Shell Shock

The weather reports were unanimous. A tropical storm was on its way, they named it. Bad weather is no big deal. This close to the shore, we’re used to it. The word ‘tropical’ raised hackles. Conversations about the weather were very different. Awkward silences punctuated any comment mentioning temperature, humidity, wind, or rain fall. When we heard the name, there were no cracks, ‘Dumb name.’ ‘I had a girlfriend named that.’ None of it. It scared us.



Last fall we were mauled by a beast named Sandy. It tore our normality to shreds. The ocean ate our beaches, our neighborhoods, our landmarks. It beat the crap out of our world. A named storm brought all of that back. It’s called post traumatic stress syndrome. You don’t have to be crawling around on the floor mewing like a kitten to experience your now being overwhelmed by the horror of a past that broke through the structures of sense in which you live. That specific then becomes a present power, though the war or the storm or the horror of then is long gone. It can be triggered by a phrase, a sound, a smell, or a weather report.



An older member of my church here came to me the week after 9-11, obviously upset and anxious. He was afraid to go to sleep. Nightmares owned his sleep. During World War II, he’d been a Navy officer who was in charge of a unit that cleaned out below decks of ships that had been torpedoed and made it back to port. His unit preceded the engineers and mechanics. They power washed and steam cleaned the soot, blood, and hair off the walls and out of the machines. He told me that the wind had been blowing our way from Manhattan since the attack. Two thousand people getting burned and pulverized made human smog. The smell took him back to the horror of those engine rooms. His courage and sense of duty had gotten him through the war. But the ugliness had come with him. Now that smell took him back there.



There is nothing cowardly about struggling with such demons. No one should have to live through such ugliness. All of us have limits. We may maintain our faith in God, our sense of self, and loyalty to family or flag, we may function like heroes, but the ugliness of the then that we wrestled with is now imbedded deep within us. They used to call this shell shock. But this isn’t just about artillery strikes or suicide bombs. Mothers and firemen and rescue workers get this condition. None of us are stuck with the torture of living with such ugliness. We can work through it. But we have to admit our pain, trust another, and go back to the event that washed over us like a storm surge and share. That’s hard. But it’s the only way to freedom.



Her name was Andrea, the tropical storm. It dumped a few inches of rain on us. A few of my conversations with people were a little longer than normal. Some of them went back to Sandy. I go fishing sometimes. Sometimes I catch stuff. We’ve been working on setting up our church house to make room for work crews to stay while they’re working on the wreckage. It makes a great segway. Beware of sneaky ministers going fishing. And beware of sitting on your horrors. Such eggs hatch dragons that will eat your soul.