WHY DON’T I REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED?
A REASON FOR THE MISSING PIECES
“So do you go here?”
This was the best compliment I could have ever received. My cheeks flushed in the elevator, and I tried to mute my response. I didn’t want my family to see how much I loved the question. I fiddled with the pocket lint in my cardinal red Stanford hoodie and considered my answer, “Not yet!”
Somehow between watching March Madness, researching Ivy League schools, and deciding I wanted to live in California, my only goal in life became attending Stanford University.
On a summer vacation just before eighth grade, my uncle modified our family’s flights to include a layover in San Francisco so we could visit the campus. This is how I found my awkward, overachieving, middle-school self blushing in a Stanford University elevator. The question, “do you go here,” felt like a prophetic inquiry. It was a clear directive from the Lord himself, confirming the path before me. Nothing could get in my way.
Well one thing could get in my way: me. I did not attend Stanford University. But not because I didn’t get in. Because I didn’t even apply.
A WAY OUT
By the time college applications were due, Biola University, an institution defined by a common expression of faith, had generated an extremely magnetic pull on me. Honestly, it sounded like a four year academic church camp- what’s not to love?
Though I was certainly drawn to Biola, I will admit in hindsight, I was also relieved to have found a respectable way out of my big scary dream. I didn’t want to reckon with the imposter syndrome clouding my relationship with Stanford. With very little evidence, I was wholly convinced I could never get into the school I held in such high regard. My worth subconsciously tied to a Stanford acceptance letter, a rejection letter would have confirmed my inadequacy and devastated me. The application process was involved, it required a fairly sizable fee, and it felt like a lot of work for someone who had all but committed to a different school.
Let’s say I applied out of curiosity. Which would be worse: Stanford rejecting me, or me having to reject Stanford? Anticipating the inevitable heartbreak, I did what I felt was most rational at the time. I cut myself off from both emotional experiences entirely by not even applying.
A FORM OF PROTECTION
In many ways this is how our body deals with physical suffering. When faced with devastating pain, we might pass out or go into a state of shock. In an act of protection, our body cuts off our mind from what it believes it cannot handle. This happens with emotionally traumatic events too. To shield us from the unimaginable, our brain stores jarring and disturbing memories as fragments rather than full narratives.
In trying to recount my sexual assault, I was left with so many blanks. I knew what happened, but I was missing the links. Instead I was left with images, feelings, sounds and even smells. Surely this either meant it didn’t happen as I remembered, or I was making it all up, right? Maybe I was just really drunk. I didn’t feel like I had a handle on the narrative, so I shied away from trusting it.
Confiding in a few close friends, I casually tripped over the incident with a blasé detachment. I think I was warily searching for someone to tell me what I already knew but felt I couldn’t prove. I watched their uneasy faces exchange which-one-of-us-is-gonna-say-it glances. Based on what I shared, it was apparently obvious to others what had happened that night.
I WISH I HAD KNOWN
Regardless of all the evidence, I still felt too confused, too disconnected from the experience to accept what happened. This is how a normal psychologically protective response tragically becomes fuel for malignant denial.
I remember the stories of my life extremely well, so drawing such random blanks on this impactful event made it feel like there were holes in my story. Years later these blanks that made me feel like a liar would instead ironically support the validity of my trauma. I wish I had known this about our brains before letting my spotty memory convince me I was a dysfunctional drama queen.
SAFETY & SECURITY
It was several years before I could take an honest inventory of my choice not to apply to my dream school. Removed from the decision and fully embedded in a life much different than had I attended Stanford, I was finally ready to face some uncomfy truths about myself.
As our mind detects we are in a place of safety and security, it might let the truth of our painful experiences seep out little by little. Strange memories and uncomfortable realizations may surface.
If no one has told you before, it is normal to be confronted by hard realizations or questions some time after the event. Ideas and encounters that might not have felt like a big deal ten years ago, could feel all-consuming to you now. This does not make you dramatic. This does not make you a liar. This does not make you weak.
It means you are a human having a human response to something traumatic. It means you are safe. And it means you are healing.
What would it be like to believe this?
When it feels like we don’t have control over our memories, let’s remember we do have control over what we tell ourselves. Let these truths become our mantra.
A MANTRA FOR THE WEEK
As we go through our week and manage distressing feelings or confusing reactions let these words be the ones we choose:
I am a human having a human response to something traumatic. I am safe. And I am healing. Let it be.
Sharing is caring! If these words resonated, please share ‘em with a friend!