I’ve been blessed with a very stable, comfortable sort of life, so for me, trauma is something that has happened to other people (including several of my near and dear). I sometimes wonder if my ability to dance through life (like Fiyero in “Wicked”) has left me less resilient, too sensitive, moved to tears if I hear another teacher shout at a student or if I read a sad story. I look at the people I know who have had difficult life experiences, and there is a special quality, a certain depth and dignity, that I wonder perhaps comes from having faced those challenges.
Today I chatted to a friend who has had way more than her fair share of trauma, including some major health struggles. And she told with me that her husband felt that perhaps God is preparing them for something, and how strange that seems when she feels so limited by her circumstances, but I could totally see it – she has developed depths of courage and peace and determination and trust that I can only literally gasp at. She is such a blessing and encouragement to everyone who knows her, and I’m sure she would be able to offer so much help and hope to someone facing similar struggles.
My husband has had pastoral roles in schools for years, so he hears a lot of sad stories, and he also gets shouted at not infrequently, by disgruntled teenagers and their even more disgruntled parents, which is something that would no doubt leave me running for cover. I lack backbone when it comes to stress and conflict.
This half term break we were driving a fair distance on holiday and made a quick stop at a shop, and the boys announced they were desperate for the toilet, but there was none around, so I directed them to go behind a car in the grassy car park we were next to (judge away; I know it’s uncouth). At this point, a woman emerged and started shouting and swearing at us for being disgusting. She continued shouting as I turned and led the boys away, lacking enough arms to put around each of them to shield them from her words. Two of them started crying and gasping, one of them made it back to the car in silence, then once inside said, “I knew there were people like that in films and books; I never expected I’d meet someone like that in real life.” (Therein lies one encouragement and success: we’ve protected the boys so that they have no experience of being yelled at – I am raising them as sheltered as I was. Pretty good going to have nearly hit double figures and your only ugly experience with an adult is the fictional Agatha Trunchball.)
I felt incredibly guilty I had put the boys in a position they would be shouted at like that, guilty that we hadn’t found a better spot, guilty that we had so offended someone. (So guilty that I had to step into the nearest shop, buy a Bournville, and feed them squares as I talked to them about what had happened.) And when my husband emerged from a shop, it was my turn to cry as I relayed the story of our tiny trauma.
I was surprised by the effect on me. I felt a bit shaken by it for the rest of the day; I couldn’t stop my thoughts from returning to it.
And then I wondered if perhaps my tiny pathetic experience was a little insight into what it’s like to experience proper stress. I know stress affects people physically: I’ve read about it and I’ve seen it in people close hand. But that day as I felt my heart racing and helped my boys control their breathing, I actually felt it. I could feel the effects of the adrenaline leaving my body for hours afterwards.
So now I am trying to upscale that feeling but by a magnitude of, like, a lot, imagine what it might be like to enter that flight or fight mode frequently or for prolonged periods. The boys had that one tiny taste of being sworn at and scared, but I know that the sad reality is that there are plenty of children for whom that is a regular experience, and I wonder what that feels like, how that changes a person. I really hope that teaches me a bit more compassion.
So, to the very cross lady in the car park, I do want to apologise a bit. I’m sorry that the sight of a wee-ing five year old so offends you (to me, it’s normal – little boys are like tea pots, and when you let them go in the garden it at least helps keeps the foxes away from the chickens). I wonder if you were dealing with your own stress, and that explains the strength of your reaction. Perhaps your cat had just died? The boys and I prayed for you that day, and they have continued to refer back to your nervously since (although it hasn’t stopped them from the odd sneaky wee in a bush).
But I also wanted to thank you, because perhaps you’ve afforded us a very helpful lesson.
Even if that lesson is only that I am really rubbish at being shouted at and should continue to avoid any professional role where this might be a possibility.
Oh, and to find better hiding places.
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