I looked down at my right ankle. The sight was hardly recognizable.
Red welts now dotted the inside of it, migrating down toward the top of my foot. It was as if an army of mosquitoes had swooped in and gone to town.
These were the marks left by the surgeon. The entry points for the tools that repaired my damaged tendon and removed a bone spur.
The procedure was deemed a success. But as I stared at the welts on my ankle, with my protective boot sitting nearby, this hardly felt like victory.
I was told to give it time. It had only been two weeks since the operation, and I hadn’t even started physical therapy yet. As I worked through my rehab, the welts would retreat. Things would look more normal.
This all turned out to be true. But more normal still left a mark. Several, actually.
Even with the welts gone, the scars on my ankle would remain for life. And while the discomfort in that area was thoroughly minimized by the procedure, it would never fully dissipate. Phantom pain would sporadically appear.
Post trauma? There’s no such thing.
I am posting this article on the anniversary of the worst day of my life – September 11, 2001.
It was the day when terrorists hijacked passenger planes and used them to attack our nation. When they killed roughly 3,000 people and left millions of others wondering if they’d make it to tomorrow.
Nearly a quarter century has passed between then and now. And so much has changed.
The sites of the rubble have been cleared and rebuilt. The mastermind of the attack has met his demise. American troops have mostly withdrawn from the Middle East after waging a two-decade War on Terror abroad.
I too have changed over this time.
On September 11, 2001, I was in school in New York City, less than 10 miles from the World Trade Center. When I got word of the attack that felled those buildings, I thought my life was over. Rumors were already flying about an imminent, wide-scale invasion. I was certain they were true, and that the terrorists were coming for me next.
I survived that day, of course. And the next one. And the one after that.
Survival was the only way to describe that time. Because even if you hadn’t run from the avalanche of debris, it still felt close enough to shake you to your core.
Eventually, that feeling faded. I grew up and moved far away. I weathered financial crises, a pandemic, and a career change. I made friends who knew nothing of my September 11th experience.
I’m fundamentally different now than I how I was back then. I’m more seasoned. I’m more knowledgeable. And I believe that I’m a better person.
But every now and then, I tremble as an old memory comes to the fore. I still freeze at the mere mention of any terror attacks – domestic or international. And September 11th is the toughest day for me to get through each year.
Convention states that none of this should be happening. I should have gotten over my trauma long ago.
But convention is wrong.
Trees are timekeepers.
So, I was told as a child.
The phrase is based in science. Tree trunks expand outward over time, growing a fresh set of bark each year. This process creates a ring pattern on the trunk’s interior.
This means that when a tree is felled, one can ascertain its age by counting the trunk’s rings.
Such a pattern doesn’t hold true for humans. We morph as we grow, leaving few outward indications of what we once were. It takes something jarring, such as ankle surgery, to leave any kind of visible mark.
But what of the invisible ones? How do we account for them?
Traditionally, we haven’t. Bury it and move on has long been the American credo. It’s how we’ve persevered in a landscape full of danger and tragedy.
In recent decades, that has changed. By necessity as much as anything.
Many of us have found ourselves in situations too traumatic to bury, with disastrous results. This trauma-fueled carnage has been broadcast by the 24-hour news cycle, allowing no quarter for collective deniability.
We all know what’s going on, and what’s causing it.
At the same time, we’ve changed our relationship to mental health services. What was once the realm of One Flew Over the Coocoo’s Nest and Freud’s extravagant theories is now mainstream.
We’re quick to get help, from a variety of channels. And we’re willing to talk proudly about the help we’re getting.
The upshot of all this is that our invisible marks are now out in the open. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is being accounted for, with the promise of healing the afflicted.
This is a positive change, no doubt. But also one that’s oversold.
For better is not back. And it never will be.
Some mornings, I’ll look down at the pockmarks on my ankle.
They’ve all faded now, to the point where they’re less notable.
But I still see them clearly. And I yearn to go back to the days when they weren’t there.
Sure, I was injured. Unable to run the turn on the track without feeling like a 2×4 was digging into my bones.
But I didn’t have this visible reminder of that ordeal then. And now, I always will.
I’ll admit that I’ve had similar thoughts about September 11th. If the attacks had never happened, how much better would life have been?
But such questions are foolhardy.
Time moves in but one direction. You can’t erase the marks it’s made.
Perhaps it’s time I let go of that fantasy. Perhaps it’s time we all did.
Yes, it’s time to face the music.
With time and with help, we can move forward from the trauma we endure. But we won’t be able to move fully past it. No matter how much we might desire to.
There is no post trauma. There is only a new equilibrium.
Our task is to make the most of it.