What I Wish I Knew
As I began my own trauma recovery, I wish I had known that I had no obligation to tell anyone. My story was my right, and my voice belonged to me. But I was desperate, and so were the fixers and rescuers. The secondary trauma from these experiences brought significant infection to the open wounds.
When I finally discovered a safe place to unpack my experiences, I still didn’t know that I was safe. The words were stuck in my throat. When several fell out, they sounded so far away. They sounded trivial and insignificant. The things I said didn’t always connect with what felt true; I felt as if I was lying. So, I would double back with disclaimers, trying to cover my bases as I went. Positive that one day I would need to right this wrong interpretation of my own experiences. Convinced that someone was going to find out how bad I was. I even doubted my own doubts, and every word I said was like releasing another arrow into the raging battle inside my mind. I wish I had known that’s what complex trauma recovery feels like. Since abuse and neglect was my normal, my brain told me it was abnormal that it should be a problem.
I wish I had known what to expect before the flashbacks came. It would have helped me to understand how the body remembers, sometimes much more clearly than the mind. I felt paralyzing shame and fear with every physical sensation I felt. They tried to convince me I was dirty and wicked. The loud voice of the deep-seated belief resounding the fake news that it WAS in fact, all my fault. I wish I would have welcomed my body to grieve along with my soul. Giving attention to the things it needed in the form of presence, rest and health care. Though it took years for me to create that connection, my body still bravely grieved on, though separated. As memories returned, I felt the same sensations I felt back when they happened. My body was so wise; so exact in all it had experienced. I wish I had believed it and honored it; I just had a very hard time not treating myself the way I had been treated.
I wish I had understood that I didn’t need to go to therapy with an explanation for everything I felt. It would have been a relief to know that I don’t need to remember, and that many trauma survivors don’t recognize their own traumatic experiences for some time. I felt a deep sense of separation inside, and not having reasons made me panic. I didn’t know how to address myself and was insanely good at dissociating. After more time I began to see how my emotions and beliefs had been suppressed and denied for so long. My will was meant to be broken as a child, and I was taught to deny my sinful flesh and all the things it felt and desired. I abandoned myself in an effort to be Godly and find belonging. I became acutely and painfully aware of my reality. I was sure I was a hopeless case before I started finding some bits of personhood and confidence. My growing awareness of injustice and grief made things a lot harder before it got easier.
“Trauma comes back as a reaction, not a memory.”
I wish I had known there was no rush. That I didn’t need to heal before I could accept myself, but that I should accept myself so I could heal. I wish I had allowed more time, more bad days and more gray spaces. More “I can’t remember’s” and more “I don’t know’s.” I wish I had taken more breaks from my constant obsessing and striving for the other side of suffering. It was so hard to feel heavy hearted and I just wanted to get out of the fog. My analytical and hypervigilant brain made everything complex and overwhelming. I know it was just redoing what had worked before; defending and protecting; but I wish I had learned to sit with it instead of hurrying to get past it. Knowing that the process would not always be so intense, but a lifelong part of my story.
I wish I had known that it’s okay not to know these things. The truth is, I couldn’t have known. Twelve years into recovery, I am gaining new understanding as I go. Noticing the ways I rejoice and grieve. Embracing the layered and gentle way of evolving and living out natural wholeness. It’s a broken road, according to the expectation I once had of the meaning of redemption and healing. But it’s the way I am meant to travel.
This morning I woke up and the bright sunlight felt warm on my face. I heard soft pattering tippy toes coming into my bedroom, so we snuggled and snorted at our bad morning breath. The leftover terror from last night’s dreams was comforted in the presence of our voices.
I am a human, living on an earth where things make me laugh, cry, and hope for a perfect heaven someday. In the meantime, I am learning how to create safety and health for myself and those around me. Making peace with what I wish I had known back then and what I will know once I have learned it.
-Jessica Witmer
