Do you ever have big post-therapy breakthroughs in between therapy visits while in the shower?
I do!
I've had a few traumatic things happen to me over the years. Some I've kept private and some I haven't. For instance, I've had deaths in my immediately family including my stepmother at age 16, I was once date-raped at age 20, I was attacked by a gang in high school at age 16, I've had some pets die, my parents separated when I was 14 and divorced when I was 18, I was in an abusive relationships once at age 16, and I was hospitalized for depression and insomnia after that relationship at age 16. Some were worse than others. Some were pretty bad at the time but didn't affect me later, and some I didn't even feel until later. Feelings be complex, yo.
Here are some things I reconciled in the shower this morning.
The House Across The Street
The saddest thing that ever happened when I was little occurred when
the house across from me burned down and I was home to watch it happen. More than that, I was home to watch my mom try to rescue the people inside even though she's not a firefighter. More than that the first responders took about an hour to arrive because there was already a fire being fought across town. More than that, one of my friends, a little girl named Erica, died in that fire. More than that I watched her die and couldn't do anything about it.
That house became a monster to me. The smell lasted for a few months. The brown, charred living room seemed to threaten me from across the street. Then they boarded it up, and it looked haunted. Instead of passing on the sidewalk while riding my bike, I'd cross the street to my sidewalk before crossing again to ride some more. We kept our curtains drawn so I couldn't see the house. I'd peek out my curtains in the middle of the night to make sure it stayed on its side of the street, in its own yard.
I had nightmares for about a year, and nights where neither my mom nor I could fall asleep because of thoughts. So we'd stay up all night and play Super Mario Brothers until our fingers were sore and we saw spots. Then we'd lay in my bed in the dark and make up stories and tell dumb jokes until I fell asleep. And we never, ever, let ourselves look at the gutted out remains of the house across the street, easily seen from almost every window in our house.
This affected me for the rest of my life, definitely. Over the years, every red haired girl was Erica and I'd tell people I thought I saw her. Each year I'd calculate how old she'd be now. When the house was renovated and the family moved back in, I tried to befriend them but couldn't because I was ultimately too scared of the house. When my father moved out during the divorce, I moved down into the basement and slept on our old couch. I just felt better without windows.
The Bully in The Classroom
In life, you're not going to like everyone and not everyone is going to like you. Over the years you find ways to cope with that. It's part of being alive. Some people learn to treat others better because they'd never want anyone to feel how they felt when they were mistreated. Other people who were mistreated seem destined to teach others lessons by torturing everyone who makes one false move.
Then there are third grade teachers.
Okay, maybe not every third grade teacher. You probably had a great third grade teacher! You probably read amazing books, excelled in math, played games in the classroom, and hugged your teacher at the end of the year, sad to leave her.
In one classroom at Point Pleasant Elementary, I'm pretty sure a couple students didn't have a great third grade teacher. Her name was Mrs. Carmen D.
There was all the shrill screaming for one. Mrs. Carmen D. did not possess tact or an inside voice. Frankly, she sounded exactly like the Wicked Witch of The West in the Wizard of Oz, only meaner. She yelled about absolutely everything.
Here are some sample behaviors from Mrs. Carmen D.:
- Screamed at Leigh N. because she wasn't turning pages fast enough in her textbook.
- Grabbed my lower arm and shook it violently while screaming at me for seemingly no reason.
- Threw a textbook at Billy C. while screaming at him. He moved in time so it missed him.
- Grabbed me by the ear and dragged me to my second grade teacher because I was writing with my left hand instead of my right hand and she wanted me to feel ashamed about that.
- Told parents at the PTA meeting that they would thank her one day. (I would say no, they didn't. She probably owes them therapy bills.)
I had Mrs. Carmen D. the same year the fire across the street happened. For years I didn't even think of that teacher's antics affecting me.
I thought most of my anxiety stemmed from the fire. Sure, a lot of it probably did. However, I had a lot of support to help me heal from that and a year later I was in a pretty good place with no more nightmares and able to sometimes glance at the house without feeling too upset.
However, nobody spoke up for any of us in that third grade classroom. Not the students being bullied, not the majority of the parents, nobody.
As a direct result of being in that classroom here are some lessons I learned:
- Dishonesty-my honesty and creativity were rewarded with screaming or worse, so I used my creativity towards dishonesty. I began lying when I misbehaved and was afraid to take risks.
- Loss of agency-rather than taking action, I began to let life happen to me.
- Self-loathing-my feelings didn't matter, so I learned to bury my feelings of fear and rage to get through a typical day. It didn't matter that I felt what was happening was wrong, our teacher was an adult so I wasn't allowed to feel bad about what she was doing.
One thing I really wish I could have done at age 8 was punch that lady right in the face. Just kick her in the crotch, stand up for the other kids, say something rather than let her take out her sucky position in life on innocent children who all came from different backgrounds. Do something more than be afraid of not having friends, getting in trouble, being humiliated, or feeling more worthless and powerless than I already felt.
I still don't know a lot of things about myself. I don't know if I believe in God most days. I don't know what kind of career I want. I'm not sure what I want to be remembered for.
However I am an adult now and one thing I am prepared to do is use my voice when others don't have one. I'm not just talking about reposting things through social media or taking up some cause, although those things are fine.
I can't go back in time and hit Mrs. Carmen D. with a book, shake her arm, grab her by the ear, or scream at her on a daily basis to see how she likes it. I can't run to a trusted adult to get help, and I can't run to the Principal's office, and I can't make a big stink now more than twenty years later.
However, I can live my life to not hurt others.
If I see someone in pain, I can comfort them.
I am old enough now not to base my actions on the approval of others.
I'm not afraid anymore. Okay, I am afraid, but not too afraid to take action. Not anymore.
