Trauma-rama: The Ride Continues
Trauma. What a short word for something so complex and destructive. A life-changing force that shapes the psyche of children in orphanages, servicemen and women engaged in active duty, victims of rape and exploitation, those affected by natural disasters, displacement, or systemic abuses.
Victimized peoples tend to detach from their body, both during the heinous event(s) and afterwards. Like their real self is bobbing in a balloon high above the numb actuality of their physical self. It's equal parts shock and adrenaline, the brain's shield of protection enabling movement through the horrific now. But the aftermath can be catastrophic. Because eventually the innermost you will return to the anesthetized shell of the person you used to be. And the process of reconciling that immense disparity can be ugly. We've seen our fair share of these intense depictions in movies: Victims scrubbing their skin raw in the shower. Relieving life's worst moments through nightmares or flashbacks. Cutting arms or legs to superficially feel/express the deep pain. Being stunned into silence or amnesia regarding certain situations. Overeating or under eating to fill/starve the monster of emptiness or memory within.
None of these spirit and body reunions paint a pretty picture. However, that's the awful reality of many survivors of trauma.
I hate the term "stillborn." H.A.T.E. I feel it has no relevance to what I endured or who my daughter is. Yet it remains the most common way to describe our situation. And as with the word trauma, it fails to encompass the scope of something so complex and destructive. Margot's birth was anything but still. It was chaos and tragedy in motion. It was live-action dream destruction; the very antithesis of calm or quiet or still.
My counselor says for the first 4 months after experiencing an acute, sudden trauma, your brain and body stay in processing mode, attempting to come to terms with the event. Many moms carry their birthing stories like badges of honor. (And rightly so!) However, I balk when asked to recount details surrounding Margot Rose's birthday. Because, first, it's profoundly personal (and probs none of anyone's business). And two, it's not a typical trophy birthing story of strength and accomplishment. I struggle to relay the horror and beauty of the day, as my consciousness delays grasping the magnitude of losing our daughter. Words fall short.
The brutal cacophony of stillbirth, at least as I experienced it, is most accurately described in this short essay (<- Please read it!) -published by Still Standing magazine- entitled "What I Mean When I Say, 'My Daughter Was Stillborn'":
And that's the horrible truth.
In a recent trend, newer mamas boast about their post-baby bods. They claim stretch marks (tiger stripes) and floppy middles as admirable war wounds garnered by the growth of their cherished child. But, for trauma survivors, carrying around the skin they're in doesn't feel like a victory. (Although, it very well *may* be exactly that!) It feels like a reminder. While memories of my pregnancy have gotten dream-like and foggy, the contorted belly scars and extra pounds on the scale are undeniable proof of our girl's existence. There are days I sense them screaming, "SHE WAS HERE!" As if I could forget. However, her life and death are inextricably tied and my body was a vehicle for them both. It's the ultimate blessing and curse no mother should have to bear. Yet we do. Our minds make us casualty and culprit, martyr and murderer, warrior and worthless. Unwilling, active participants in a personal hell, the loss of our precious baby.
Victimized peoples tend to detach from their body, both during the heinous event(s) and afterwards. Like their real self is bobbing in a balloon high above the numb actuality of their physical self. It's equal parts shock and adrenaline, the brain's shield of protection enabling movement through the horrific now. But the aftermath can be catastrophic. Because eventually the innermost you will return to the anesthetized shell of the person you used to be. And the process of reconciling that immense disparity can be ugly. We've seen our fair share of these intense depictions in movies: Victims scrubbing their skin raw in the shower. Relieving life's worst moments through nightmares or flashbacks. Cutting arms or legs to superficially feel/express the deep pain. Being stunned into silence or amnesia regarding certain situations. Overeating or under eating to fill/starve the monster of emptiness or memory within.
None of these spirit and body reunions paint a pretty picture. However, that's the awful reality of many survivors of trauma.
I hate the term "stillborn." H.A.T.E. I feel it has no relevance to what I endured or who my daughter is. Yet it remains the most common way to describe our situation. And as with the word trauma, it fails to encompass the scope of something so complex and destructive. Margot's birth was anything but still. It was chaos and tragedy in motion. It was live-action dream destruction; the very antithesis of calm or quiet or still.
My counselor says for the first 4 months after experiencing an acute, sudden trauma, your brain and body stay in processing mode, attempting to come to terms with the event. Many moms carry their birthing stories like badges of honor. (And rightly so!) However, I balk when asked to recount details surrounding Margot Rose's birthday. Because, first, it's profoundly personal (and probs none of anyone's business). And two, it's not a typical trophy birthing story of strength and accomplishment. I struggle to relay the horror and beauty of the day, as my consciousness delays grasping the magnitude of losing our daughter. Words fall short.
The brutal cacophony of stillbirth, at least as I experienced it, is most accurately described in this short essay (<- Please read it!) -published by Still Standing magazine- entitled "What I Mean When I Say, 'My Daughter Was Stillborn'":
Stillbirth does not just happen.
It’s not clean and surgical.
Instead, it is messy and active,
and it opens a wound whose pain
throbs on long past you wish it would.
And it changes you.
So when I say, “My daughter was stillborn,”
please know that I am not
describing
something that happened to me.
I am describing a traumatic
and pivotal event
in which I was an active, unwilling participant,
an event that I participate in the echoes of still.
And that's the horrible truth.
In a recent trend, newer mamas boast about their post-baby bods. They claim stretch marks (tiger stripes) and floppy middles as admirable war wounds garnered by the growth of their cherished child. But, for trauma survivors, carrying around the skin they're in doesn't feel like a victory. (Although, it very well *may* be exactly that!) It feels like a reminder. While memories of my pregnancy have gotten dream-like and foggy, the contorted belly scars and extra pounds on the scale are undeniable proof of our girl's existence. There are days I sense them screaming, "SHE WAS HERE!" As if I could forget. However, her life and death are inextricably tied and my body was a vehicle for them both. It's the ultimate blessing and curse no mother should have to bear. Yet we do. Our minds make us casualty and culprit, martyr and murderer, warrior and worthless. Unwilling, active participants in a personal hell, the loss of our precious baby.
 |
| A snapshot of a not-very-still birth |
Comments
Post a Comment