Survival

I had an unhealthy obsession with all things Holocaust as an adolescent.  Much of this obsession centered around understanding resilience in the face of the unthinkable.  I cannot remember which I read first, The Hiding Place by Corrie Ten Boom or The Diary of Anne Frank, but both works completely changed my life.  It set a trajectory of many term papers to come along with reading the wisdom of Eli Wiesel and Victor Frankl.  And for years, the fascination remained – why did some not only survive, but also maintain hope and compassion?

I have a recurring dream where I am some type of resistance worker being chased by secret police.  I am always wary of my surroundings and keenly attuned to the fact that I carry papers that represent peoples lives.  I often am searching for food and safe hiding places.  I connect this dream to seeing myself as a rebellious survivor. 

Recently, I was commenting on this obsession and it was suggested to me that while yes, I identify with being a survivor, perhaps I also find connection with that of the prisoner.  This took me back.  Rebellious fighter, yes.  Prisoner, no way in hell.  To be a prisoner implies helplessness, chains, and powerlessness.  Or one step further, weakness.  I hate weakness.  But she was right, I was a prisoner as a child.  I was at the mercy of those around me.  Unthinkable things happened.  And I found creative and brilliant means to survive.  I learned to navigate my way out of the prison and into a world of beauty.  I found mission trips, hikes through nature, writing, and books as means to transport me out of the darkness.  I learned to take care of myself with great tenacity.  But I also learned to not trust others and how to build up walls of isolation.  I learned not to feel too much; to stay numb and avoid the grief.  These survival skills saved my life and served me well.  I want to honor the little version of me that utilized these skills to thrive.  I want to thank the little girl version of me for having the strength to hold on to hope.

And now I am 40.  The trauma is long over.  I have a happy and safe life.  I am surrounded by beautiful people and a loving family.  Now the question in front of me, do I still need to use these survival skills all the time?  Can I allow myself to finally grieve?  Can I allow myself to be vulnerable?  Can I let those I trust in a little further?

As I have taken more and more steps into the waters of vulnerability these past few months, I am pleasantly surprised at the amount of love and compassion I am encountering.  My own ability to love is growing deeper and deeper.  I found myself wrapping my arms around a hurting 10-year-old this morning at my school nurse job.  And I actually felt deep sadness for him and his situation (and I felt a small tear in the corner of my eye).  My oldest told me I “sounded like someone reciting poetry with all my cheesy talk about love and stuff like that.”  I now tear up when I hug my kids.  I make my husband hug me for extended periods of time because I like feeling his strong arms holding me tight.  I have opened up more to those in my inner circle.  And you know what I am finding?  Beauty.  Goodness.  Compassion.  

Survival skills saved my life.  And they still work in my favor.  They are what allow me to stay cool, calm, and collected during those chaotic moments of emergency room nursing.  They allow me to keep my temper under control when a patient is cussing me out because they are not getting the narcotics they want.  But these survival skills are no longer the only thing I am recognizing in my tool belt.  I am still learning how to use these newer found tools of vulnerability, connection, and feeling.  I have a long way to go to reach the point of feeling comfortable, but in the meantime, I am enjoying what I have gained so far.