Many colors
Source: Wendy Lustbader
We don’t like to be reminded of painful experiences. We stay away from places that hold bad memories, just as we avoid music that brings back hard times too vividly. A sensory cue like a certain smell or a specific kind of touch might be something we avoid at all costs. We just don’t want to go back there.
There is a small patch of grass in front of the vet’s office where we brought our 16-year-old dog Murphy for the merciful end to her life. She paused there to mark the spot even though she could barely squat with her arthritis pain. We stood watching as this moment was etched into our memory. Since I rarely walk by there, when I did a few weeks ago I was seized by this old grief once again—powerfully, as though 20 years hadn’t passed since the day Murphy died. Such is the force of visceral memory.
This is how traumatic memory works. The imprint on the brain is unerasable, existing in a realm outside of time. Importantly, however, repeated exposure to reminders of the trauma lessens the impact. A well-studied therapeutic modality, exposure therapy, does just that, prompting us to re-visit something awful by recounting it with as much detail as we can muster. This recounting takes place gradually and always in the presence of a therapist offering safety and comfort. By the end of this de-sensitizing process, such memories tend to lose much of their potency.
Normally, we tend to keep our worst hurts and sorrows well concealed, making sure that no one—most of all ourselves—can approach what’s there. The quick retort, “I don’t want to talk about it,” fends off close friends so that we don’t have to get near what feels too searing to recall. Thus, our difficult memories preserve their power, and the intensity of what remains hidden doesn’t get to be rendered more manageable by sympathy or comfort. We continue on alone in the sequestered parts of ourselves.
Shame is a complicated barrier. Just the thought of admitting to someone that these hidden areas exist can fortify our desire to remain silent. Those of us who experienced abuse as children may believe what happened was our fault, despite rationally knowing that we are innocent. In these situations, the adults have all the power and consequently bear all the responsibility, but we didn’t see it that way at the time.
The act of coming out of isolation with such memories is a triumph, releasing the longstanding burden of carrying the secrets. The most profound release is to be in the company of others who once experienced similar childhood adversity. Hearing others recall the violation of their innocence, we feel a surge of compassion for the children they once were, and then we can grant our younger selves the same absolution. It wasn’t our fault. None of it ever was.
Copyright Wendy Lustbader, 2024.
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