I am Not Okay

Trauma got me like Mr. Glass up in these streets, feeling fragile, angry, and powerless.  ~ Dr. Brooklyn Chick

In my post, Trauma is a Liar, I shared my trauma story and some of my struggles with self-blame. 

 

In this post I want like to talk about how trauma can screw with how we see the world and ourselves. 

After my attempted rape attack, I tried to rationalize to myself that I just needed to be more careful. I decided that I would just get on with life as normal. I decided despite the terrifying thing that had happened to me I was okay.  My life would be just as it was before the attack.

It was an impossible lie to maintain. The truth was I spent most of my days after the attack fighting my fears. I couldn't ignore the facts or deny my feelings of being vulnerable and exposed. The attack happened right outside the door of my apartment, a building with zero security. I was single. I lived alone. Everyone I knew lived in different boroughs, at least a couple of hours away. Moving was not an option. My apartment was rent-controlled, and I was a broke college student. There was nowhere else for me to live. 

 

Also, I didn't want to leave. In my mind staying was proof that I was strong. I reasoned it was like giving my attacker the middle finger. The problem was as much as I pretended, I wasn't okay. Despite my pretending otherwise there were definite signs that I wasn't okay.

I told myself I would be okay as long as I took precautions. I bought a small knife even though my attacker was already in police custody. I feared he was still walking the streets. I developed this ritual of looking under all the staircases in my apartment just in case. I couldn't enter my apartment until I did my nightly safety check, knife in tow. 

In the days and weeks that followed my attack, I was perpetually on edge. It was as though the attack had amped up my senses. I was suddenly aware of every sound, every movement, every bit of minutia in the environment. Sudden movement unnerved me. Something as simple as tapping me on the shoulder freaked me out. Still, I told myself I had everything under control.

I Did Not Have Everything Under Control

 

CLUE #1- I hated having people near me. This made riding the subways especially uncomfortable. My heart would race every time I boarded the subway. My chest constricted every time someone brushed past me. I started taking days off from work, calling out sick, even though I knew eventually I might lose my job. When I was at the job I was agitated, distracted, and angry.

 

CLUE #2 - My Nighttime Rituals. As soon as I came home from work, after I made sure the front door was securely locked, I would hurriedly prepare a meal. I'd take the meal to my bedroom and place it on my bed. Then I closed the bedroom door, after once again checking the front door, and closed the closet door.

After making sure all doors were closed, I climbed into my bed and ate. When I was done eating, I put the plates on the floor and propped up against a stack of pillows against my headboard and pull the blankest up around me. Then, stared at the bedroom and closet doors until I fell asleep in an inclined position. Most nights that sleep was interrupted by nightmares and hallucinations.

 

CLUE #3 - Nightmares and Hallucination. Sleep seldom came and when it did, I was plagued by horrible violent images. After several days of not sleeping, I began to have hallucinations. I heard footprints approaching my bed and felt the invisible hands of men holding me down, trying to rape me. Being sleep-deprived made subway trips easier, mostly because in my disembodied state hyper-vigilance was hard to maintain. My nighty safety rituals were compromising my real-life safety by reducing my ability to pay attention to the real world.

This had been going on for almost two months before I sought help. Help came in the form of an appointment with a therapist provided by NY's sex crime victim program. The sex crime program offered free therapy to anyone who was the victim of a sex crime. One of the officers gave me the card the day of the attack.

At the time, I decided I didn't need to talk to a therapist. Why would I air my business to a stranger? Jamaicans don't do that. Black people don't do that. Marines don't do that. Besides I was okay, wasn't I? I finally decided to call as an act of desperation and a matter of survival. Once I was so distracted, I almost walked into traffic. It took almost dying to get me to go to therapy.

Once I started therapy, I began to understand my body was responding to trauma. These new behaviors were my body's misguided attempt to protect me. The problem was these behaviors were hurting me. My brain had been stuck in survival mode and as much as I wanted to believe I was okay the truth was I was not okay. I was a long way from okay. Thankfully with therapy, I was able to begin the journey that would help me regain my life.

Trauma recovery is a process.
First, I had to unlearn all the wrong things I had been taught about love and myself. I had to accept my frailties, while challenging myself to do better, to be better. I had to forgive myself for all those times I fell short and remind myself I am a work in progress. I had to stop myself from judging others and recognize that judgment comes from fear and shame. Judging excludes us from the human condition and exempts us from having to feel. In some cases, it insulates us from having to see ourselves reflected in the suffering of others.

As I gained a better understanding of mental health care, I realized the idea of shaming someone for taking care of themselves is a ridiculous notion. Would you shame someone for seeking a doctor's care for their diabetes?

 

The foundation of my emotional health was already a bit lopsided when trauma struck. It took a lot of work, but over time with the help of a therapist, I was able to sift through the rubble and salvage the healthy parts of myself. I used those parts to build a better, stronger foundation and continued to rebuild my mind, my soul, and my body.