Trigger Warning: PTSD, loss, grief, harm to children, death
I think I have made a new friend. I’m not really sure yet, because things are still new, and I’m unsure whether “friend” would ever be the word to describe our relationship.
My new friend is a priest. He is the parish priest for the parish I live in. When he calls he says, “Hi, it’s Father Mike. Your friendly neighborhood parish priest.” He says this every time. It’s like he doesn’t take for granted that you would know him and what he does. But he does expect you to know what parish he means: your parish. There is an implied responsibility over this outlined territory and for the people who live within it.
Now, I am not Catholic. My husband was raised Catholic, and went to Catholic schools. I was raised Presbyterian, and I do not belong to any church at the moment. We used to be counted as parishioners at the parish church because my son goes to a parish school, but during the pandemic we stopped attending mass and I don’t know if we count in the ranks any more. I don’t think it matters to Father Mike.
Father Mike knows my son, and sometime he comments to us about how well-spoken he is, and how well he remembers biblical literature. Yes, thank you, we say, we are very proud. My son, in a surprising move (to us), is now an altar server for school mass. Father Mike was not surprised.
Last month, I received a call and a text from Father Mike. I missed the call, but called back right after I saw the text. It seemed urgent. “Hi, it’s Father Mike, your friendly neighborhood parish priest,” he said answering the phone.
“Hi, Father Mike,” I said. “I’m sorry I missed your call.”
He didn’t acknowledge the apology, but went straight into what he wanted to talk about. “One of our people is going on an internship this summer and we need help. Do you want to come in and talk about it? You’re a sharpie, you won’t have any trouble.”
I was taken aback. I didn’t know how to answer — of course, I would like to help, but I have not had a job outside of the house since 2016 when my last out-of-the-house job caused my PTSD. With a clinical diagnosis in hand, and after a lot of therapy, I am now technically “disabled,” but without any visible, external “differences.” I move through my day by strictly controlling my environment so that I minimize any external stimulus. I have few scheduled obligations, if any; they are very emotionally and physically draining. (That’s not to say I don’t get a lot done — I just have to do it when I’m ready for it, on my time and respecting my energy.)
I agreed to go in to meet with Father Mike. Why not? I asked myself. Maybe it would do me some good, I thought.
The walk to meet Father Mike was very stressful. I could feel the stress sweat —acrid, cold sweat of a peculiar kind — pouring off me, despite fairly pleasant weather. What would happen? How do I prepare? Can I prepare? I guess I’m just going to see what happens. This last thought was simultaneously a relief and a pronounced flair of renewed panic.
I was buzzed in and promptly directed to Father Mike. We shared greetings and then he got down to it. “So, I remember you told me once that you were working and then something bad happened.” The abruptness was welcome. I hate small talk. But… I don’t know if I remember telling him. I might have? Even so, in a world where everyone is urged to “share their story,” it feels like no one really wants to listen or acknowledge it when it’s unusual (maybe because it seems unrelatable). This directness was shocking to me, but more than a little validating, to use an overused word.
I recounted my story briefly (a story for another time), and he looked saddened and appalled. It cracked me open to recount it all in matter-of-fact terms to someone else for the first time in years, something that had laid me out for the better part of two years, managing it for years more, left without a career trajectory, starting over at an inadvisable age in a workplace already hostile to women and people with different needs.
He listened and nodded.
I have it, too, he said.
You do? I asked, my heart broke.
Yes. I have buried too many children. I’ve watched mothers throw themselves on their children’s graves. (NB: We live in a gang territory.)
Tears sprang. Yes, the children. It’s my trigger, too, I whispered.
I paused and looked down, overwhelmed. Unstoppable, the cascade of death paraded through my mind, like it always does.
We chatted more, but things were lighter after that. I took the office tour, talked with the woman I would be replacing, and after weeks of thinking about it, decided that I could not help, after all. My anticipatory anxiety made my world pitch and yawn, and I remembered how basketball season with its relentless and weird schedule had done me in. I need my routine. But more than this, I am acutely aware that my situation can create issues for other people. I didn’t want them to depend on me and then I would be unable to complete a task, for whatever reason.
I couple of days after I wrote to tell Father Mike I wasn’t going to be able to help, he called me out of the blue.
“I’m driving,” he said. “Talk to me.”
“Ok.” I replied. “Where are you going?”
“Connecticut.”
“You’re driving to Connecticut?”
“Yes, I needed a steak and a chat with an old friend, and maybe even lobster if I feel like it.”
“That sounds great!” I said.
“Well, I had to get out of the city,” he admitted.
After some discussion, it turned out that the day before he had broken up a fight between gang members and the cops, and it had threatened to turn very very ugly. He told them all to go home. “I don’t want to bury you!” he yelled. To both sides.
Both sides went home. Father Mike went to Connecticut.
Even after the start of writing this essay, I have spoken again with my friendly neighborhood parish priest, now driving home from Connecticut. I have come to the startling realization that I have never spoken to anyone else with PTSD about the experience of having PTSD. I told him this. He understood. It is very alienating, to others and to oneself.
We talked strategies. What works for you? How do you manage it? Routine, flowers, sunlight, swimming, making art — and for you? Routine, creative work, organization, baking, gardening. We talk about how being creative is healing — it’s like solving puzzles — and how we use our creativity to give to others.
We don’t talk about why we have it (we don’t want to dwell on this too much), but rather how we move through life with it. When we talk, we move past any presumptions we would be a burden to the other, as we would with everyone else. And as a woman, a friendship with a priest allows me to share without worry of other expectations that always seem to lurk about with other male individuals. In my situation, safety is one of my first considerations.
This new friendship has been an unexpected joy, after so much (necessary) solitude.
We shall see what comes from this. It might do me some good.