Lost & Found
Occasionally, I’ll share portions of Crazy: Reclaiming Life from the Shadow of Traumatic Memory that didn’t make the cut. My editor, Sarah Chauncey, taught me that authors have to learn to “kill their darlings,” which means a good piece of writing may just not belong in this spot or in that piece of work. “Save it,” she told me, “and use it some where else.” This blog post about a trigger of betrayal was in the first draft of my memoir. I share it with you and hope it holds some meaning for you. ~ Lyn
The days were getting shorter and the air crisper. Late afternoon was like a gray cat stretching for a nap. Our little house in a small town in the Adirondacks was the wool blanket she nuzzled up against.
The day had taken it’s usual toll on this aging body and I was going to lay down for a few minutes.
I climbed the stairs slowly as Ron walked out the front door, spent leaves crunching under the weight of his boots. He was making a brief inspection of an electrical box in the ceiling of an attractive single neighbor’s home in case a new box had to be ordered. At my suggestion, Ron had agreed to install her fan in exchange for her caring for our dog the weekend before. In the moment, I had thought it was a great idea, Ron was amenable, and our neighbor was thrilled.
It’s fine, I told myself subliminally. There’s nothing to worry about. He said he’d be gone for ten to fifteen minutes. He just needs to check the electrical box in the ceiling. Self-talk was my way of reassuring myself that I would not be betrayed.
I dragged myself into bed and pulled the worn quilt around me. The clock said four o’clock. He’s planning to make our favorite soup for dinner, I thought dreamily as I closed my eyes. When I wake up, he’ll have my glass of wine poured and the soup in the pot. Everything’s fine. Life is perfect. I’m so lucky.
Two hours later, I awoke from a sound sleep to a silent and aroma-free house. I walked slowly down the stairs thinking maybe I would smell the delicious soup on the next step, or the next, or the next. By the time I reached the landing, my panic rose. Where is he? I searched the first floor. Where IS he? I ran to the window to see if the car was there. Where IS HE?
Jealousy
Jealousy is a destructive emotion that tears apart relationships. I like to think I’m not a jealous person. After all, I had never been jealous of my philandering ex-husband Bart spending evenings at bars with female students on the pretense of offering academic conversations in an informal setting. Not one iota of jealousy. Ever. Yet Bart’s betrayal opened up the betrayal of the past and I am beyond reason when the potential for infidelity worms its way into my wounded psyche. Ron is a loving and trustworthy person but that didn’t hold up against the demons from the past.
Panic consumed me. I texted Ron, “Where are you?” Leaving no time for response, I called him.
“I’m at Marcia’s, just finishing up.”
“I thought you were staying for ten minutes. I thought you were making dinner,” I sputtered.
“I’ll be home soon,” he replied. I hung up.
Trigger
A tsunami of fear overwhelmed me.
I have to get out of here. I can’t stay. I don’t know where to go. Where can I go? I ran upstairs, grabbed a bag and a few clothes. Let me get out of here before he comes home, I prayed. I went into the bathroom as I heard him close the door and walk up the stairs.
“I’m home. Shall I pour you a glass of wine?”
“No.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“Yes, well, no, I’m hurt” I managed. “You told me you were going to check the electrical box. You said you would be ten minutes but it’s been two hours. You were going to make dinner,” I sputtered through the bathroom door, terror in my voice.
Ron’s explanation was well-meaning but totally unconvincing in the moment. I was devastated. This wasn’t going to happen to me again.
Flight
It was all I could do to refrain from bursting into rage. I went downstairs and told him I was going out, I didn’t know where I was going, but I would let him know when I knew, fully expecting to spend the night somewhere, anywhere away from him. I breathed deeply and then I didn’t. I knew what I was going to do and then I didn’t. I drove in one direction trying to figure out a safe haven in our isolated part of the state forest, then turned around and went in another direction. I finally landed some thirty miles away at a moderately populated small-town center where I stopped the car and left a phone message with a therapist I occasionally visit. Late afternoon had turned to shadows so I found a place to have a glass of wine and something to eat.
My mind and my emotions are not in sync when I’m triggered. A part of me kept thinking I was probably overreacting but another part of me was hell bent on protecting myself. My mind was lost in a maze, looking for a way out, confused by signals from the past. I sent Ron a text saying simply,
“Sometimes I need to get out of the house to get my thoughts in order.”
Lost
By the time I left the restaurant to go back home, the sky was pitch black and I was still dissociated. I made a wrong turn and got lost in the bowels of the state forest, driving cluelessly for two hours on remote roads, late on a foggy night where cell service is non-existent. The state forest constitutes thousands of acres of uninhabited land. Real fear began to push me out of my triggered state as I slowly and miraculously found my way home using the compass on my mobile phone.
The next day, I sat in the therapist’s office with Ron by my side, trying to explain what had happened. My body was wracked with the pain of feeling the feelings from the past, every pore vulnerable, raw, throbbing. I was trying to describe the rhythm of explosive awareness, then shock that shielded me from pain with power to get away, then gradual diminishment of shock yielding to the body’s acute state and the mind’s slow realization of the aftermath.
The therapist was explaining to Ron that it would help if he didn’t take my behavior personally because it was my response to trauma. He held my hand and didn’t forget to tell me he loved me that night. His kindness was penetrating. Our talk-it-out over the next few days took longer. The pain lasted for a good 72 hours, while I confined myself to bedrest as much as possible.
Found
This too shall pass, I have learned. Underneath the pain lay joy, peace, love, and hope but it was just beyond my grasp. In a few more hours, I would feel whole again. The craziness would give way to sanity, and the sanity was the ground of my happiness. The past would never disappear but it would recede once again into the background so I could live the life I was meant to live.
The bright autumn day shimmered with hope, but the aftermath of trauma never fully goes away.
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DW Business Meeting
Our monthly Business Meeting will be held this Monday, October 9, at 6:30 pm Eastern. All are welcome! Find the link in the Groupeasy Calendar on the correct date. See you there!
DW Published Authors
Lyn Barrett, DW Founder
Lyn is promoting her memoir, Crazy: Reclaiming Life from the Shadow of Traumatic Memory, at a local Las Cruces Book Fair in September. She also shared information about dissociative disorders and Dissociative Writers. You can purchase Crazy through Amazon. Don’t forget to leave a rating and/or review! Up next, is Lyn’s next book, It’s Not About Forgiving, It’s About Healing. Stay tuned for more information.
Suritaplus, Dissociative Writer
Suritaplus is proudly holding her memoir, Quilted: Piecing Together My Dissociated Selves, published in August 2023. You can purchase Quilted at BookBaby or Amazon. Don’t forget to leave a rating and/or review!
September & October Workshops & Events
Monday, October 9, 3 pm Eastern: Memoir Class, By Registration Only
Monday, October 9, 6:30 pm Eastern: DW Business Meeting
Tuesday, October 10, 1 pm Eastern: Traditional Workshop
Wednesday, October 11, 8 pm Eastern, Evening Writing-in-Place
Monday, October 16, 3 pm Eastern: Memoir Class, by Registration Only
Tuesday, October 17, 1 pm Eastern: Writing-in-Place
Wednesday, October 18, 2 pm Eastern: Social Hangout
Tuesday, October 24, 1 pm Eastern: Traditional Workshop
Wednesday, October 25, 8 pm Eastern: Evening Writing-in-Place
Tuesday, October 31, 1 pm Eastern: Writing-in-Place
🕊️
A life lived in fear is a life half lived.
~ Baz Luhrmann
Lyn