carefully, with most of the weight applied to the right knee.

By the time I return to Mexico I will have been out of the water for three weeks straight. For once this is a good thing. By then I pray there will be a layer of new skin in place that is thick enough and tough enough to resist the wear and tear of being dragged across the rough waxy surface of a surf board after soaking for several hours in the water. Because if it isn’t healed by then, I’ll be hard pressed to stay out of the water as the summer surf season ramps up to full speed ahead.

What about you? What is the longest you’ve had hold off doing something you love due to an injury? What’s the gnarliest injury you’ve ever had?