Letting go of the Gloves
I sleep like a boxer. My fists and jaw clenched. I have had to get a bite guard to keep from rubbing my teeth down to stubs. And my husband wiggles fingers into my fists when I am absentmindedly curling them tight. He’s certain carpal tunnel syndrome lies in my future. I’m not sure if I’ve always done this or if it started ten years ago. After the trauma.
In the clearing stands a boxer, and a fighter by his trade.
It’s a peculiar problem to have, being okay with being okay. It’s like Stockholm syndrome. For years you rail against a horror that has happened to you wading deep into the caverns of human sorrow you may have only read about. You experience the raw emotionality of resurrecting. You get off on being resilient. You picture yourself with a fearsome set of steel armor, maybe a short haircut. Wielding a sword in arm like Joan, or writing hellish verse like Maya. Every day seems extreme — emotionally, physically, spiritually- because merely surviving is now extreme.
But then the damndest thing happens — healing. You almost resent it because the dominating woman with the sword and fiery words is all you know. And you don’t know how to go back to being the woman without a creased brow. You don’t know how to put down the boxing gloves.
Approaching the ten-year anniversary of my rape this is where I find myself. I am tempted to reach for PTSD reactions out of habit at moments where I no longer need them. I’ve grown so used to checking myself for triggers that trigger-free ones are foreign and unsettling. I have found I almost have an affection for my trauma.
When I left my home and my family, I was no more than a boy, in the company of strangers.
It happened in my sophomore year of college by a man wearing an Edward Scissorhands costume. After a brief period of denial, I set about healing with the unforgiving rigor of the eldest child. I lived my days in survival mode, on a strict regiment of antidepressants, therapy, and running. I started training for irrelevant races as if healing from trauma was the marathon and daily miles would somehow get me there. On leaves. In rain. On ice. In ruthless February winters. Running. Running. Running. I started to love my calves. My hamstrings. I hung pictures of boxing gloves up in my bedroom.
I fought triggers with art. I started to love the fiery poetry my imbalanced self could scribble on receipts and the back of my hand in minutes between classes. Sensory experiences were heightened through an acutely raw reception of emotion. I shook off the devil with Florence and the Machine to the point of tears. I sat gape-mouthed at Malick films. The St. Patrick’s breastplate I battled my depression with each morning conjured a rush from resurrecting out of bed. The bonds of my friendships knew no limits as trauma pierced through traditional comfort zones. In short, life was fierce. Fiercely dark but also fiercely rich in its stubborn persistence.
But months passed. Then years. And running slowly waned from superhuman catharsis to mere cardio. Prayer became tedious. Getting out of bed wasn’t a momentous ascension but a routine. Triggers became rare. Anniversaries were less marring. And days were simpler. And kinder.
I am older than I once was, and younger than I’ll be; that’s not unusual
I remember the first notable time I didn’t trigger. I went with my husband Andrew, who I had just started dating at the time, to see 12 Years a Slave. And I feared the impending scene I was certain this movie would have. But something strange happened — nothing. I waited for my body to start quivering. Breathing to quicken. Eyes to glaze over. But they never did. I viewed it as I imagine other people have always viewed those scenes, with the privilege of watching a story and not a personal experience. Andrew’s hand was atop mine, I was six years removed from the event. I was okay. And I wasn’t sure I liked it. I wasn’t sure how this Casey was supposed to respond.
I wanted a meltdown of a night curled in a ball with Andrew to comfort me. I considered binges or other various reckless choices. But those reactions didn’t seem right anymore. I didn’t need them. And that first trigger-free evening channeled a new pattern of PTSD-free reactions that left me feeling naked. Trauma had carved a hole that these reactions filled with comfort, but now those were gone too, and I had a new emptiness to fill.
And he carries the reminders of every glove that laid him down or cut him ’til he cried out.
So why let trauma go? Why not be the person I’ve grown accustomed to? I’ve certainly earned the right. And I realize the answer is this: ten years ago a 19-year-old sobbing in her dorm room wouldn’t dare whisper a hope for the life I lead now. She couldn’t conceive of a day this woman would like what she saw in the mirror, would pursue the career she dreamed of as a child, would walk down the aisle to wed a man who would stare at her with maddening love, would cradle a bright-eyed infant whom she would call Molly Joan. I often wonder if I went to that girl and told her what her life would be, the look I would see on her face. It is for her that I want to move forward. Beyond post-trauma.
Now the years are rolling by me, they are rockin’ evenly.
So how do you form a cohesive identity when the last time you felt whole you were 19 years old? I’m not quite sure who I am anymore but I know behind every trauma-fighter is a woman who wears the gloves. I’ve trying to know her. In small ways.
When I last knew Casey she was a wild-haired artist who loved Flannery O’Connor, Monty Python, Michigan, praying and endless socializing. What I don’t know is just about everything else. So I browse through hours of life trying things on for size to see how they fit. I read Bon Appetit and sometimes even cook the recipes I find inside. I trudged my white hips to a dance class. I took my first bath in 9 years last year. I bought candles. These things would seem commonplace to anyone who hasn’t experienced trauma, but for someone who has been in survival mode, these are actually significant steps towards normalcy.
Another lifeline has been the tool my dark-humored Irish family has always used in the face of tragic things: laughter. During uncomfortable moments when an innocent water balloon fight leaves me calling Andrew by my attacker’s name there is an opportunity for old mechanisms: despondency, introspection, but I am in a place where there’s a new opportunity. An opportunity to throw a, “Wow you know you have to let me win the fight now right? Or that just makes you a total asshole.”
I’ve learned I have to ask for what I need. When news cycles were in the throes of the Harvey Weinstein scandal and the #metoo’s started popping up, I anticipated the likely panic attack and realized I needed to be proactive. I told my family “I’m going to need a lot of love today.” I scheduled a run. I avoided social media.
Lastly, at the risk of sounding Pollyanna, I’m trying my hand at gratitude. Each morning I wake up and seek the mindfulness it deserves. I open the blinds and let the light blast in. I sit in bed with my baby listening to the birds. I kiss my husband often. I go through the tedium of the day: the library, coffee shops, grocery stores, persistently reminding myself that it is glorious even if I don’t feel like it is.
I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains.
The best revenge is a beautiful life well-lived. After the assault merely standing up in the ring again would make a triumphant round. But there’s another way to be a truly resilient fighter, and that’s to get out of the ring. I’m victorious because my attacker couldn’t destroy me, but more than that he couldn’t deter me from the life I deserve to lead. So I can still be a scrappy phoenix I have grown to love, but I must remember I am infinitely more than that. I am Casey. And my life is beautiful.
Lai, lai, lai.
The familiar “lai’s” of Simon and Garfunkel’s The Boxer lulled my dad and me into the thick radiant forests of a Michigan fall as we drove in his old Chevy convertible, with nowhere to go. The familiar smell of an autumn air tousled our hair. I loved these Sunday drives. I babbled unceasingly like the only daughter I was and he always nodded in absentminded approval.
“Dad I found out what my name means.”
“What’s that?”
“It means brave. Is that why you named me it?”
“No, we just kind of liked it.” This wasn’t the answer I was hoping for.
“But, do you think I’m brave dad?”
“Of course you are! You’re very brave.” There it was. That was what I wanted. I wanted to be a brave and strong, like the boxer in the song. A fighter. I loved this notion, even if I didn’t embody it on roller coasters or near spiders like other kids did. I still wanted the title. I wanted to wear my pink dresses and sing the little mermaid, but inside be a fighter. I thought for a moment and then told my dad,
“I think I’m brave. I just keep it on the inside.”
