Trauma Brain

My husband and I recently took a trip to take a bath. I know that might seem strange, but I’m a bather and sitting in our hot tub under the Bonny Doon stars was something we’d done several times a week for years, and we’ve been missing those regular soaks. Even more heartbreaking, my old house didn’t have an indoor tub until this past April, when during the “last of the ugly remodel” as we called it, I put in a huge tub next to my office. Finally, after twelve years, I had a tub for a bubble bath, only for it to burn a mere four months later. I really, really needed a bath.

After many Google searches, I found a lovely inn not too far away that had an indoor whirlpool (all outdoor hot tubs are closed due to covid) and took dogs. We planned it for the week between Valentine’s Day and my birthday. It was time to rest after a stressful twelve months. I’d been looking so forward to this trip, so I was quite surprised on the morning we were on our way to find myself on the closet floor, unable to function. I’d packed the day before, but in that moment, as we were about to leave, I began to panic.

What if the house burned while we were gone? What should I take with me? Do I have to save everything I saved the first time? What about all those damn vital documents that have taken months to recover? What about all the new clothes? Shoes? Do they matter? What if I lose them all again?

I’ve been focusing a lot on the grief part of this process, ignoring the darker twin called trauma. I’m sure I’ve been traumatized by life before, but nothing this raw or complete. I’ve lost the very place I called home. The world is crazy right now, between the covid lockdowns, failing economy, protests of all sorts as well as the eco disasters. My home in the mountains was always my sanctuary, the place I could be safe if the world around me fell. I had extra food stored up there. Protection. Water even when the power went out. Now, I’m in a town, surrounded by people and no longer safe if shit hits the fan. The trauma though, comes from realizing I was never safe.

Trauma brain also has me looking for people to blame. Sometimes I’ll find myself wondering why CalFire let the mountain burn. There are many eyewitness reports from people who didn’t evacuate of firefighters watching houses burn from the sidelines, as if someone told them to step back and let it happen. I’ve heard rumors that our part of the mountain was hit so hard because of an out-of-control backfire lit by the fire crews. Then there’s their latest mandate to create no-build zones, where no one can build, including those who already own land and lost homes and businesses to fires. Or the requirement that my road meets CalFire’s new safety regulations before I can build. Do they realize how long it takes to widen a road?  It gets a person wondering what exactly is going on. Is this a conspiracy to move us into the cities, like so many proclaim these days? Is it a move to cover their asses? Did my government indeed let my home burn? If so, am I safe in the rental, or will they let this burn as well? Am I on my way down the rabbit-hole toward QAnon-land? When I let myself go into these spaces of fear, it’s hard to get out. Paranoia and trauma go together.

I can avoid those thoughts for the most part, but sometimes trauma brain comes along and takes over. It’s like a fog, but in this case an idea or inability to act fills my consciousness, rendering me useless. As I sat on the floor of that closet, I imagined the rental house in flames while I was gone. I looked at the lapis lazuli cat ring my uncle made me, the journal to my sons that I’d started when they were little, the teddy bear from my childhood. These are the few things I saved from the fire and now I was afraid to leave them. The homemade quilts and sewing basket by my friend Shawn, gifts since the fire, the few handmade items I own. I began to look for another suitcase to put them in, but we only have two suitcases and they were already packed for the vacation. For a moment, I felt like I was falling down a cliff, only there was no bottom.

My husband hurried me, making the trauma-fog swirl in my head. I told him to go away, there was no way he could help me. Part of my mind was held hostage, but another part of me could think and understood this to be what it was—post traumatic stress. I knew if I had a few moments to let it be, the mood would pass. I remained on the floor, reminding myself that I’ve lost everything before and I could do it again. Attaching myself to the few things from my past was not what I wanted. I’m in a blessed place, even if it hurts. To lose all your belongings is a gateway to freedom. Do not ruin it by placing significance on those items that made it, for all items are transient, even my body.

After a moment, the brain fog passed. I rose from the floor and put all the items back where they belonged. Then I opened the office files and took out the passports and shoved them in my handbag. I may believe that grief is the portal to the divine, but I still live in the world of humanity and that world feels like it’s falling apart. I think it's best to have our identity papers in order, don’t you?