Locked Rooms and Emotional Wellness
We sat in a circle in a living room, gathered for a soul care training event. It should be made clear from the outset that I had no business being there. My soul was in dire need of care. My body constantly ached, and I was on the verge of developing shingles at the age of 30. My health anxiety was spiraling out of control. I convinced myself I had a different disease every day.
Despite this disconnection, I was at this event, pretending to be ready to engage in pastoral care for others. The event progressed in a typical manner, with leaders guiding us through scenarios and role-playing exercises on caring for others. All was well and nothing was abnormal. However, I was seething with anger. My body harbored a dark rage that only surfaced when I was alone in my car or sadly, with my family.
Then, a leader turned and directed a question to my wife. She answered honestly, describing how challenging the season had been for us. They provided care for her and then turned to me, asking how it made me feel. In my mind, I wanted to say, "Screw off," (PG version) but outwardly, I awkwardly mumbled, "Um, I'm not sure." An uncomfortable silence ensued, and the leaders pressed, "Can you say more about that?"
The polite and composed façade of Matt began to crumble. Like a teapot slowly releasing its pressure, I started speaking about things I never thought would escape my lips. I can't recall every word, but the overarching theme was clear: I don't trust God. Memories from my time as a youth worker in acute mental health care spilled out of my mouth before I could censor them.
Why would God allow a young girl to be raped by her uncle? Why would he sit there as a girl is sold into trafficking by her own mother?” Why wouldn’t he have someone intervene before a young man accidently overdosed on some drugs his buddies dropped off?” “Why do some people play with their kids in the park and then head home to beautiful homes and warm beds, while others slip into the same park to find a place to sleep?”
"Why do I feel so alone? Why is nothing going as it should in this city?"
In an act of what I consider divine grace, the leader asked a friend of mine to address my chaotic outpouring. He's a kind soul, a safe person that I trusted, and his care was precisely what I needed. He asked soft and non-leading questions. This helped me land the turbulent plane, at least for that day.
I don't have a profound theological conclusion for this blog. What I do know is that I still get angry at God, and I frequently ponder the questions I mentioned earlier. Life down here is traumatic, and it’s more traumatic for some than for others. This, in its own way, is a trauma. Life is profoundly unfair.
Like I’ve indicated earlier, my sense when I see injustice or look into the face of secondary trauma or as it’s known in my field - vicarious trauma - is to look away. I stuff it in the cracks and corners of my soul where I don’t have to see it.
The brilliant Dr. Peter Levine often defines trauma as something adverse that gets stuck in our nervous system and overwhelms it. Some of us are really good at taking traumatic experiences and finding a room in the corner of our soul and stuffing it away. And then we make sure to dead bolt the door behind us.
Here’s a visual my friend & colleague used to describe that moment when we can’t hold it all in anymore. She describes the moment that the bolted door no longer contains the trauma. It begins leaking into other rooms in the house, and suddenly your whole house is completely flooded by the trauma.
I think the rooms of my soul flooded in that living room. The deadbolt just wouldn’t hold. And so it spilled out, right there in front of a whole room of people.
It’s been several years since that happened, and I’ve been doing some mopping up of those rooms. I’ve been working to keep that door open. I still slam it shut on occasion when triggered or unable to handle life stressors.
If you are reading this and sensing your own dead-bolted room in your soul, this is a gentle invitation to find safe and kind ways to enter that room. To enter that room is not easy and should not be done without support. It isn’t easy to step into something we’ve locked away for a good reason. But there are some really beautiful moments of peace and clarity that can come from venturing into this space.
This is slow work, this is painful work, and this is hard work. And it can be beautiful work, like the first gasp of air to your lungs after being underwater.
Can I leave you with a quote from one of my favorite voices in the space of trauma and wellness? Therapist and speaker Aundi Kolber writes the following in her book Try Softer:
“It takes as long as it takes. It’s okay to be unfinished. It’s absolutely normal to be imperfect. It doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong.” And what’s more, God is neither surprised nor dismayed at how slowly we progress.”
Well said, Aundi.
You are always loved,
Matt.
