My Trauma's Got A Trigger Finger

My trauma has a very active trigger finger. It fires when I least expect it, and long after I thought I'd dealt with the pain and repercussions of my past relationship. I know my experience isn't unique, but the old adage of 'a problem shared...' might prove to be somewhat true if I get my thoughts out into the ether of the internet. Or so my thinking goes.

My story begins 4 years ago, when I started dating an alcoholic gambling addict. I didn't know about his addictions at the beginning, but they soon became apparent, and the destruction began. He was self-destructive, and destroyed my self-confidence too, by being verbally abusive when the drink took control. Hearing the words he would hurl at me was like a voice being given to my worst fears about myself, etching themselves on my brain with each slurred shout.

However bad the pain was at the time, though, I didn't realise the true extent of the trauma I was facing, or its long-lasting effects, until after the relationship was done. Part of the reason was because when you date an addict, you forgive their actions because they have a real problem, and you try, and try, and try again to support them towards change.

But change never came.

The idea to share this story came to me recently when I reacted to a comment said to me in jest. My clear-thinking mind knew that it was nothing but a joke, but some deeper part of myself felt instantly wounded and was quick to let that wound bleed and make me cry. Not just little sniffles either, but deep, wracking sobs.

When the crying was over, I went and sat with myself and really questioned why this was getting to me so much. The answer wasn't slow in coming forth: it was past trauma, rearing its ugly head. Having gone through two years of being insulted in any way possible, I can now be triggered by any comment my brain can twist into negativity, even when said without malice.

You see, even when you think you've worked on trauma, you realise that remnants can still remain, and that it never truly disappears. This is especially true when, like me, you didn't realise you were experiencing trauma at the time, or that you were in an abusive relationship, until time has given you perspective. Don't get me wrong - I knew the relationship wasn't healthy, but because I thought there was love there I never categorised it as 'traumatic' or abusive'.

Perhaps I also didn't want to admit to myself that the relationship was that bad, because to do so would be admitting that I'd chosen the wrong person, and was willingly staying in an unhealthy relationship. Opening my eyes to the truth would mean the intelligence that I pride myself on had been completely blinded by love, and I wasn't ready to accept that.

The addiction also clouded my vision when it came to labelling my relationship as abusive. I blamed his actions on the bottle in his hand, not on the man himself. I told myself that it was the vodka spewing out vitriol, not the man who claimed to love me. He would never do that. He was not a monster.

But, just as time gives you perspective, the long-lasting effects of trauma also cause you to face up to the delayed reality of your past experiences. When it pops up and intervenes in your current life, you're forced to confront the fact that for your relationship to be affecting you to this day, and in such a negative manner, something traumatic must have occurred.

Trauma, by it's very nature, doesn't disappear easily. It leaves mental and emotional scars, and scars are often slow to heal, and slower to fade. I started to realise that the words and insults that I'd had hurled at me had made me ultra-sensitive to anything that could hurt my feelings, and that could shatter the fragile self-worth I'd fought to built up since the end of my relationship.

As much as I was reluctant to take a fresh look at these old wounds, especially when I thought my work had been done, I knew this would keep happening until I did. So I forced myself to come face to face with my pain, and get myself to express all the emotions still festering inside.

I cried.

I got angry.

I got sad again.

I wanted vengeance.

But most of all, I wanted peace.

I wrote a letter to this man, telling him every single way he had broken me as a person, every single action that brought me to tears. I relived those moments in the name of exorcism, and purged the pain out of my body.

Most importantly, though, I told him that I was no longer going to let him have an ounce of control or power over my life. The mental reins he'd been holding had been cut. I was no longer inviting him to be a part of my present in any way. His dominion was demolished.

I never sent the letter - it was for me, more than him - but it was the starting step I needed to continue to heal. I know better than to think that my trauma has vanished, but the way I interact with it has begun to change. Rather than see my scars as painful enemies, standing between me and healthy relationships, I see them as reminders. Reminders of my strength. Reminders of my growth. Reminders to never, ever, let myself be treated in the same way ever again.

My trauma has a very active trigger finger, but I'm quicker on the draw.