On Revisiting Spaces (of Trauma)

Upon looking at the title, I can imagine it might not make much sense, so allow me to explain. I want to spend some time meditating on memory considering that I consider it one of the most central aspects in my reflection. But I find that I tend to regard memory in a tactile manner.

 Though I often get bursts of memories or flashbacks with no warrant whatsoever, I find that some of the strongest experiences that I’ve had is being in the space that the experience occurred. In my times of reflection, looking back on memories both good and bad, I find what I’ve paid most attention to are the places that my memories inhabit. 

I like to envision these places as the roots or vines that connect to the innermost parts of me, the keepers of memories that I can trace back to every time I revisit these spaces. For example, there’s a coffee shop that has become my routine spot of writing, working, reading, and catching up with old friends when I’m home. But, I see it first as the place I had my first chai latte with a friend. This sounds quite silly, perhaps, but in that moment I felt that I was experiencing the independence I had craved. That I could do such things as walk to a coffee shop by myself or sing in the streets of the city that I love dearly with a new friend, this moment to me was what it meant to be sixteen. Most importantly how I wanted to feel at sixteen, uninhibited and free from my symptoms even if just for a moment. Now, whenever I push through the thin screen door and am greeted with the familiar sound of The Smiths filling the small space, and when I look to the worn coffee tables, I can remember the buzz of caffeine, the feeling that anything was possible, and it brings me back to the person that I was in that moment:young, excited, and explorative of a life outside of doctors offices and waiting rooms. But like most things, good memories are often balanced by the “bad”. But in this situation, I’d like to reframe it, maybe, just as challenging. At least that’s what I think the self help books would probably recommend. Bear with me if I sound like an angsty teenager, because in some ways I still am. In any case, there is one spot in particular that I revisited recently and that I felt really affected me. This place resides in a section of Athens, Greece called Plaka. More specifically, in a corner of cool tile within a chaotic trains station marking the entrance to the busy market.

Almost every summer, my family is lucky enough to make a trip to Greece to see family and take a small vacation. I’ve always felt a strong connection with Greece, though it’s something I cannot necessarily explain. I don’t fully speak the language (yet), I haven’t done the “soul searching” there you so often hear about (again, yet) but there’s something about the ancient buildings surrounded by anarchist graffiti juxtaposed against the idyllic blue Aegean sea that make me feel right. However, there is one spot, in Athens specifically, has me irrevocably tethered in a way that is considered less than ideal (unlike the aforementioned coffee shop). This was the place of my first seizure, or “episode” as the doctors deemed it, when I was twelve. Since that summer day in 2012, I have been adamant to my family that whenever we make the return to Athens, I simply cannot go back there. That everyone can go ahead and do the touristy shopping of intricately designed pottery and eat the famous souvlakis that are so fresh that the grease and juice from the ripe tomatoes drip down your hand. Instead, I’d find something else to do, anything to keep me away from being transported back in time. Thinking of how I felt then, I was paralyzed by the fear that I would get sucked back into that moment and would not be able to return. Back to when my mouth felt full of peanut butter, when my eyes darted matching the wave of tremors that spread through my limbs, when I tried to hard to speak but could only manage intelligible utterances spilling off my tongue. But that was before this summer, because it was this past July that I, somewhat accidentally, found myself facing that very train station. 

It was a typical day in Athens, heat bounced off the ancient blocks of marble and my time was spent in worn converse exploring the city. I was traveling with a friend from college on that day, although we were both a bit cranky, most likely due to the lack of water and sleep which allowed for the loud songs of cicadas to fill the dead space between us. We were looking for a few different thrift stores and perhaps a museum with air conditioning to stumble into. Instead we found ourselves in front of the station. It wasn’t the revolutionary moment I thought it would be, one that completely stopped me in my tracks, it was just there. 

Memories returned in a haze, similar the humid murkey air that clouded that day. As I looked to the worn cobble stoned streets, crowded with shopping stands selling the same plastic replicas of the Parthenon that stampedes of tourists apparently cannot resist. I recalled how I stumbled having trouble thinking straight, fixating on the phrases spoken by an unfamiliar voice repeating on a loop in my head stating that I was an awful person, shaming me for my weight(which was completely normal and healthy), telling me that no one wanted me there and that I was a disruption to the trip, to my family. These sentences, at the time, were foreign to me; I had previously experienced the occasional moments of self doubt but it was nothing like the intensity of that voice in my head, one that would unfortunately become familiar to me, familiar enough to sound like my own. I remember how when we stopped at a taverna that we had been to many times before, I felt overwhelmed by the sights and sounds surrounding me. I told myself that I was only allowed to eat cucumbers and that I was a burden to my family, all of this written down on the notes app in attempt to articulate how I was feeling to my mom. I don’t want to delve into the details of what happened in the train station, however, I remembered the sensations that spread through my limbs. The confusion, the fear, gasps for breath and horrifying realization that I no longer had control over my body.

But I think one thing that haunts me the most is when I strained to put my vision past the concerned faces of my parents and at the people walking by, minding their own business. I couldn’t stop the voice inside my head pleading, why isn’t anyone helping me? Doesn’t anyone see me? I remember the sluggish attempts to sit up and translate what I was thinking into words but to no avail. Again, I don’t want to go into too much detail here because I find that it’s unnecessary for me to relive my trauma again, and most importantly what is in the past is in the past. 

I didn’t tell my friend what had happened, sometimes I wonder if I should have. But at that moment, I felt as though I needed to keep it to myself, that I couldn’t explain what had happened. But as I walked away, I noticed that I was able to put distance between myself and the train station. I realized that I had inadvertently conquered my fear, forced to face it head on. Most significant, I wasn’t trapped in time, I was able to return from the flood of memory and I was able to put it away. This is what it’s like to revisit a space of trauma, but the most important part is that I didn’t let myself get locked into the past. I revisited the memory, but it was only temporary. This is the significance of facing these places. Do not have me mistaken, a year or two ago this was not something I believe I would be able to face. 

But, now, I am no longer afraid of it. This does not mean I’m itching to return, but I no longer fear accidentally seeing it or recoil when I hear it’s name. The memory still lives there, that is true, but it no longer holds the same power over me as it once did. Though it was difficult to relieve that experience for a moment, what it showed me was more rewarding than the distress it caused. I learned that I no longer exist in the past, that I can walk away. Yes this is one of my many roots, one of the most defining moments of my life, but that is all that it is: a moment. I can now find my way back to the person I am today and observe how much I’ve grown.