Traumarama Mama

I’ve been struggling lately with the treatment of acute vs. chronic trauma in our society. As many “social media psychologists” have wisely noted of late, we are all experiencing chronic trauma as we battle the ever-present undercurrent of a pandemic sprinkled with a global and local war on women, the impending doom of climate change, and emboldened racists, YET we continue on with business as usual.

Acute trauma, on the other hand, is treated much differently. We are socially evolved enough to know that if someone has experienced a death in the family or is undergoing cancer treatments or is divorcing their partner, we must give them time, space, love, energy, food etc. The cynical side of me thinks that this is because there’s an unspoken time limit on this type of trauma. Our support is only required for a finite amount of time, as is socially acceptable, before moving on with our own lives. And similarly, if we are experiencing this acute trauma, we only allow ourselves to accept time, space, love, energy, or food for a brief moment before we feel the urge to continue contributing meaningfully as a capitalist cog in the proverbial wheel, henny.

The reason I’m struggling is because I feel like I have been living with additional, unrecognized chronic trauma since January 30, 2020 and, as mentioned, no one knows what to do with this type of trauma. January 30 is the day my foster son was placed in my home. Since that day, I have never stopped loving him and I have never stopped fearing that he may be ripped from me at any moment. I have never stopped beating myself up for being a white, privileged accomplice in an unfair system. I have never stopped caring for his birth mother. I have never stopped questioning my role in his life. I have never stopped providing for him as a single parent. I have never stopped to breathe.

This is obviously on top of the collective, chronic trauma we are all currently experiencing. And I don’t know what I’m hoping to change. I know that I can’t change the actions of others, I know that. So I guess it’s on me. Give myself the time, space, love, energy, and food I need to feel full (and that, my friends, is a double entendre!). I DID recently hire a housekeeper who’s fulfilling a lot of the life partner needs I’d listed out to my therapist so…let the healing (and dusting) begin! I’ve also been going to some support groups for foster parents. Sometimes listening to a bunch of sad stories can be triggering, but in the latest group a father who has adopted three children in foster care said to me “he’s yours until he isn’t.” So simple, and so powerful. I was lamenting about the limited voice and control I have over my foster son’s therapeutic care. He made me feel strong. I will never forget that. Much like I will never forget the kind woman in the grocery store watching me struggle with a newborn baby in line. “I see you, Mama. It gets better.” Thank you, beautiful stranger (oh god, I think that’s a shitty Madonna song).

Perhaps one thing we can do is at least ACKNOWLEDGE our chronic trauma publicly. How else are we expected to offer or receive time, space, love, energy, and food if suffering in silence? I’ve been trying to do this somewhat cheekily in regards to our collective trauma. When I see friends I haven’t seen in months, I say “Hey! Remember when we survived a pandemic?” Maybe that’s a tactic I can start using to acknowledge my own personal chronic trauma, as well. Instead of “I’m fine,” I can try “Ya know, I’m struggling with the fear of losing my child, but…he’s mine until he isn’t and we will survive. Thank you for asking.” Not everyone will be equipped to hear that, and that’s okay. Not everyone will be ready to share their own chronic trauma, and that’s okay. I have faith that the next generation will be much more trauma-informed than we, the geriatric millennials, are. And there are already great strides being taken to normalize prioritizing one’s mental health, especially in low-income communities of color that have traditionally steered clear of mental health matters. We’ll get there. Even if we’re living on Mars at that point (ahh, the doom!).

In other news, my brother recently found out that he’s going to be a father. I have been nothing but supportive, and yet he still felt compelled to tell me that his will be the first “real” grandchild of the family. Harsh as hell, right? But guys, I have something profound to tell you that you’ve probably never heard before: Hurt People Hurt People. BOOM! After so many years of therapy and better understanding my brother’s own chronic trauma, I honestly felt more sadness for him than for myself. He is so jealous of me that he needed to say something he thought would steal my joy. Spoiler alert, it did not. I am so confident in the choices I have made to become a mother, and am so believing in the true love my family has for my child, that I have nothing but empathy for my brother. I can’t wait to be an aunt. And I can’t wait to watch him struggle with the challenges of first-time fatherhood (look I’m empathetic, but I’m still petty as hell).