Is it unusual to feel a sense of excitement when untangling someone’s trauma story? Maybe not, but what if it helps me unravel the knots in my own life?
As I reflect on the year 2012, I see a younger version of myself, brimming with dreams and taking a break from reality. I had left my job, my friends, and the familiar world I knew at the time to embark on a journey across the United States in my car.
Oh, look, a scrub jay! This wall-length library window boasts a view of the outside and there’s also a leaf gracefully dancing on the breeze. Suddenly, a gust sweeps through, sending hundreds of orange-rust leaves darting across the scene, only for them to catch the breeze again, floating gently and sweetly.
With a break in my day and a plan I made last week, I grabbed my laptop and headed over to the library, with the intention of tackling my progress notes and doing some writing. Interestingly, when I do…
My mind drifts back to nights on the side of the road in New Mexico, a convenience store parking lot in Maine, and the bustling streets of San Francisco. Those were the days when I wasn’t okay. The days when I believed that the person I had chosen as a boyfriend was trying to harm me. It sounds absurd to me now, like something out of Alice in Wonderland—a nonsensical world I once inhabited. Yet, it’s because I ventured into that realm, the labyrinthine recesses of my mind, that I now find solid ground in my work with clients today.
On another note, there’s a person down the way who seems to chuckle every 15 seconds or so, emitting a deep and jolly laugh reminiscent of Saint Nick. It’s rather distracting. Part of me is tempted to stand and be them the “do not disturb” eye, but another part of me is curious about what’s causing such amusement.
Come on, librarians, do your job!
During that period in ’12, I couldn’t tolerate the idea of anything being my responsibility. I pointed the finger at my ex, deepening the cocoon of delusion that I was a victim.
Once upon a time, “delusion” was a dreaded word for me. Delusions were reserved for those who were mentally ill and locked away in psychiatric facilities, or so I thought. It could never apply to me. Never. Yet, as I’ve learned to tolerate the many twists and turns of my psyche, I’ve come to accept that delusional states are natural and sometimes necessary defense mechanisms. They help keep us safe when nothing else makes sense.
I have also learned to tolerate the idea that my narrative or perspective may be flawed. In times of survival or when we perceive our lives to be under threat, we filter in only the pieces that serve us. Essentially, our focus narrows, and we magnify aspects of our environment, especially the perceived threats. It’s a function of the primal part of our brain wired to help us survive, even if the threat isn’t real; our perception makes it seem real.
Was he ever really trying to harm me? No. But my mind, detached from reality and all I knew, perceived certain things and inflated their significance.
No wonder, at a certain point, I drove all the way from Southern California back to my parents’ home in Washington state in search of a place to rest my weary head. Yet, even after finding relief, the damage had been done. The reality I once knew had been bent, and the delusion had taken root. I unknowingly found myself on a path where the thought that this person could harm me was like a rock in my shoe.
I despise that part of myself—the irrational, illogical, delusional part. But it exists. It’s much less prevalent now than it once was, but it still surfaces in my thoughts occasionally when triggered.
My knee-jerk reaction used to be to fix it, make it vanish, or deny it. However, if I allow myself to sit with it, breathe through my fear and insecurity, and recognize it as part of my trauma work, I can approach it differently and find true security today.
Thank you for being here.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 