I am currently reading a book by an author I greatly admire. This person’s writing always moves me and often brings me to tears. The new release is the author’s own story of childhood trauma and it’s long-term effects into adulthood. There is a book signing happening locally this week that I am planning to go to. The friend I will be going with asked if I had read the book yet. At the time I hadn’t started it and I told her so. She said that she devoured this author’s first book cover to cover in pretty much one sitting, but this new release she had to digest in smaller bites. “It’s pretty heavy stuff,” she said.
I picked the book up to start it not long after our conversation. I started ploughing through it and couldn’t put it down. The only thing that forced me to do so was that pesky issue of sleep. Who decided our bodies needed sleep anyway?
As I was reading about the truly horrific things that happened to this person as a child I realized that the way I was responding to it might not be completely, well, normal for lack of a better word. The author experienced severe bullying, actually being set on fire by schoolmates at the grand old age of about twelve, and then was raped by an adult at the age of fifteen. There was substance abuse to numb the pain along with a complete devaluing of the self that led to exchanging sex for drugs. This was all before the age of twenty.
As I was experiencing this through the author’s eyes I became acutely aware that while on some intellectual level I was horrified at the events that occurred, on a deeply emotional level I was…….unmoved. No wait, that’s not it. Numb. Nope, not quite.
It’s difficult to articulate. It’s like my intellectual brain was reading the words and registering that awful things were happening, but my emotional brain was not at all shocked when I know it should have been. It was only then that I truly understood the level of trauma I had experienced as a child. It was such that what I was reading was not surprising or shocking. In fact, it was pretty much what my inner child expected of the world.
Holy shit. My inner child is pretty much horrified at nothing one human being can do to another. Just let that land for a moment. How fucked up is that? I’m still processing this realization and it’s heavy. I know it will eventually become part of my healing journey, but for now I am just going to sit with it and let the tears fall as they may.
I think some part of me has known this for a long time, but I have been unwilling to face it. I am just grateful that, although you might think it would, this you-can’t-shock-me phenomenon does not preclude empathy. In fact, having been through a lot of bad things myself, I think I am even better positioned to be empathic in the face of trauma.
So, off I go down my healing road with another bag I’ve identified to try to unpack when I’m ready. If you’re reading this Rowan, well first of all I’d be honoured (I may have a secret fantasy of you reading my blogs and being impressed). Most importantly I want you to know that your courage in sharing your story has helped me tremendously. You are an inspiration and your humanity will change the world. Of that I have no doubt.
