On October 11th, 2017 I called emergency responders because I found my housemate dead in her room. Death is natural. Discovering it is not.
Much to my discomfort, I think about that experience often. It’s one of my chunky VHS tapes of trauma that gets stuck in the machine. I wasn’t close to her. I didn’t really know much about her life. In fact, she had only lived in the room for a couple of months. But she had the kind of personality that filled a room. I hate what happened to her. I hate the man that did it to her. And I hate that I have that tape in my head. Jog up the stairs. The door ajar and the view within. I loathe that.
Trauma isn’t something that goes away. Ever. It has a permanence. It takes up space – and while you can chip away at it, it will always remain - jarring, angry, and violent. Compartmentalization can help – but it will still be there, taking up space and forcing you to decorate around it. Almost everyone has some version. Some box of tapes. Seven years after Kelsy’s death and I’m sitting here looking at mine.
But my goal is not to list my traumas. Only to say that I hold them. I do my best to grow accustomed to them – and channel their influence to affect me positively - but I am fully aware that, for the most part, I fail at that. My traumas manifest themselves in irritations, temper, and laziness. My attempts at reconciliation have regularly transfigured into false, egotistical confidence. I hate that too.
I hate that my traumas still project out of me and into the lives of the people that I love. Sometimes I fight them. Sometimes I run. Sometimes I lift them high above my head in triumph – or fall heavily beneath their weight. I struggle to think about the day to day because I am often too busy wrestling some manifestation of my box of traumatic tapes. Or fantasizing about some life where they do not exist.
I recognize that.
But I have found deep, deep solace in being open about what has happened to me. Because where I wrestle daily – I have found that the human spirit is kind. On October 11th, 2017 – as police filled my house – I sat in the basement. Supported by the undeserved kindness of three coworkers. The only people I felt that I could call. But I had to call. And now I write about it.
So if you’re wrestling with something, don’t hide it. Let people help you. Let faith help you. Let therapy help you. Let your family wrestle with you. Turn your hobbies and passions into channels. It’s okay to ask for help. Its okay to let your traumas show. It’s good to be complex – but sometimes someone else has the missing piece to your puzzle. And they won't know until they're at your side looking at it with you.
I only have one picture of Kelsy - she had come to try out my keyboard. I remember her laughing - but she wasn't embarrassed to try. When I look at the picture now, I am reminded of that laugh. But I also see her shadow. Like two different versions of her at once. One I would know for a matter of weeks, and the other for years and years to come. So rather than hiding those feelings - I am sharing them.
Trauma tapes replay. They're human. But you don’t have to be alone with them.
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