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Trauma & Recovery: How I Fight the Monster & Win

Writer's picture: Dr. JonDr. Jon


The common response to evil is to banish it from memory. Severe violations of another human being are too terrible to utter aloud. This is what people mean when they say it was an, unspeakable evil.

 

But evil refuses to be buried. The desire to forget is powerful, but equally powerful is the desire for it to be known. Remembering and telling the truth about evil lays the foundation for individual healing, as well as the rebuilding of trust in society.

 

The battle between the will to deny horrible events and the will to speak them aloud is the fundamental tension of those working through abuse.[1] Because of this tension, abuse survivors often tell their stories in a highly emotional, fragmented, and disorganized manner. It isn’t in chronological order. The events can sound so severe, the first reaction might be to question the credibility of the one speaking it.

 

Only when the truth is finally acknowledged can it see the light of day.

 

But more often than not secrecy prevails, and the abuse surfaces in the form of symptoms, instead of a story. The symptoms of highly traumatized people serve two opposing purposes: 1.) it calls attention to an unspeakable evil, and 2.) redirects attention away from it.

 

I know all this because I read a lot, and I’ve worked with those who’ve been touched by evil for 20+ years. It didn’t take me long to figure out the “unspeakable” part was a key difference between a traumatized person and a person who had experienced a difficult event. Many traumatized people don’t know how to talk about the evil atrocities in their past in a coherent way. People who’ve endured a difficult event know exactly what happened, the order in which it happened, and they’ll recount it in a way that makes sense.

 

Abuse victims will sometimes want to show you what has happened to them. Scars. Pictures. Videos. Hospital records. I’ve seen it all. It’s part of their recovery. It’s a way to “cheat” the unspeakable aspect of their past: instead of speaking it, they can show it.[2]For me, this is the hardest phase of counseling abuse victims. It always sneaks up on me. I never know when - or if - they’ll want to show me. I know it’s coming, as it often does, but I try not focus on it. If I do, it will derail their progress. Last week was one of those times. She had pictures and videos she wanted to show me. The severity was bad enough, but I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of them - there had to be close to a thousand pictures. You tell yourself you’re ready. I’ve seen many such pictures. You reassure yourself: I’m a professional. I’ve been doing this a long time. I’ll be able to handle it.

 

These are childish games.

 

All my sophisticated mental safeguards melt under the searing heat of seeing the careless destruction of another human being. They say pictures capture the moment. And they certainly do, good or bad. I never thought of photos as something terrible. Suffering frozen in time. The worst moments of a life, captured forever. All in HD. Like my client, I try to make sense of it all. I’ve found two guiding principles that help navigate the storm: 1.) Working with abuse survivors requires a committed moral stance against it, and 2.) Working with abuse survivors requires a complex understanding of evil.

 

Professors and textbooks don’t tell you that.

 

In fact, they tell you the opposite; they tell you that counselors need to have “unconditional positive regard” for every part of their client. They confidently affirm that evil is a fanciful figment of the imagination.[3] But am I supposed to extend that idea to the atrocities that have befell my client? Do I dare say, “You’re wrong. What has happened to you isn’t evil, because evil doesn’t exist.”?  

 

And after seeing so much, why does it still bother me? Sometimes I feel like a tiny rudderless ship adrift on storm-tossed sea. I have come to a single conclusion about this – an anchor that holds me fast as my clients retelling of past atrocities rage around me. It’s the willful destruction of an image bearer of our Creator that will always bother me.

 

Yes. That’s what bothers me. It’s one person taking positive delight in the destruction of another. It’s looking at another person and thinking, “I don’t see God. I only see a thing I want to destroy.” To be aware of this idea is one thing, to know its depth is something entirely different. Friedrich Nietzsche said, “He who fights too long against monsters needs to take care, lest he become a monster himself. If you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”[4]

 

I know exactly what he means.

 

Nietzsche is cautioning his reader. He’s saying that when we delve into the abyss of truth, we risk becoming consumed by the very darkness we seek to understand. The abyss represents the bottomless complexity of our humanity, part of what it means to be made in the image of God, where our deepest fears, desires, and conflicts reside. If we stare into this void without a proper anchor, we run the risk of becoming dislodged from our foundations,[5] losing ourselves in the depths, and becoming “monsters” ourselves. I’ve unearthed three consequences of gazing too long into the abyss:

 

  1. Loss of identity. We may become indistinguishable from the monsters we seek to conquer; losing our moral compass in the process.

  2. Being consumed by the unknown. The infinite depth of the abyss can swallow us whole, leaving us with a sense of utter helplessness.

  3. Failure to transcend. We may fall so far into the abyss that we can no longer see the light of reality and become trapped in our own fears and anxiety.

 

Despite the immense dangers, there’s also the opportunity of immense benefit. I found that if I willingly approach the abyss with understanding and caution, and if I engage the monster in humility but also in resolute firmness, I can help my client:

 

  1. Gain wisdom. We can uncover hidden truths about ourselves and deepen our understanding of the world around us, leading to wisdom.

  2. Transform ourselves. Through fighting the monster, we see what we’re made of. We defeat the monster when we see our past not as a destructive force, but as a transformative one.

  3. Achieve understanding. By gazing into the abyss, we can overcome our limitations and become more resilient.

 

But still the darkness of the abyss tempts me with the same question: If the darkness of the abyss stops bothering me, what will I have become? Will I become the monster? The fear is real. The answer is, yes. This makes me afraid. But then I remember the words of the old hymn: 


Tho’ the angry surges roll

On my tempest driven soul,

I am peaceful, for I know,

Wildly though the winds may blow,

I’ve an anchor safe and sure,

That can evermore endure.

And it holds, my anchor holds:

Blow your wildest, then, O gale,

On my bark so small and frail;

By His grace I shall not fail,

For my anchor holds, my anchor holds.

Mighty tides about me sweep,

Perils lurk within the deep,

Angry clouds o’ershade the sky,

And the tempest rises high;

Still I stand the tempest ‘s shock,

For my anchor grips the rock.

I can feel the anchor fast

As I meet each sudden blast,

And the cable, though unseen,

Bears the heavy strain between;

Thro’ the storm I safely ride,

Till the turning of the tide.

Troubles almost ‘whelm the soul;

Griefs like billows o’er me roll;

Tempters seek to lure astray;

Storms obscure the light of day.

But in Christ I can be bold,

I’ve an anchor that shall hold.


Thank God for that hymn.



_____________________________




[1] For a complete theological and philosophical analysis of this idea, I recommend Dr. Paul Tillich’s book, The Courage to Be.


[2] This can take many forms. Several years ago, I worked with a highly traumatized young lady who had been physically abused by her father all her life and raped by her mother at 14. She ran away from home at 16. She couldn’t fully articulate her past, so she would write about what had happened to her in the form of dark poetry. In between sessions she would write me poems, I would respond with a response poem of my own, and we would discuss them in session. She wrote me 38 pages. Such unconventional methods can be very effective treatment protocols but they’re not for the faint of heart and are rarely – if ever – encouraged in graduate programs.


[3] These self-righteous assertions are, of course, made from the warm comfort of a classroom. Far from the brutal trench warfare that takes place in the counseling office. Cowards.


[4] Nietzsche, F. (1886). Beyond Good and Evil. C.G. Naumann Publishing. Leipzig, Germany.


[5] For a complete theological and philosophical analysis of this idea, I recommend Dr. Paul Tillich’s book, The Shaking of the Foundations. 

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