Trauma...

A few weeks ago, I listened with horror to the news of the 2 young teens who were murdered while hiking. I can't begin to imagine what their families are feeling and don't want to image what these children experienced in their final moments. This horrific event has triggered the memory of 2 young girls, Ashley and Miranda, who were killed in Oregon City in 2002. From January to August of that year, these young women were in our living rooms every evening on the news as we all hoped that they'd just run away. When we learned they'd been killed, I wept as if they were my own family. In a way, they were - this human family that is capable of such beauty and such barbarity.

This connection that my mind made between a current event and one from the past made me think of what we are learning about inter-generational trauma, the historical trauma that is passed on through our blood lines and collective memory - Native American genocide, the chattel slavery and subsequent oppression of blacks in this country, famine in Ireland, the Holocaust, for  just a few examples. We now know that we carry the pain of our ancestors, not just in the stories we are told, but in our DNA. Trauma changes brain chemistry.

I think of the inter-generational aspect of alcoholism, whether yours was a family with a white picket fence where everything looked perfect from the outside, or the household where dishes and kids went flying on a regular basis. I think, too, of the personal aspect of trauma, our own variety of post-traumatic stress that we often bring with us into recovery based on the madness and often dangerous behaviors we participated in or witnessed during our active addictions. Auto accidents, overdoses, falls, fights, getting lost, not wanting to be found, losing relationships, shots fired, people dying...  Sometimes it can feel like we get into recovery and everything is simply grand. Yes, it felt wonderful to stop watching my rear-view mirror for the police, to no longer engage in screaming matches, to know where I was when I woke up in the morning, and, it was important to acknowledge the absolute insanity of my substance related history. We can be fairly cavalier with our "drunk-a-logs," recounting stories that make "normies" take a step back. Yes, these stories can be funny with a dose of pathos and a strong helping of survivor's relief. I can laugh now, we say, but at the time... At the time...

How does heartbreaking news about strangers lead me to the experience of trauma? Some convoluted train of thought that goes from one end of the emotional spectrum to another. I am a feeler, a bit of an empath. I feel it when others hurt. Is this a by-product of growing up with alcoholism, this sensitivity to another's emotional state?  My mother was the same - we'd tease her when she teared up at TV commercials, thinking it a sign of weakness. Yes, my mom was a bit of a sap, but she was stronger than I'd imagined. I am too, and I now view my sensitivity as a sign of connection. Connection doesn't always feel good. I watch the news and see murdered children and polar bears who's home is disappearing; I see migrants and immigrants fearful for their families, dogs injured in so-called sport. Sometimes it is too much. I don't know that I am supposed to know how a family is suffering in the Ukraine or Sudan. Humans evolved in tribes, and in long ago history, we may have only known 50 people in our entire lives, if that many. Today, my tribe numbers in the billions.

I've asked this question before, and will likely again - how do I remain informed while not getting overwhelmed with the sheer volume of suffering? How do I protect myself and care for others? What can I constructively do with my caring? Service is the obvious answer - service to my family, to my group, to my community.  Where do you turn hurt into caring into service?