Trauma. I’m so fucking sick of that word. Trauma, on its own, has a relatively benign dictionary definition: “A deeply distressing or disturbing experience”. Christ, I have that experience every time I see a spider inside the house or hear someone chewing their potato chips like they are the last meal they will ever eat.
The thing with spiders and potato chips is that those things are short-lived. The spider is there, and then it’s not. The chips are there, and then they are gone. And you can move on with your life. These things are also not a secret that needs to be kept hidden. Matter of fact, you can turn them into funny stories to entertain your friends with.
Childhood trauma is not that easy. Childhood trauma is like you are inside a clear, soundproof box full of spiders eating potato chips and crawling all over you and you are screaming and pounding on the glass, but everyone just looks right through you and walks away. And then you realize, they are probably right. What am I creating all this fuss about? It’s just a god-damn spider sitting on my lap eating a fucking potato chip. Steal the chip, step on the spider and get out of the box. Problem solved.
I’m hiking up the Airline Trail on my way up towards Mounts Madison and Adams. I’m hidden under the tree canopy. It’s fall, and the colors are beautiful. In a way, I’m present in the way a hiker must be present – I watch where I put my feet, I pay attention to my surroundings, I drink when I’m thirsty, I eat when I’m hungry and I rest when I’m tired. But the rest of myself, my real self, is miles and years away. I can’t get to that part of myself, hidden here under the trees. That part of myself is hidden behind years of shame and disbelief and denial. It is not something that is spoken about. It is not something I admit to myself. It did not happen.
But I am so fucking tired of hiding the fact that I know that it did. I get to the part of the Airline Trail where you pop out above treeline. It’s freaking beautiful, but my backpack is stuck on a tree, and I can’t seem to shake it free no matter how hard I try. I finally squirm my way out of the pack, unleash it from the tree, open it up, dig out the container that is holding all the rocks of trauma, and throw the container over the cliff that I’m standing on. No trees in front of me. Nowhere to hide. I’m tired of hiding. Get me out of these woods and up into the Presidentials. I’ll find myself a rock to use as a pulpit, and I’m going to tell my story.