Trauma Anniversaries & Reflections on Fear

** Trigger Warning… (Please read with extreme caution and care if you have been part of an event involving a gunman.) **

THE STORY

In 2003, 8 months and 2 weeks pregnant, I awoke and went to work at the small bank located in a tiny village, population 206?, tucked off the beaten path between two larger areas. It was placed near a river in a lower valley area by a local papermill, reminiscent of the earlier bustling tree-harvesting days of Wisconsin’s not-too-long-ago past. This banking branch may have closed alltogether now, but on this day, it was still a regular and reliable part of many people’s lives.

I talked and worked with my fellow bank tellers – or, customer service representatives as we call them now – and rubbed my big ol’ preggo belly like most mommas do at that point in the pregnancy journey attempting unsuccessfully to make space to breathe.

We talked about all the “what ifs” that expecting mommas talk about and joked about what would happen if my water broke that day.

Unknown to any of us, another person awoke that morning, initials A. T. Having lived more inside the prison system for the previous 25 years, A.T. would decide he couldn’t live outside of the system since being released two weeks earlier.

Instead, he’d make a grand announcement of revenge to the local police force and find his way back in. With that, he loaded up his vehicle with various assault weapons, several bullet proof vests, a ski mask, and some black garbage bags and drove, dressed like Rambo, to our little village bank.

Looking at a home decorating magazine and envisioning life with a new baby in the upcoming Christmas season, I heard words that startled and confused me, “Put your hands up!” A gruff voice said.

Nothing in my brain had any context for these words other than jokes. My immediate thought was “He looks a little late for Halloween.” I laughed. Laughter is, apparently, one of my stress responses. (Not very handy at that moment.)

“This is not a joke.” He said and walked toward me, pointing his gun at me, the first teller in the line.

There are details I could explain after that, but for today it is enough to say our brain has an incredible way of moving through the utterly unthinkable. It can remain calm, act quickly and clearly, and detach with perfect precision to help one do exactly what they need to do to survive.

The body often follows (though, not always), and this is what I was able to do that day.

The entire banking staff had just returned from a training the week before and after he left, with all of us physically unharmed, we moved into action like a well-trained response team, all doing our practiced part. 

Also unbeknownst to us that day, 100+ other men and women had woken up that day who would be a part of justice that day. A state-wide police training going on just several miles from our location. Any other day of the week, month, year (!) there would have been no police presence for at least 15 critical minutes.

As it was, before night fell, A.T. had been apprehended.

THE FALLOUT

A.T. may have been apprehended, but for all who have experienced trauma such as this already know, this doesn’t mean all is well – the fear doesn’t just leave you.

And when additional trauma events happen, it further strengthens the negative messages your body learns. Nine months later, our house was broken into, items scattered and stolen; the violation of that solidified fear as though superglued to my insides.

Fear and freeze took up residence in my still developing mind and my young body self.

Fear wouldn’t leave me for 14 more years. Every day, as day turned to dark night, hypervigilance haunted me. Any trip that took my husband out of town at night meant a pretend party in mom’s room as I’d invite the kids to have a “sleep over.”

As they grew, this changed and I’d force myself to put my big girl panties, pretend I was okay, ignored the fear, and tried to just be thankful my husband only went away a few times each year. Staying up most of the night became a regular part of life when he was gone. 

Because inside I was terrified.

THE HEALING

In 2017 I walked into a therapist’s office for the first time. Desperate from ministry pain, marriage pain, and the pain I brought into all of it from the very first day, I could no longer function in my daily life. Due to further trauma that was just on the horizon, I only met with this counselor a total of 3 times, but the freedom she led me to was profound and *just in time* for the up-coming season I was blissfully unaware of around the corner.

As a Christian counselor, this therapist took me through a few processes, one of which was a prayer process called “Immanuel Prayer”. She’d asked permission to guide me through this prayer process and, in my daze, I just agreed because she was the one who supposedly knew what she was doing.

During the prayer, she asked the Lord to show me where He was that day in the bank. (IMPORTANT WARNING: This is actually a very delicate place to step into with a traumatized person. I cannot recommend doing this if you are not trained, educated in trauma and in the processes of how to help someone out of possible responses after this question.) This woman was well-trained and had years of licensed counseling under her belt and knew what to do with me, should I have become overwhelmed.

In a moment of sudden shock I clearly saw a being, arms stretched out wide, standing in front of me in the bank. He was silent, but He was between me and the gun – and that was all I needed in the present moment to release the grip of fear.

He had been there. And He had protected me.

If He did then, He could again.

Fear fled from my body that day, though, triggers occasionally occur and, I still had to learn how to smove through inevitable panic/anxiety as I learned to walk into a bank again. The biggest would be only weeks later when, after our forced termination, I was left to live for 2.5 years with a husband who worked night shift. Gone were the days of regularly having him at home at night … but sweet freedom from the grip of fear had come.

TRAUMAVERSARIES 

This year was 20 years.

20 years!

20 years of remembering each December 4 – the start of my day 20 years ago, the middle of my day 20 years ago, the afternoon 20 years ago, and flashes of what happened afterward from 20 years ago.

Each year when the anniversary date comes and go usually just I know what day it is. That’s often how trauma dates come and go- usually you are the only one who remembers how significant it is.

In these past few years, as I’ve “practiced what I preach” more often than not, more people know my story. More people see truly see me. I’ve invited them in to sacred places and they’ve entered and invited me into theirs.

So, when I got a note this year, I had to smile. “Thinking of you as you head toward a few anniversaries…”

You see – as you fight through healing, do the inner work, allow others to enter in, fear recedes more and more and more. What’s left is the beauty of a hard-earned gift you never wanted…but one which you can then, and really only then, pass on to others.

And this year, on that same date, instead of being known as the day A.T. came and shattered the safety of my world, I took it back – and can now announce I’m officially certified in Brainspotting.

#FEARISNOTMYFUTURE