The way the body processes things can sometimes be very similar to an autoimmune disease. The body is trying so hard to fix something that’s wrong withit that it ends up overreacting and mistakenly attacks the wrong parts, causing more problems and new issues you may not even realize are connected to each other.”
My body knows all of this…too well. I’ve dealt with these feelings since that day four years ago. I remember Isabel’s face the morning before everything changed. It wasn’t the last time I saw her…but it was the last time I saw her alive, and some days that thought decides to torture me. I get stuck thinking about how quiet she was, how I told myself everything was okay, and she was probably just tired, that it was nothing to worry about.
I didn’t ask.
It’s crazy all the things I didn’t realize back then were connected that I remember now. I remember hearing the way people at school talked about her, the cruel things they started to say, how she started looking smaller and smaller, like the life was draining from her. I always tried to be there for her, but she shut me out so much near the end. She was always so angry with me, and I didn’t understand why. I just wanted to help.
She was my best friend. We were only ten months apart in age, and we grew up more like twins, with me being the older brother.
I thought it was all just normal high school drama. Boys teasing girls. Girls being catty with each other over guys they liked. But after finding her that day, after finding her note, after finding out what really happened—I can’t even think about it now; I can’t think about how badly I failed her.
I try to steady my breathing, trying to go back to paying attention to the lecture. Even if my brain is trying to reject all the logical things she’s saying.
“Guilt,” she continues, “is one of the hardest things trauma survivors deal with. Especially when it involves someone they love. We think—I should have done something. I could have saved them in some way. And that guilt eats at our ability to forgive ourselves, and it changes how we move through life. We become overly critical of ourselves and overly cautious of new relationships and situations. Guilt isn’t proof that we failed; it’s proof that we cared, so is the grief and pain. We have to rewire the brain to understand that’s not a bad thing. It’s not something to fear.”
I’m not taking notes anymore. I can’t. All I can hear is the echo of Isabel’s laugh when we were kids…and the silence when she was gone by sixteen.
I press my thumb against my temple, trying to stay here, in this room, and not back there, but I end up zoning out as she goes through a couple of real-life clinical sessions with study participants. Then she moves on to talk about how the brain and body can still heal from these damaging patterns that the body holds on to, and I start to listen again.
“Whether you’re a counselor, a researcher, or one day a clinical psychologist, you’ll see this again and again—the nervous system holds onto pain even when the conscious mind thinks it’s fine. The body doesn’t differentiate between past danger and present safety. When someone loses someone they love, or they go through something traumatic, their body reacts like the danger is still happening. Racing heart. Shallow breathing. Hypervigilance. Anxiety. That’s just the brain doing its job to protect you and keep control, even if it misfires sometimes.”
She clicks to the next slide, where a graphic shows the brain and nervous system.
“First, we have to acknowledge this with patients. Step one will always be safety. If the body thinks it’s unsafe, nothing else will stick. Therapy starts with re-teaching the body how to feel safe again.
Then we want to bring awareness to what’s actually happening. We help them learn the signs of fight, flight, freeze, and fawn in themselves. Naming a reaction can take away some of its power. Sometimes, the fear of unknown feelings can be the main cause of anxiety in the moment. We don’t like or understand what we’re feeling, and that fear takes over and feeds the anxiety more.
Then we talk about replacement. People often cope in ways that numb instead of heal—substance use, risky behaviors, self-isolation. We work with them to find replacements that give them that relief they’re looking for without destroying themselves. Such as exercise, art, journaling, close community, real connections, any healthier tool. This is really a trial-and-error phase. Never a one-size-fits-all.
And lastly, integration. That means helping them take their story and make meaning out of it instead of running from it. When they start to integrate that loss into their life’s narrative, the body can stop bracing for impact. The more we give the body chances to feel safe around that trauma and any triggers, the more the brain starts to trust safety again.”
Dr. Hampton’s voice softens a little as she leans against the desk, finishing out her lecture. “Pain can’t be erased. That’s never the goal. We are just here to better learn and understand the tools the brain responds best to.”
By the time class ends, my chest feels hollowed out, my heart exposed. I hate it.
How am I supposed to be a therapist one day if I still can’t work through my own emotions?
I need some air.
I quickly throw my bag over my shoulder and make my way out of the building. I’m halfway across campus when I see Mason and Erik waving at me.
“Yo! Bash!” Mason calls out.
I lift my hand in a halfhearted wave.
By the time I reach them, I’ve managed to plaster on a fake smile, playing the part of the guy who has it all together, the one who cracks jokes, keeps it light, and doesn’t allow anyone to see when he’s barely holding it together.
Sometimes I feel stupid for feeling this way.
Boo-hoo, your sister killed herself four years ago. Move on. It shouldn’t still be able to control you like this.
There’s just too many feelings wrapped up in it, though—hurt, guilt, emptiness, anger—so much anger. Anger for what she went through, anger for the people that caused it, anger for it being partly my fault. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop blaming myself. I don’t know how.
Erik daps me up, and then Mason does the same. It’s easy to pretend. Especially around them. It’s easy to get lost in conversations, and in college life, just enough to push the thoughts aside majority of the time. When I didn’t have enough of those distractions, that’s when I would turn to alcohol, women, and the occasional nose candy. But now I try to turn to my friends and to God…and as great as that may sound in theory, it’s still hard. I still struggle with wanting to numb. I still struggle with my faith. I’m still learning to trust his plan for me. I just wish the process didn’t have to hurt so much. I thought that when I turned away from the self-destructive behaviors, he would just reward me with the peace of mind I was craving. But now I feel even more tested and stretched to my limits since I can’t run from it all anymore.
I’m not giving up hope, though, and I don’t want to keep feeding into the fear and anxiety I struggle with. I’m just…tired. I know I have to be patient and keep doing the work and staying in the Word, trying to understand it all. Healing isn’t some magic wand you find and wave, making it all disappear. Sadly.
We all walk together toward the dining hall, cutting through the middle of campus. It’s stillearly, so most students are scrambling to get to classes, and everyone else is meeting up and making plans for the weekend.
