Triggered By A Stranger
*TRIGGER WARNING: Eating disorder (anorexia nervosa), depression, anxiety*
Holidays are an itchy time for me. It's not because I constantly want to be up and out, nor because I find myself feeling bored. It's rather because I find it so difficult to sit with myself, be alone, and do nothing.
When I sit alone with nothing to do, my internal monologue gets very dark. I start to think about myself, my life, my body, my choices and actions, everything I could've done better, everything I've done wrong, and all the people whose opinions about me I can't control. I wonder if anyone dislikes me, and why. I wonder if I should have been better to them. I worry about all the things I should be doing, but I feel too tired and disinterested to do them. I feel like I need to be out the house and enjoying life, but I'm too scared to get out of bed and put my feet on the floor. I feel like I should be texting my friends, making plans, and having fun, but I am reluctant to check social media because I don't want to be bombarded with so much information that my tired and, quite frankly, disinterested brain can't handle. Managing my anxiety and depression when I am alone with my thoughts is a struggle that I've had to face for many years. I am constantly wrestling with myself to find a harmonious balance that I end up feeling exhausted, almost like I've run a marathon. That is why I sleep so much when I'm alone- Because I would rather be asleep and 'unconscious' for a while than trying to quell the war in my mind. It takes all the energy I have to try and wrestle with my thoughts, and subdue them so that they don't take away my entire day. Because trust me, I could spend an entire day inside, not having left my room, not having spoken to anyone, and have my entire day ruined because of my distorted thinking that has rendered me immobile, crying, shuddering, and in a state of complete self-loathing. And I will stay there, under the covers, smelling like tears, bed hair, and unwashed pajamas, and be too scared and too tired to face the world. And to think, holidays are the time when we are meant to relax, explore our city, and be with our families and friends. That, unfortunately, is not always my reality.
But I digress. This post is supposed to be about a different kind of sadness, and that is the one that being triggered brings on.
Triggered?
When someone is triggered, they have seen, heard, or experienced something that elicits emotions of distress because it reminds them of a traumatic event or experience they lived through in the past. For example, every time I smell citrus-scented body wash, I am reminded of the holiday I was on when I was sixteen years old and very ill. The smell of the body wash causes me to have intense flashbacks of how I felt on that holiday, arousing feelings of panic, anxiety, and distress. You may also have noticed that at the beginning of some of my posts I write a trigger warning. This is an ethical practice amongst writers, screenwriters, and bloggers who want to warn their readers about the content of their work, because it could potentially bring about feelings of distress and anxiety when sensitive topics are not introduced gently, and with time to adjust.
Lol! Hashtag TRIGGERED XD ;)
However, if you search the definition of 'triggered' today, you will get the urban dictionary definition, and a bunch of memes of people looking like they are about to erupt with the word 'triggered' written in big bold letters. Being triggered has been made into somewhat of a joke amongst millennials, many using it to describe the feelings they experience when they are angered or saddened by something that normally elicits those feelings in a mild way. It is primarily used in modern terms to be overly dramatic and humorous. For example, today I could say, "My electricity was out for several hours, and I was so triggered." I might get a few laughs out of it, but I have essentially brutalized a very raw and deeply disturbing feeling that many experience on a daily basis.
What happened to me recently relies on the true, psychological definition of 'triggered', and lies far beyond the realms of humour and internet exploitation.
My triggering experience
I was in a mall a few days ago, innocently window-shopping, when I saw her. I'll never know her, and she'll never know me, but what she made me feel was stronger than anything I've felt in a while.
She was my height, if not an inch taller. I couldn't bring myself close enough to tell. She was, however, younger than me, because she was in her school uniform, boasting the badge of one of the most prestigious girl's high schools in Cape Town. Her hair was tied in a low ponytail, and her skin was so smooth and flawless it reminded me of rain puddles under the light of streetlamps.
Her body made me feel like everything I was was inferior. She had the upper body of a dancer, and her neck extended so that her head was always tilted upwards. Her neck sloped so that her shoulders held her arms at an elegantly lazy angle to her body. Her hands were small and dainty, the kind of hands you imagine in the movies picking up perfume bottles in slow motion. Her uniform hugged her body in a way that it never had me. Her blazer seemed like it was made to fit her, holding her subtle curves so effortlessly, and perfectly accentuating the mountain peaks of her shoulder blades. The most striking thing about her was her legs. She had these long, slender legs that seemed to go on and on forever. She was clad in stockings, but that didn't contain her calf muscles that pulsed every time she took the smallest step. She had only crossed my path less than a minute ago, and I was struck by her presence.
You may be wandering why any of this is important. You may be wandering what this beautiful girl could have possibly done to trigger me. The simple answer is, she didn't do anything. We didn't speak, we didn't lock eyes, we didn't even know each other. We just happened to be in the same place at the same time.
The truth is that she triggered me by reminding me of everything I wanted to be, but that I feel (in isolation I've been told, which I sometimes believe, but other times don't) I fell short of, in my high school career. Many people have told me that I have the features I just described- That of a dancer's body, long neck, elegant arms, slender legs, and dainty hands, but that didn't make sense to me, because I wasn't her. I was Sarah. I was still just Sarah. I wasn't perfect with her hair and her skin. I was Sarah. And so I saw none of those things on me. Her image is what I spent so long trying to manipulate myself to fit. She reminded me of what I spent my high school career trying to achieve. Her body was what I was working towards when I started my restrictive eating habits. Her image, in my mind, was what I needed to achieve in order to be happy, successful, and popular in high school. Her body is what I felt I needed to look like in order to be my happiest self, live my happiest life, and have the happiest high school experience.
Trust me, I know how warped that sounds. I know. It sounds absolutely insane. But that is what the distorted thinking that comes with being mentally ill does to you. It makes the craziest of illusions sound completely sane and totally viable.
This girl, who I will probably never see again, had transported me back to the worst year of my life in a split second. She reminded me of everything I cried for at night, all the times I clutched my skin and willed God to take it away, all the times I hurt myself, all the times I pushed my body to the edge, all the times I was so unhappy but didn't realize it, all the times I hid from the people I loved, all the pages I wrote in my journal about self-loathing, and how I was going to become perfect. She, essentially, was everything that I wanted to be, but that ended up nearly killing me. She was the perfect girl in my mind, in human form. And that scared me. It was like my thoughts were coming alive, except she didn't have the hurt, and the pain, and the sickness attached to her. She was walking, breathing, and human. And that made me angry. How could she exist so effortlessly when I had cried, and tried, and pushed to look like her for so long, and still I had failed? I was so angry and jealous of her. I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to shout at her for existing, and for being the person I had wanted to be, except she hadn't experienced the pain and hurt I had felt. She was just living for free. I was also so terrified at the emotions I felt. All of the repressed rage, sadness, and confusion I had felt towards myself and the world when I was sixteen came flooding back to me. I remembered how I had spent hours upon hours stressing, worrying, planning, and trying to map out every move I made in order to fashion myself into the perfect girl. All of the tears I shed, the lies I told, the fear I experienced, and the hurt I harbored began hammering on my chest and poking behind my eyes.
I'm sure I've been triggered before, and I will probably be triggered by something again someday. But this was an experience that made me feel like a frozen iceberg plunging silently into the ocean, sinking.
I can't do anything about the fact that I crossed paths with her, and I can't do anything about what she made me feel in that moment. But, what I can do is move forward. I can move forward from that feeling after having experienced it, letting it have its moment, and then saying goodbye to it. Because if I sit with it, it will keep dragging me down until I eventually do sink with it. I need to let go of that iceberg, because I know in my heart that I can swim.
I can thank this stranger for helping me realize this, I can hate her for making me feel those feelings, or I can make peace with the fact that I will never see her again, and that moment is over. I am making the conscious and moral decision not to hate her, because if I do, that would be like letting go of one iceberg, and sticking myself to another.
Triggered?
When someone is triggered, they have seen, heard, or experienced something that elicits emotions of distress because it reminds them of a traumatic event or experience they lived through in the past. For example, every time I smell citrus-scented body wash, I am reminded of the holiday I was on when I was sixteen years old and very ill. The smell of the body wash causes me to have intense flashbacks of how I felt on that holiday, arousing feelings of panic, anxiety, and distress. You may also have noticed that at the beginning of some of my posts I write a trigger warning. This is an ethical practice amongst writers, screenwriters, and bloggers who want to warn their readers about the content of their work, because it could potentially bring about feelings of distress and anxiety when sensitive topics are not introduced gently, and with time to adjust.
Lol! Hashtag TRIGGERED XD ;)
However, if you search the definition of 'triggered' today, you will get the urban dictionary definition, and a bunch of memes of people looking like they are about to erupt with the word 'triggered' written in big bold letters. Being triggered has been made into somewhat of a joke amongst millennials, many using it to describe the feelings they experience when they are angered or saddened by something that normally elicits those feelings in a mild way. It is primarily used in modern terms to be overly dramatic and humorous. For example, today I could say, "My electricity was out for several hours, and I was so triggered." I might get a few laughs out of it, but I have essentially brutalized a very raw and deeply disturbing feeling that many experience on a daily basis.
What happened to me recently relies on the true, psychological definition of 'triggered', and lies far beyond the realms of humour and internet exploitation.
My triggering experience
I was in a mall a few days ago, innocently window-shopping, when I saw her. I'll never know her, and she'll never know me, but what she made me feel was stronger than anything I've felt in a while.
She was my height, if not an inch taller. I couldn't bring myself close enough to tell. She was, however, younger than me, because she was in her school uniform, boasting the badge of one of the most prestigious girl's high schools in Cape Town. Her hair was tied in a low ponytail, and her skin was so smooth and flawless it reminded me of rain puddles under the light of streetlamps.
Her body made me feel like everything I was was inferior. She had the upper body of a dancer, and her neck extended so that her head was always tilted upwards. Her neck sloped so that her shoulders held her arms at an elegantly lazy angle to her body. Her hands were small and dainty, the kind of hands you imagine in the movies picking up perfume bottles in slow motion. Her uniform hugged her body in a way that it never had me. Her blazer seemed like it was made to fit her, holding her subtle curves so effortlessly, and perfectly accentuating the mountain peaks of her shoulder blades. The most striking thing about her was her legs. She had these long, slender legs that seemed to go on and on forever. She was clad in stockings, but that didn't contain her calf muscles that pulsed every time she took the smallest step. She had only crossed my path less than a minute ago, and I was struck by her presence.
You may be wandering why any of this is important. You may be wandering what this beautiful girl could have possibly done to trigger me. The simple answer is, she didn't do anything. We didn't speak, we didn't lock eyes, we didn't even know each other. We just happened to be in the same place at the same time.
The truth is that she triggered me by reminding me of everything I wanted to be, but that I feel (in isolation I've been told, which I sometimes believe, but other times don't) I fell short of, in my high school career. Many people have told me that I have the features I just described- That of a dancer's body, long neck, elegant arms, slender legs, and dainty hands, but that didn't make sense to me, because I wasn't her. I was Sarah. I was still just Sarah. I wasn't perfect with her hair and her skin. I was Sarah. And so I saw none of those things on me. Her image is what I spent so long trying to manipulate myself to fit. She reminded me of what I spent my high school career trying to achieve. Her body was what I was working towards when I started my restrictive eating habits. Her image, in my mind, was what I needed to achieve in order to be happy, successful, and popular in high school. Her body is what I felt I needed to look like in order to be my happiest self, live my happiest life, and have the happiest high school experience.
Trust me, I know how warped that sounds. I know. It sounds absolutely insane. But that is what the distorted thinking that comes with being mentally ill does to you. It makes the craziest of illusions sound completely sane and totally viable.
This girl, who I will probably never see again, had transported me back to the worst year of my life in a split second. She reminded me of everything I cried for at night, all the times I clutched my skin and willed God to take it away, all the times I hurt myself, all the times I pushed my body to the edge, all the times I was so unhappy but didn't realize it, all the times I hid from the people I loved, all the pages I wrote in my journal about self-loathing, and how I was going to become perfect. She, essentially, was everything that I wanted to be, but that ended up nearly killing me. She was the perfect girl in my mind, in human form. And that scared me. It was like my thoughts were coming alive, except she didn't have the hurt, and the pain, and the sickness attached to her. She was walking, breathing, and human. And that made me angry. How could she exist so effortlessly when I had cried, and tried, and pushed to look like her for so long, and still I had failed? I was so angry and jealous of her. I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to shout at her for existing, and for being the person I had wanted to be, except she hadn't experienced the pain and hurt I had felt. She was just living for free. I was also so terrified at the emotions I felt. All of the repressed rage, sadness, and confusion I had felt towards myself and the world when I was sixteen came flooding back to me. I remembered how I had spent hours upon hours stressing, worrying, planning, and trying to map out every move I made in order to fashion myself into the perfect girl. All of the tears I shed, the lies I told, the fear I experienced, and the hurt I harbored began hammering on my chest and poking behind my eyes.
I'm sure I've been triggered before, and I will probably be triggered by something again someday. But this was an experience that made me feel like a frozen iceberg plunging silently into the ocean, sinking.
I can't do anything about the fact that I crossed paths with her, and I can't do anything about what she made me feel in that moment. But, what I can do is move forward. I can move forward from that feeling after having experienced it, letting it have its moment, and then saying goodbye to it. Because if I sit with it, it will keep dragging me down until I eventually do sink with it. I need to let go of that iceberg, because I know in my heart that I can swim.
I can thank this stranger for helping me realize this, I can hate her for making me feel those feelings, or I can make peace with the fact that I will never see her again, and that moment is over. I am making the conscious and moral decision not to hate her, because if I do, that would be like letting go of one iceberg, and sticking myself to another.
XO
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