After Trauma

        Junot Díaz’s “The Silence: The Legacy of Childhood Trauma” is a 2018 New Yorker article like many others. It is both autobiographical and far-reaching. It’s a well-crafted piece of writing. It is the writer’s particular recounting of his life. There are many ways to tell one’s story. There are many ways the Pulitzer Prize winner could have chosen to write about his. Díaz chose to be painfully honest. One event defined this telling of his life above all else, above his heritage as an Afro-Latinx man, above his work as a writer, his love life, or his education. His being raped as an eight year old boy changed everything. It so violently warped his self-perception and the ways in which he interacted with the world. He became depressed, and volatile, his anger creating havoc in his inner and outer worlds. For years and years, he went without help. Armed with a mask to keep everything out, even the people and experiences that were letting light into his life, he went it alone. Only after losing it all and then some, and then some more did therapy begin, and a lifetime’s worth of survival patterns could begin to change.
        There are a few reasons why I want to think and reflect on sexual assault. The Women’s Empowerment Association of Andrews University (WEAAU), and the Pre-Law Society is halfway through its Tuesday co-curricular short on sexual assault. April begins Sexual Assault Awareness Month. In my “Human Behavior in the Social Environment” course, we’ve had discussions about it. It’s in this class that I encountered this piece by Díaz. Maybe it disturbs you like it does me. Maybe someone you love has gone through it. Perhaps it’s happened to you, and you haven’t been able to call it exactly what it was. To whoever is reading this, I invite you, as it is safe and appropriate for you, to reflect on the things we do to protect ourselves from pain. I invite you to think along with me about how we can chart a path through traumatic experiences.
        Let’s begin with the mask. There is a certain, and healthy level of detachment that we learn to have. We are made to have healthy boundaries, and appropriate “masks,” if you will. If every painful thing on the news, or every story of violence within our own communities felt as painful as it were happening to us personally, we would be absolutely overwhelmed. This is not to say that care and empathy are liabilities or weaknesses. No, I believe they are just the opposite. They drive us towards fighting and advocating towards better.
        There’s a balance at play, at all times. Our brains and hearts are protecting us from the inundation of emotions that the media, and our environments, can wreak upon us, while also allowing us to feel for the plights of others, and respond to those in our midst. Paul, in his letter to the Romans tells them and us now to “Celebrate with those who celebrate, and weep with those who grieve. Live happily together in a spirit of harmony, and be as mindful of another’s worth as you are your own” (12:15-18 TPT). Our letting down of our barriers, our lowering of our masks, is an essential part of sharing life with others. We must be able to feel for and feel with our brothers and sisters, our neighbors. We must be able to love. Trauma, be it physical, emotional, or sexual, can make loving others and being loved really, really hard.
        Díaz’s story mirrors those of countless others who have experienced life-altering violence. So many of these stories include an element of hiding, masking, compensating, or otherwise creating a new, safe version of oneself to interact with the world, receive some sort of love, and achieve things in the world. I think we are all familiar, on some level, about the ways in which our brains soften the blows that stressful and impactful experiences have on us. The mask, the imitation of a life, never fulfills the need for the real thing.
         It can feel as though returning  to your sites of greatest pain would mean your demise. It can seem counterintuitive, and outright insane, to willingly remember, and make an attempt at metabolizing the masses of unprocessed emotion surrounding that trauma. We do a lot to outpace the hurt of the past, so to return can feel like a heart-bounding encounter with death, because that assault, or that experience, almost destroyed us the first time. I’m here to say that there is healing to be had, and there cannot be true life and true love until we’ve made the journeys back toward trauma. The only way out of the cyclical thoughts and feelings of anger, frustration, worthlessness, and fear is through processing the underlying traumas underneath them. Nothing ignored ever really vanishes like we’d rather it would. Healing is an active verb, and it is something that doesn’t happen in isolation.
         The Counseling & Testing Center is one of many on-campus resources. The chaplain team at the Center for Faith Engagement is another. Student Life can support you if you’ve experienced sexual violence on campus. The residence hall deans, advisors, and professors are all a part of the system that is Andrews University, that isn’t just interested in getting us through our respective years of education. They are also here to support our growth as full human beings. There are a number of free online resources, hotlines, and messaging services out there to aid you when life is feeling hardest (i.e. RAINN, SAMHSA, or the Trevor Project to name a few). Reach out to friends, even if you feel like you’d be a bother. Talk to your parents, or supportive family members. Learn how your insurance may cover counseling or other services for you. There’s so much life to live, and so much love to give and receive after sexual assault, violence, and other such traumas. Do what you can to make yourself available to opportunities to share love with those in your life. Let the people that care about you care for you. Then, when it is your turn, share the gift of love you’ve received with others.