Finding the Way

Even though I’ve never been in a war, I am deeply grieved when I hear of cases of people suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), because I know that they are dealing with an unresolved trauma and unforgiveness at a level that no MRI or X-Ray can detect. And this on top of the stigma of mental illness these men and women have to cope with.
          I’ve seen heartbreaking documentaries of soldiers who have been receiving treatment for this disease, and on more than one occasion I saw relief come across their faces when they said that the biggest obstacle they had to deal with, and had eventually conquered, was survivor guilt. They were living with the horrible guilt of having seen their comrades killed in front of them, but they were the privileged one to have lived. In the end, they said they had learned it was okay to have survived, and they could stop punishing themselves and genuinely forgive themselves. A huge burden was lifted, which opened a path for further healing. So we must also remember to forgive ourselves, because most times in life, we are our own worst critics.

          Although not as significant as suffering from PTSD, I dealt with an early case of childhood guilt that took years to get over.
          When I was in the second grade, I was bullied by a kid who was a year older than me. He would trip me and throw me to the ground at every opportunity during recess time, all the while he had a bigger sidekick who would simply laugh in delight every time, but never actually do anything to me. I figured my oppressor was jealous because he had to wear thick pop-bottle glasses, and I didn’t. In fact, he would call me “four eyes” every time he finished knocking me down.
         After about the third time of this, I remember praying on my knees at my bed for God to kill this kid for me. I had never prayed in my life before, and had no idea what else to do. I was totally embarrassed about crying to my teacher or parents about the guy. Besides, I figured my father would beat me silly for not fighting back.
          Well, I bravely walked to school the next day quite sure I would be beat up during the first recess period, as usual. Morning recess came and went, and I didn’t see “Darth Vader” and “Grand Moff Tarkin” (the movie, Star Wars was big at the time) anywhere. I also didn’t see them outside after lunch, or for the last recess period of the afternoon.
Strange, I thought, but good.
          So the next day came, and as soon as we had heard the national anthem and prayed the Lord’s Prayer that were broadcast over the school intercom, our teacher told us that there was some bad news she had to tell us – a student had died in a car accident the day before, and that we’d be joining up with the grade three class the boy was in (right next door to us) to collectively pray for his soul. I had a strange feeling in my belly.
         As we were walking over, some of the little gossip girls began saying who it was, and it was my bully! I was in a state of shock, but fortunately we didn’t have far to go, and we all sat down while our teachers began to lead us in prayer.
          I was strangely elated, but also freaked out. I thought it was my fault that “Vader” had died. I looked up, and in a solemn reflection knew there was “Someone upstairs who had my back.”
          When I got home from school, I pulled open the London Free Press newspaper to see the article about the accident, and there it was, a photo of his face, glasses and all. I felt so guilty and sick to my stomach. It took me years to get over the feeling, and only by realizing that I wasn’t responsible for what had happened. In other words, I finally forgave myself.
          As for the bully’s sidekick, I would see him wandering alone in the playground from time to time. Once, he stopped and sheepishly looked at me, then quickly walked away. I don’t think that poor kid was ever the same.
         Later on, I got a better sense of the impact we can suffer beneath the skin. In the late 1990s when I was an Auxiliary Police Constable with the London Police Service, I attended three suicide scenes in my first week of uniformed patrol service. And for that, I was baptized with the nickname of “Auxiliary of Death.” I was so embarrassed, and had to repeatedly tell my fellow auxiliaries that my experiences were not “cool,” and that I wasn’t lucky to have gotten “all the action.” One of the calls in particular, prevented me from sleeping for a week, and I couldn’t get the person’s face out of my head. I was likely suffering from a mild case of post-traumatic stress, but this diagnostic label hadn’t been popularized yet.
          Constable “Davids” (not the officer’s real name), and I were dispatched to look into a report of a missing older male. When we arrived at the house, we met the man’s wife, and his stepdaughter, who ended up doing all the talking, while her mother remained stone silent. We got the whole story from her, but she seemed quite nervous when she explained that her stepfather had gone for a ride on his bicycle and hadn’t been home for a couple of days, which of course, was not like him. The usual places he’d hang around had said they hadn’t seen him either.
          While we were looking around the house, I asked her where else “Moe” might be keeping information that could lead us to his whereabouts. She paused for a few moments, looked at Davids, then me, and murmured, “The garage.” Davids and I glanced at each other and we ran outside to the detached garage. He nudged the side door open a bit, and there was the unfortunate little man, hanging from one of the ceiling beams from a rope that had been strung around his neck. The scene was surreal, and my mind tried to trick me into believing it was just a mannequin, that it wasn’t really a person hanging there with a very long neck, no complexion, and green mucous hanging down from his chin.
         Davids pulled out his pocket knife and said, “Okay, hold him while I cut him down.”
          I froze, and was going to protest, but knew that would be pointless; I was the auxiliary, and I didn’t have a pocket knife.
         I had a hard time comprehending what would drive someone to take their own life, but now I understand that a deep enough heart wound, and separation from hope, can lead to someone giving up. One thing I’ll never forget, was seeing a beautiful painting of Jesus Christ hanging in the man’s bedroom, prior to us figuring out he was in the garage. And yes, I was perplexed as to the meaning of the image of Christ. For some, religious iconography is used for decoration, but for others, it defines their faith.