Coping With Trauma
Read Time: 7 Minutes
Words by Crystal James
When do our trauma wounds heal? When do the brittle scabs stop bursting open at every light-handed brush? When do the scabs harden to eventually scar?
Sure, you can sew them up to make it through another day only to be burst wide open on another. I’m on a journey to healing those wounds. I’m striving towards scarring. I’m not there yet. I don’t care to mask the wound. I don’t want to cover or hide the scar. I don’t want to slather it in makeup. I don’t want to put it in a perfectly wrapped box in a closet. I want it displayed. I want to feel the trauma scar just as I do the ones placed upon my abdomen - the ones that gave me parenthood and took my appendix. I want to heal so I’m not constantly wincing at the pain. I want to fondly think of my trauma scar as a reminder of where I’ve been and how far I’ve come.
I gently graze my numb stomach and three prominent scars remind me I survived tough experiences. The same stomach that as soon as I found out I was pregnant I incessantly rubbed expectant mama body oils and creams on. Moisturizing nonstop to prevent stretch marks. Never imagining that several large protruding scars would eventually glaringly highlight louder than any stretch marks possibly could. Back when I thought my skin imperfections would be the worst of my issues. My stomach is still numb from its trauma. The numbness my stomach feels from its crash cesarean is the same numbness I feel comfortable in. It’s a numbness that takes over after I’ve experienced a trigger. It could be as small as cleaning the drain to my sink. It could be as large as two attack hugs from my children. Triggers come and go on any given day like pollen carried in the wind. Making you sneeze one day or painful red eyes the next. Eyes red from crying when a flashback takes you straight to the emotional toll you hid as a child, as a teenager, as a mom laying on the hospital bed.
My ideal pregnancy came to a screeching halt when I arrived at the hospital. I was three days past my due date when my water finally broke. I showed up with my delivery plan memorized. My delivery plan was not conducive for twenty-seven hours of labor with preeclampsia conditions threatening my every move. As I recall those moments, I see it as a scene from an alien horror flick. I laid sprawled on a hospital bed with tubes in my arms, nose, and even my lady parts. My oxygen levels and my baby’s heart rate plummeted at the same time. I had pulmonary edema in my lungs making it hard to breathe and ultimately, harder to push.
My trauma resurfaced as laid cut open on the hospital bed. Unfortunately, they couldn’t remove my trauma as easily as the organs they set aside when pulling out my child. I laid helpless in the hospital bed after traumatic labor left me feeling like a shell. My empty womb missed the baby placed in my arms. My shocked mind couldn't focus on the baby yearning for closeness. My inner child was hiding. My adult self was hiding. My husband cared for our first child in the hospital and often in the weeks following. I was left numb and unable to smile through. The pretend smile I used to survive throughout my childhood had disappeared. My body couldn’t pretend anymore. I was left feeling exposed and scared. I had nightmares of not being able to breathe which became a theme in my daily life.
I went through the motions. To be honest, I pretended to be okay for a really long time. Some days, pretending worked and I did feel okay. Other days, my trauma came out in bursts of frustration like when the witch of a movie can’t get her hands on the youth potion. Bursts of anger and frustration turned me into an ugly evil witch.
I nursed my colicky daughter throughout every single night. She craved closeness and I felt smothered. Even as a one-year-old, she laid upon my chest and the restriction continued that pattern of not feeling able to breathe. Once she was out of her colicky stage I was finally beginning to feel more like myself. That was until my second crash cesarean and appendectomy. After my second born, I followed the same method as I had practiced before. Fake it until you make it. It was a lot easier to handle because he wasn’t colicky and it wasn’t my first go around. I felt more confident in my mothering abilities.
A couple of years passed and then the familiar constriction appeared again. The idea of therapy always sounded appealing to me. The problem was finding time and motivation to make it happen. I realized it was officially needed at the end of 2019. My husband had been working out of state for weeks at a time. It was my first-time solo parenting on a regular basis. I felt unprepared even though I’m a stay-at-home mom who takes care of the children around the clock. I began to feel alone and unable to ask for help. I felt smothered by the constant needs and wants of the children. I felt as though I couldn’t breathe.
This feeling ramped up when we lived in Hawaii for a month in early 2020. My anxiety was at an all-time high as I was constantly trying to keep my children safe in a foreign place. I wish I could have listened to every Shaka hand signal I saw. Was it possible that every Hawaiian knew that I needed to “take it easy”?
The week we arrived home I set an appointment for a specialized therapist for the following Monday. Little did I know the world would shut down that dreadful week in March. I canceled my appointment and told myself I was okay enough. Three weeks into the pandemic I was anything but okay. I was shaken like the rest of the world. My therapist reached out to offer telehealth sessions. The idea of getting personal through a screen felt impossible but I knew if I didn’t accept the help now it would take another few years. I would wait until another disaster when my anxiety was unmatched and I'd be left feeling like a shell.
I spent every Tuesday delving into memories and feelings. I began linking my current mental state to previous times. Major healing came in those moments of connection. Naming why and what I was feeling helped release shame and general feelings of “crazy.” I learned new coping techniques and began to learn what worked for me.
Therapy has opened my mind and heart. I feel less burdened by my past. I’m able to focus more energy on living in the moment. A year into therapy and I can breathe deep down. I am learning tools to ground myself. When I’m feeling like a shell, I use the 54321 grounding technique. It works like this:
I start with acknowledging five things I see. I notice my senior dog waiting for food to drop. I notice the leaves have grown since yesterday's rain shower. I watch a new bluebird at the feeder and wonder what kind it is. I see my daughter eating a tangerine. I notice how blue the sky is after yesterday's gray.
Next, I acknowledge four things to touch. I pet my senior dog and since there’s no such thing as a quick pet, I linger, playfully tugging at his ears. I feel my fingertips on each key as I try to keep up with my mind. I grab my Birds of Michigan book to flip through so I can find the name of the beautiful bluebird, reminiscent of a Bluejay, named Eastern Bluebird. My daughter approaches and softly hugs me and I congratulate her on sleeping alone in her bed all night; quite a feat at her age.
Next, I acknowledge three things I can hear. I hear the television in the distance. I hear the slight tapping of my keyboard. I hear the rumble of a toy car on the upstairs floorboards and I smile knowing my son is feeling more independent these days.
Next, I acknowledge two smells. I smell the macadamia nut milk I added to my coffee as a reminder of Hawaii. I smell the sweet tangerine peel sitting in a bowl next to me, waiting to be discarded.
Lastly, I acknowledge one taste. I sip my coffee with the Hawaiian flare as a hint to take it easy.
Another coping method I’ve taken up this year is storytelling through creative writing practice. Creative writing has become useful in making sense of my thoughts, feelings, and memories. It’s a way for me to safely recall traumatic experiences in a controlled story setting. I am able to control the narrative without interruptions. I’m articulating how I am feeling on my own terms. It’s a way to link my right and left brain’s responses to events. I make connections from past to present and wrap up the story in a neat bow. Since emotions can’t truly be perfectly wrapped, I find catharsis through safely dissecting each emotion within the format of writing.
It’s one way I can see my trauma scars laid out in words on a page just as I see my cesarean scar; reclaimed.
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About the Author:
Crystal James is a mother of two. She is a writer, poet, and artist. She believes in the power of being vulnerable with an open heart. This honest approach to writing helps her heal and grow with the hope of helping others along the way. For more of her words please follow her Instagram account at @crystaljamesart
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