Just a Little Light Trauma, No Biggie, Nothing to See Here
Yesterday one of my friends was telling me about how her mom -- let's call her Samantha -- seemed to be over-complicating her ability to get vaccinated against COVID-19. Samantha has been ultra-cautious during the pandemic, staying very informed about the latest news, really taking the entire situation seriously. Because of her age, she now qualifies to be vaccinated and by all stretches of the imagination, there are no major barriers for her to get said-vaccination: she is able-bodied, she has transportation, she has a strong local support system, including a partner to be with her or help her monitor any possible side-effects. All she has to do is book her appointment and go. But something seems to be stopping her. She has lots of excuses for why she can't do it or why it's a cumbersome process or why it's too frustrating. My friend shared this story about Samantha with me because, well, we're close friends, but also, I'm close with her mom. I love Samantha stories -- they truly warm my heart. And I could tell that my friend simply wanted her mom to be safe and cleared to resume some aspects of her life -- seeing her friends, hanging out with family, doing whatever she wanted to do outside of her home. The vaccination seems to be the fastest and most obvious route to "normal." So why's Samantha so resistant?
Disclaimer: I haven't talked to Samantha myself to verify any of what I'm about to suppose about the reasoning behind her hesitation, but I think her reaction is understandable based on what I know about her life and also the impact of one entire year of strict isolation and recalibration of "normal." To put it simply: Samantha has a trauma history and when that's part of your experience, circumstances like COVID-19 land differently on your psyche than folks without a trauma history. There is a very good chance that Samantha is creating conscious or subconscious barriers to getting vaccinated -- and, thus, getting "back to normal" -- because she can't just flip a switch and go back to normal, like other people might seem to be doing. When your brain has spent a year reinforcing this "new normal" where things that were once benign are suddenly the most dangerous thing you could be doing, the very idea that you can be around other people without a mask or that it's safe to share these public spaces is kind of daunting. This sort of thing could be hard for anyone, trust, but if you've got a trauma history -- let's just say the impact is more severe.
I know this because I live this.
A few months back (maybe in January?), some of my classmates at Case had the opportunity to be vaccinated because their names made it onto this top secret list. I was not on the designated list but it soon became apparent that you could kind of just show up and they'd give you the shot. But I didn't jump the line when that opportunity came up. There were lots of reasons for that, mainly that the vaccination site was a cool 45 minute public transportation ride away from me and COVID-19 protocols on the RTA (Cleveland's public transportation system) were reported to be dicey at best. I was also nervous that I'd show up there and it would be the one day they were checking the list to make sure I was on it, and then I'd've made the trek for nothing. I worried, too, about having to trek 45 minutes (90 min, round trip) on public transportation a few weeks later for the second shot -- what if something came up or what if I couldn't make it back there for some reason? I soothed myself with the notion that Case was soon to be a vaccination site (which it now is) and that I'd be able to get my shot there whenever it was my turn (which is still likely what will happen).
But what if I had just said let's do this and braved the bus and stood in line like a rebel back in January? I'd be fully vaxxed by now and free to move about the cabin. Did I screw up by not doing what I saw other classmates doing and throwin' some 'bows to get myself the shot? I guess I won't know until I have the hindsight that will come with the eventual timeline of my own vaccination. Biden says we should all be able to get one by May and if that's the case, my turn is coming soon.
Every time I hear about someone in my peer group getting their shots, though, I get a twinge of jealousy. I think about them getting into their cars and driving to the vaccination site and getting their shot and getting back into their cars to drive home to be babied a bit by their families or partners. I think about them whistling a little tune the whole time.
While I sit alone in my apartment for yet another day.
Look, I want to be vaccinated. But I also have a strong understanding for why Samantha is maybe drumming up a million excuses for why she can't cross that finish line. It's not a fear of the vaccine itself, it's a fear of having to re-emerge in the world. To be around the chaos of day-to-day existence, bumping into people in a crowded store or casually eating dinner in a restaurant or, heaven forbid, standing in line next to someone with a cough. A trauma response could be triggered -- maybe dissociation, maybe panic, maybe trouble breathing, maybe bursting into tears. We have spent the last year being told other people are dangerous, coughing is dangerous, proximity to each other is dangerous, and the simple reality is that there are going to be a lot of people who will shrug and say who cares about that. They will jump right back into "regular life" and forget COVID-19 protocols ever existed.
But that won't be everybody.
Especially those of us with trauma histories.
And if I have learned anything through my own personal experience with trauma it is that it is very, very hard for people to understand and relate to why I am reacting the way I'm reacting or why something bothers me so much or why I can't just do x-y-z thing. There can be frustration or annoyance or mutterings that I'm exaggerating or being difficult or even judging others. Really, I'm just trying to cope and find strategies for myself to get through whatever the triggering event is. And sometimes that means I move way slower than other people want me to. My trauma becomes an inconvenience. Or is made to feel like an inconvenience. And that doesn't help anyone on any side of the equation.
The good part about not yet being vaccinated? I don't have to deal with rejoining society yet. I have a great excuse to remain isolated and protected in my bubble-wrapped environment where I have a fair amount of control about what my life looks like.
Once I'm vaccinated, though? That means I will be cleared to leave my nest -- I can see who I want and do what I want and be where I want.
But what if what I want is more time to emerge?
I'm not saying it necessarily is -- I won't know until I get vaccinated -- but when my friend told me about Samantha's seemingly mental block against her pursuing her own vaccination, it really brought home how deeply the trauma of this past year has impacted not just Samantha, but also me -- and many others I know. For some of us, the return to "normal" will take some coaxing and some patience and some time. Maybe that resonates with you, too. Maybe it can help you understand someone you care about who maybe has a story similar to Samantha's. Why won't she just get vaccinated?
Probably, she's just not ready.
I've thought about this so often over the last year -- how my experience with the pandemic is the result of very specific life-circumstances. My thoughts were solidified when I was listening to a recent episode of the FiveThirtyEight Politics podcast where host Nate Silver quite sardonically boasted that "no one he knew was really staying completely isolated during the pandemic." How people were still hanging out with friends and doing whatever. How it was preposterous that anyone would have gone through this period completely alone. And, truthfully, he's right. I do know other people who, like me, have been in near-isolation most of the time, but the majority of folks I know at the very least live with a partner or with family or who have established a "COVID Bubble" of some variety. But there was something about the way Nate phrased it that just riled me. It felt so fucking insensitive and white-man-privileged for him to say of course no one went through this experience totally alone.
UM, HELLO! IS THIS THING ON? DON'T SLEEP ON ME, NATE SILVER.
I went through the pandemic alone. While I don't have an exact count, I could probably tell you about how many times over the course of the last year I was in the company of actual people for ten minutes or longer: about 3 times with the people I worked with over the summer; maybe 4 times with friends from school; 1 time the team at my internship met up; 1 time Corey came over; somewhere in the neighborhood of 6 times I saw my nephews (accompanied by at least one of their parents). So that's about 15 times in 365 days that I have seen people.
You may not know this about me, but in personality tests, I score about a 94% on the extroversion scale. How do you think seeing people 15 out of 365 days works for me?
It's a wonder I'm still sitting here smiling, y'all, truly.
But that's also because of another recent post topic: I am ultra-independent. I depend on me. That, by the way, is also a trauma response. It's a coping mechanism that allows me to keep on swimmin' through a horrible experience like isolation during a pandemic. It allows me to survey my options and say, OK, kid, you can do this. You've survived worse.
Because I have.
Had this pandemic happened while I still lived in Boston, the odds are good that I would have eventually formed some kind of COVID Bubble -- at the very least, I never lived alone, so someone would have been around... Part of the problem with there being a pandemic when you're new in town, like I am, is you don't have that kind of support system ready to go. I was just starting to make friends when everything got shut down. And many of the friends I made ended up returning to their home states and weren't even in the neighborhood anymore. I had family nearby but they formed their own bubble with friends in their neighborhood. I was sort of left to drift by myself -- that where the tide pulled me. It kind of is what it is, in many ways.
This week we're in now is the one year anniversary of when it all started to go sideways. I will likely reflect more on that as this week goes on because it's truly remarkable and historical to sit where we are in the timeline of human history. There's lots of ways to measure the change -- today's IG post used hair length:
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