The One About Childhood Trauma

As I've been preparing to head to Taiwan to work at Morrison Academy in Taichung for (at least) the next two years, I've had a lot of time for self-reflection and such. It's been great to think about things that I don't normally make the time to think about, but I have to say that there have been some pretty rough things that I've had to work through. The following is a brief window into some of the reflecting I've been doing. The facts might not all be accurate, because this is a story beginning through the eyes of a seven year old. My prayer is that my story, the good, the bad, and the ugly, may serve as a catalyst for myself and others to help the next generation avoid some of the pain we endured. God has been gracious to me, and for this I am grateful. I am also eternally grateful for my parents, brothers, extended family, missionary aunt & uncles, and friends who have helped me on the journey of life thus far.

Here is just a short excerpt of my story thus far:

I was evacuated. If you know me, you probably already knew that. In fact, you probably even already know that I was evacuated twice within just a few months. If you know me well (or the situation I was involved in at the time) you also probably know that I was never in any ‘real’ danger. I never had a gun pointed at my head. I never had anyone break into my home while I was there. I was never the physical victim of unruly soldiers. No one close to me died in my evacuation experience. 

I was also a child. 

Let me repeat that, I was a child. 

When I was in second grade my whole life was turned upside down. I was an odd kid, and if you know me you probably think I’m at least somewhat of an odd adult. See, from a very young age I had at least the first 18 years of my life mapped out. I was born in Zaire, the now Democratic Republic of Congo. I was going to be baptized in Zaire within walking distance from the hospital where I was born. I was going to graduate from high school at the school where my mom was the principal. I would probably live there my whole life and hopefully get married and have my kids there. I was a little girl with big dreams, and then one day they were all gone. Well maybe not one day, I think there’s a novelist who writes something about how falling in love happens slowly, and then all at once, maybe my childhood dreams being crushed was something like that. 

It all changed when this little country to the east, Rwanda, had a genocide and a civil war that spilled into Eastern Congo. Of course, if we’re being honest it really started long before that. It started when the first explorers came to Congo and settled there to do research. It started when the world allowed Belgium to rule over Congo and ‘care’ for its people. It started when the US (and other people) ‘freed’ Congo from its captors and handed the country over to the dictator Mobutu. It started when Mobutu followed in the footsteps of the Belgians and kept Congo (what should be the wealthiest country in Africa based on natural resources) as a poor nation because he did not share the wealth the people acquired for him with the people themselves. It started when Mobutu got sick and fled the country. It started when Kabila crossed the border. It happened slowly, and then all at once. 

This is my story, but it’s not only my story. It’s the story of the hundreds of kids around the world who have been forced to leave the only place they’ve ever called ‘home.’ It’s the story of the thousands and thousands of Congolese who have died, who have watched their children carry guns, who have watched their children starve, who have watched their infrastructure crumble, and who hold onto hope despite all odds. That’s the story of Congo and many other countries. I am a part of that story, though not a large part. What I have come to understand is that although I am just a small drop in the bucket of that story, I am still a part of it and my experience is valid. My trauma is different from that of many other people, but that does not mean I don’t have trauma. Just because other people have gone through worse things, that does not mean what I went through was not bad. No child should ever have to listen to gunshots in their neighborhood. My experience was not nearly as bad as it could have been, but it is still my trauma. 

Tonight I went through a counseling session using the EMDR tool. In this experience my fingers tingled to type my story. My feet longed to run away, or more truthfully to run back toward something I had left. My eyes drifted to the left and I stared, unblinking, for an unnatural amount of time at absolutely nothing. That was my first word: nothing. I feel nothing when I am staring in that way. My next word: safe. I feel safe when I tune out the world around me, when I ignore all the things I cannot control. My next word: helpless. I am a seven year old girl, and I have no power to help the people around me or to even stay and be one with them. As I remembered these feelings of helplessness, of wanting to help but simply not being able to my body was wracked with sobs louder than any I can remember. My whole body grieved. And then this,

A truth spoken into my life: I was powerless, but I am no longer that little girl. 

I am a woman now. I am an intelligent, gifted, and privileged young woman who has the power to make a difference in other children’s lives. I can’t go back; I can’t change the hurt that happened in Congo or the fact that I simply could not help. What I can do is figure out where in the world I can help now. I can love the students I am going to serve in Taiwan, and I can always, always keep a part of my heart and soul attuned to Congo and ready to serve in whatever way God calls me to. 

My journey is not yet complete. My grieving is not over. But after 16 years maybe, just maybe, I can get rid of the ropes that are binding me and move forward in new strength because of what I experienced. 

All this by the grace of God.