How to tell a sad story

It all starts with a punch in the face. My mug. The fist of a woman.

I've been attempting to write this story for a decade. This is always the extent of my knowledge.

I've tried both the lengthy and short versions of this story.

The long version is as follows:

Since childhood, I've felt alone. I have unrecognized trauma in my system. It was carried for me by my body. I'd given it that responsibility.

In my early twenties, I was living in Bellingham, Washington, when a friend paid me a visit. We were walking down the street when I caught a glimpse of the woman from afar.

She was a stranger like any other at first. She was dressed in a dark, bulky coat. She had a frown and a furrowed brow on her face. It was around 3 p.m. Sunny. She was sauntering over to us.

The woman turned to face me as we got closer. I was expecting her to say something. Perhaps you should ask a question. What time is it, exactly? My face was open and ready with a smile.

But neither she nor I said anything. She made a fist raise.

After that, I needed to know that strangers could be trusted. Maybe that's why I walked away.

My preferred way of travel is by myself. I enjoy putting together a makeshift existence and then destroying it. I needed to be alone on an airplane with someone who wouldn't hurt me. In a crowded setting, I needed to experience the uneasy brushing past of another. To feel the heat of their presence beside me while believing I was protected.

It was necessary for me to be a nobody. To be alone in a museum, watching others pass by with no regard for who—or what—I was. To make friends and lovers who would only be there for a short while. I wanted to go somewhere far away from home and walk in the snow with someone I'd only met for a short time. I was wary of getting too close. I didn't want us to come into contact. I wanted us to stroll together with a sense of possibilities. For a few safe weeks, I wanted to get to know someone. After that, I had a flight to catch. To be free of scars.

The short version:

I learnt to flinch over time.

I still jump when my husband walks into a room after more than a decade. He says, "It's just me." “This is where I live.”

If not here, where do I call home? Is there a part of my trauma that I'm not aware of?

The stranger kept walking along the road. Shuffling without saying anything.

I raised my head and stretched my neck. The sky is blue.

My face has gone numb. There's no emotion. My shirt was stained with blood as it ran down my arms.

My friend's body was discovered next to me. But it's blurry and far away.

My friend afterwards informed me that I had not said a single thing

However, I only recall glancing up.

I simply recall seeing a blue sky

I simply recall seeing red blood.

My friend claims that I looked up with a blank expression and questioned, "Why?"

I'd got a black eye. I was a college student at the time, and I attended classes. Someone, anyone, should have asked me what had happened. I considered the many causes of a young woman's black eye. Waiting, I had a glance around the room.

I sat and waited. I sat and waited.

But no one bothered to inquire. I sat in class, listening to their stillness, thinking about all the ways silence makes us sick, all the ways we fail each other.

I'm still working on this story.

There's a version that you might enjoy. It's the story I tell at get-togethers. “Did you know I was once hit in the face on the street by an unknown individual? ” It astonishes people. A man once held my face in his hands after I told him about it. He said, "This face." “Who could possibly punch such a lovely face? ” But I hadn't given him permission to touch me.

There's a version with a big story. One in which I detail everything. After a writing instructor said, "We don't care what you think about this or that," I wrote it. “All we want is for the tale to be given to us.”

I gave it my all.

I made an effort to make it palatable.

But it's possible that my trauma has shattered me.

There are more tales. I'm not going to tell you about the ones I don't want you to know about.

As an example.

I don't want to say anything.

I'm not going to say how the dude is.

I don’t want to say how the man grabbed me.

How the man grabbed me and put his hand.

His hand between.

My legs.

I don’t want to say—the rest of it.

In many respects, the punch narrative is the most straightforward to tell.

I'm not sure if it's because I'm afraid of what comes next that it's taken me so long to say it.

There's the trauma I'd forgot about.

I'm not going to tell you the complete story, but imagine a woman abandoning her child in a field. Let's pretend that the child grows up and has a vague remembrance of a field. The child is undecided. Is this a meadow or a marsh? Is it a swamp or a jungle here? Is it the youngster or another person in the field? Assume the child adores their mother so much that they are unable to access that field. Let's imagine the youngster has no recollection of the field but has lived with it inside their body for decades. Let's imagine the body breaks one day and the field emerges.

Let's imagine the child is required to write it but is unable to do so. Let's pretend they make a field and put the youngster in it. Their bodies become a story rather than their own. Let's imagine the child is wanting to heal by turning their body into a story.

However, they are unsure if that is even conceivable.

What is the best way to tell a trauma story?

First and foremost, we don't have to.

We don't have anything—

We are not obligated to do so.

However, if we do, I believe we will be able to allow it to exist as it wishes. I understand the need to be well-versed in every aspect. But I have to believe that flaying ourselves isn't necessary when it comes to telling our trauma. That's all I have to say about it; it happened to me.

This is something that happened to me.

For a long time, I expected my trauma to vanish in one easy step. I was hoping for the floodgates to open up. For my recovery to be a straight line. When it didn't turn out that way, I was disappointed, frustrated, and despairing for a while.

Not long ago, I awoke in the middle of the night, convinced that I was dying. I was rushed to the ER by ambulance, where they gave me medicines but didn't tell me anything. After scouring the internet for information the next morning, I discovered I'd experienced a panic attack. My heart began to race when I closed my eyes at night after that. I awoke to soaked sheets, which had been soaked by my body's sweat.

I attempted to ignore my trauma for years. I forced it down into my system until it made me sick. Headaches, stomachaches, sleeplessness, dizziness, and heart palpitations are all common symptoms. This was something I did for almost a decade.

Finally, the panic compelled a reckoning.

We gradually open up to healing. A gradual relaxation of the hands, rather than a clenched fist to an open palm. My body, for example, is at ease as I type. Breathing freely, belly relaxed. This does not make my trauma go away. It does, however, afford a temporary break.

Did I say I was assaulted in the face in front of a violin shop?

I went inside after that. To stop the blood from flowing, I was clutching my nose.

“Help,” I said.

“Help, I got punched,” I said.

“Fuck,” I said. Goddammit. Fuck.”

A violin lesson was in progress for a young girl. Her mother fixed her gaze on me. I'm looking down at the blood on my chin. At my erratic gaze. She rushed passed me as she escorted the girl out of the shop. I'm guessing she's no longer a violinist.

Have you started laughing yet? When I tell it, this section can be amusing. I can make a crowd laugh if I use the correct tone. Do you want to take my face in your hands? Do you think I'm gorgeous yet?

But here's the thing: there's a catch. That day, the owner of the violin business looked after me. He motioned for me to take a seat. He went into his bathroom and got some toilet paper for me to stuff up my nose. He didn't even come close to touching me. It was presented to me by him. He dialed 911 and stood by my side as the ambulance arrived.

I returned to that same violin shop almost a year later. The gentleman was present.

I said, "It's me." “The man who was punched in the face in front of your store. “Do you recall?”

He replied, "Of course." “Of course, I recall your name. This is my daughter's picture. That day, she was in the back room.”

He made a motion to the female standing next to him. “You remember, right?” he asked as he turned to face her.

She said, "Of course I do."

“I simply wanted to thank you for being so nice to me that day,” I told the man. I just wanted to let you know that I won't forget about you.”

I attempted to remember two things at the time: his expression and his daughter's expression as she gazed at him.

I'm not sure how healing occurs, but I imagine it does at some time.

I'd take another route if I knew of one. I don't think so.

Perhaps it is in the sharing that we find meaning. Perhaps we don't. I'm not sure. I just know that when I type with my fingers, my body suffers less. That I feel every possibility between us as I walk by you, a stranger. That there is something hidden and waiting in every lost field.

This is all I want for us. Without flinching, to adore. To gradually open our fists.

As a result, I'm here.

I'm displaying my black eye.

Look, I'm saying.