I can’t remember a time where I consistently felt good about myself.
It traces back to age five—I was walking down the hall of the church with Miss Armine and the other “special kids” that got a solo. I suppose it wasn’t actually a solo; it was the five of us singing together, but still-out of a hundred kids in the children’s choir, Miss Armine chose us.
It’s strange that I didn’t see this for the honor that it was. The other four chosen ones were pastors’ kids, I was the only one who wasn’t special. And yet, the only thing I remember that day was this conversation:
Jackie (laughing, to Miss Armine): “Your heels are clicking across the floor.”
Me: “Oh, those are probably my heels.”
Picture that-a five year old saying her quarter inch heels were the cause of the echoes down the hall. Looking back, it was probably adorable, yet for years I thought back to that night with disgust.
How embarrassing. You are so stupid. That was a weird thing to say. They laughed because you are strange.
This was one of my first memories.
Now, when the therapist mentions my past traumas, I’m surprised that she brings up these thoughts. I’m surprised that my stupid little replays of these moments count as trauma. To me, they seem so insignificant, and I find myself feeling even worse because I have no reason to be overthinking these things.
I whisper the word to myself. Trauma.
There’s power in diagnosis. A label, a name so simple yet has been defined, and perhaps I’m not so crazy after all.
I’ve been through a lot. Sure, others have been through worse, but isn’t that the truth for everyone? Everyday I have to remind myself that just because I could have gone through worse doesn’t minimize my hurts. I have been abused. I have been bullied. I have struggled through nights of darkness and afternoons where I can’t move without shaking. Now that I know these symptoms stem from trauma, I see myself differently.
I’m not so weak anymore.
Today, I can choose to look past my trauma. This doesn’t mean it didn’t happen, but I can choose to not be defined by them. I think many people, especially parents of struggling teens, are hesitant to diagnose because it makes the issue real. But my problems are real, and giving them a label gives me a reason to be who I am today.
I have given a name to my daily struggles: depression, trauma, panic, but I have also given a name to myself—a child of God. This is what I am known for, this is who I am, and these are my hurts. This is how God made me, and this is my story.
