Trauma Bonds

“Hey...Hey!”

I woke up abruptly, drool on my sleeve, my glasses halfway down my face. Completely forgetting that I had been in the library, I panicked. I jumped up, looking around wildly.

“Oh sorry,” a high-pitched voice said behind me. I jerked my head around to face her. A small Asian woman in a white button-up top waved at me sheepishly. I adjusted my glasses just in time to make out ‘library assistant’ on her shirt. “I’m just about to lock up. I didn’t want you to get trapped in here.” She jingled the keys she held. I rubbed my eyes, mascara smudging onto my hands.

“No, thank you for waking me up. I definitely didn’t mean to fall asleep. Sorry for the trouble,” I said, mentally trying to shake off the grogginess. The library was completely dark outside of the lamp that lit my desk. She waved her hand. 

“Seriously, it happens all the time. I honestly thought about letting you just sleep.” I smiled, shrugging.

“I mean, I need the sleep but probably not in an awkward face-on-desk position,” I said. She laughed a little.

“Can’t be good for your back.”

“Or my face either,” I laughed, pointing to my cheek. She laughed harder at that. “Let me pack up my things really quick.” I looked at the mess of a desk with all of my stuff strewn about. Slightly embarrassed, I started shoving things into my backpack.

“No need to rush,” the woman said, leaning against the desk next to me. “What were you working on?” I tried to make it look like I didn’t normally just shove things in my backpack. 

“It’s a pretty big research paper. I’m a psych major,” I explained. She nodded.

“Everyone’s a psych major,” she said grumpily. I wanted to protest but couldn’t find the will. “I’m majoring in library science.” She gestured dramatically towards her shirt. I laughed. “What’s the topic?” she asked.

“Trauma bonds.” She furrowed her eyebrows.

“Let me guess. Is that like...when traumatized people bond with other traumatized people or something?” My head tilted side to side.

“Yes and no. It’s a little confusing, honestly. On one hand it’s another way of saying Stockholm Syndrome and on the other, when people share a traumatic experience. They often can get through it easier together. It’s called unit cohesion. Usually it’s like people in the military, first responders...” I let my voice trail off. She considered that for a moment. I went for my pencil case. 

“I think I may--”

“Damn it!” My plastic pencil case fell, opening as it fell, spilling out all over the floor. I got down on the floor and started picking up everything. The woman knelt on the floor beside me and started collecting the various items. “Sorry, thanks for helping. You were going to say?”

“I think I may have a trauma bond,” she explained. I nodded, pulling a pencil out from under my chair. 

“Lots of people do," I began. I chewed my lip. The shadows we casted overlapped as we reached. "Actually, I do, too,” I added quietly.

“Is it weird if I ask you who yours is with?” she asked, hesitantly. I inhaled slowly.

“Not really. It’s with my mom.” She was silent for a moment, fiddling the pencil she was holding.

“Like...the Stockholm Syndrome one?” she asked. I laughed humorlessly. My heartbeat began to rise.

“Yes. Like the Stockholm Syndrome one," I replied, my palms getting clammy. I thought about saying more but I held my tongue, my heartbeat slowing. We went back to picking up the contents of my pencil case. “What about you?” I asked, inspecting an eraser. She stopped to look over at me. It almost looked like she was inspecting me. I made a face.

“I guess I asked you, first,” she started. She paused for a long moment, staring at the pencil sharpener she was holding. “When I was about 7. I saw someone get hurt.” She put the pencil sharpener into the pencil case. She suddenly sat up straight, shaking her head. “That’s a lie” she started again. “I saw someone die. I-I saw them get shot.” Time stood still, her words hanging in the air. I swallowed, wondering if I should ask her more. The bookcase glared at me then and I listened instead. “It’s weird, I know everything about that day," the woman began. She looked far away, as if she wasn't really beside me. " I remember how old I was. What day it was. What time it was. What I was wearing…” her voice trailed off. I nodded, fixated by her voice. The light from the desk sort of lit her face like a spotlight would on a stage. “I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about this,” she said, mostly to herself. My knees rubbed on the carpet as I involuntarily moved closer.

“I’ve never told anyone I have Stockholm Syndrome,” I said, encouraging her. I gestured at the darkened shelves and empty desks around us. “There’s no one else here. Just us girls.” She flashed her teeth, the light catching them in a bizarre way.

“I guess that’s true.”

“It’s also sometimes easier to open up to a stranger. Or a group of strangers. That’s one of the reasons why group therapy can actually be really helpful. Sharing trauma can also be healing,” I added. After I finished speaking, I realized how I sounded. Well, I guess I’m headed into this field, anyway. She made a sound of agreement as soon as I began to think I may have said too much. I turned back to the floor, pretending to look for more runaway items.

“I was with my sister,” she began, shifting so she was sitting crosslegged. She stopped pretending to look for more items and looked distantly again to the darkness. I shifted, as well, mirroring her position. “My sister and I are 7 years apart so she was fourteen when the shooting happened. She and I had been shopping in the city and weren’t even in a sketchy area or anything. I needed a dress for my voice recital and she said she would go with me because our mom couldn’t. Anyway, we were walking down the sidewalk and we heard some shouting. Up ahead, we saw these five men outside of a bar just yelling. My sister just sort of pulled me closer and we just kept our heads down. You know, you just keep on walking in those situations. We weren’t the only ones out, either. There must have been at least a dozen people walking by. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I think I hear fireworks. I remember thinking how weird that was. It’s like 2pm, why would you set off fireworks? And before I can even think for another second, my sister pulls me behind this car and tells me to crouch on the ground beside her. She’s like holding me and praying and I’m still not really sure what’s happening. And then the smell hit me. All I could smell was this smell...this metallic, smokey sort of smell.” The woman paused, looking over to me, as if to check if I was still there before continuing. She licked her lips, nervously. Her eyes moved to the floor, tracing the carpet pattern with her finger. The shadows on her chest accentuated the speeding of her breath. I held mine in anticipation, my shadow stilling.

“What I didn’t realize right away was that the metallic smell wasn’t just from the gun. It was pooling around our feet. My sister kept telling me to look at her and not at the ground but it only took half a second for my eyes to follow the blood and for me to realize that only a car separated us from the body of a victim in a homicide. A lot of people don’t really know this but shootings don’t really last longer than a minute or two. It takes just that amount of time to change everything for someone forever. We were still huddled and hiding when the police arrived shortly after. They kept asking us questions and who we were and neither of us could really say anything other than that we were there and we were helpless. Do you know what it’s like to be completely helpless?” Her eyes searched mine.

Yes.

 I shook my head no. She studied me for a moment before returning to tracing the carpet. I looked away quickly, a lump forming in the throat.

“Well, anyway, when my mom arrived, she was just hysterical. The police spent more time calming her down than tending to us. But it was actually okay. I think my sister and I just needed that time to sort of just process what had happened. But we were both okay. We both survived. And I will never forget that.” 

The library was truly silent then, even the books at the mercy of her words. The atmosphere was contemplative, even inspiring. I took a moment to make sure I had put everything back into the pencil case. The extended silence began to weigh on me. 

“What’s your name?” I asked suddenly. Our eyes met sharply. She softened greatly, a teasing look forming on her face.

“You’re breaking the code.”

“What?”

 "If I know your name, we’re not strangers,” she said. I faked a laugh, the lump making it too obvious.

“You got me,” I lied. I nervously opened and closed the pencil case. Click-click. Click-click. She seemed to notice, unable to hide her disappointment. It felt like an arrow to me.

“You don’t have to share if you don’t want to, I just--”

“No, no, it’s okay,” I said. My chest began to feel heavy. I shifted uncomfortably. I kept thinking over and over how to start and the woman just...waited. After a very long time I finally asked, “Is it okay if I sort of tell you a story instead?” She looked confused but nodded anyway. I let out half a breath. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to face you either,” I added, swallowing hard. The shame began to taint my face. She shrugged, somewhat concerned.

“Doesn’t bother me," she said quietly. I took a deep breath, feeling a little silly as I scooted on my butt to face away from her. The sound of my heart filled my ears. The shadows on the wall and in the book shelves turned nefarious and taunting. I closed my eyes and began. 

“Once upon a time, there was a young girl. She lived in a small house in the countryside. She lived alone with a giant troll. In the mornings, the girl would have to be very careful, making sure she didn’t wake the troll and make her and the troll breakfast. If she was too loud, the troll would...well, anyway, she would make breakfast each morning. If she was lucky, she would be able to get through the whole process without the troll waking up and could go to school with her friends without having to see the troll at all.” I paused for a moment, feeling ridiculous. I allowed myself a peek over my shoulder to see that the woman was still there, looking right at me. She moved one of her hands in a circular motion. I turned back around, compelled to continue.

“Most days, the troll woke up while the girl was cooking breakfast. The troll’s behavior was unpredictable, really. Sometimes it would be angry and violent. Other times, it would cry like a child and ask for a blanket, helpless…” I swallowed, taking a moment to breathe. “But mostly, the troll was apathetic and dismissive. The troll would complain about the breakfast, say mean things to the girl, and even make fun of her. The girl had so many things she wanted to say back to the troll but the reality remained that she was just a little girl and the troll was a troll. She dreamed of running away, living in the forest, living in the swamp, anywhere but with the troll. But there were those times, ever so rare, but they existed, where the troll was grateful. The troll would hold the girl. The troll would go shopping with the girl. The troll would say that it loved the girl and give her a kiss on the forehead. And the girl couldn’t help but stay for those moments. It made the girl love the troll and made her resent anyone who said anything to criticize the troll. And on the bad days when the troll would get so mad, it would drunkenly beat her up or burn her with a cigarette or lock her in the closet for days at a time, the girl made excuses for the troll. Even idolized the troll. Forever trapped in her own cage of misery.” After I finished, I didn’t move for a long time. Neither did the woman. Or the shadows or the books, for that matter. Everything was still, unsure whether or not there was still air to breathe.

“My name is Beth,” the woman said after a long moment. I turned around slowly to face her. The light from the lamp caught a small sparkle in the corner of one of her eyes. She wiped it with the side of her knuckle. I avoided my gaze and retrieved the restored pencil case, setting it on my lap. 

“Sarah,” I replied, letting my eyes peek at her. We sat there, the vulnerability of everything feeling a bit silly now. Having bared one’s soul to a ‘Beth’ seemed far more intimate than some library assistant. But my chest was no longer heavy. My heartbeat was no longer afraid. The air was somehow breathable now. Quite so…The entire library seemed to breathe with us. I knew that I should be feeling scared or upset but I felt something else.

Beth stood up and offered me a hand. I took it, standing beside her by the desk. Neither of us said anything for a moment. There was something strange that I couldn’t put my finger on. This feeling of sudden openness. Of comfort. Of connectedness. Like a door suddenly blew open, letting in a beam of sunlight, basking us both instead of the lamp.

“We--”

“Uh--”

We both laughed then. Perhaps it was simply to relieve the incredibly tension or perhaps just recognizing the ridiculousness of what had just transpired. Maybe the lateness of the night had finally caught up with us. Maybe it was that I was so grateful to have shared something truly real with someone else.

"We should go," Beth managed. I grabbed my backpack and slung it over my shoulder, grabbing my phone and starting the flashlight. I turned off the desk lamp and we started towards the staircase. Beth yelped suddenly.

"Are you okay?" I asked. She bend down and picked something up under her foot.

"What the hell..." It was one of my erasers that had wandered away. "It looks like--"

"A foot? I got it from my podiatrist," I explained. Beth started cracking up. "What? It's just--" Then the laughter infected me.

And then laughter was unstoppable. It even followed us as we made our way downstairs to the front exit. The shadows bounced and danced with our giggles as we used our phone’s flashlights to help us find our way. Neither of us could even get a word in. Beth kept looking at the eraser and losing it over and over, restarting the inappropriate and infectious laughter. This giddiness grew between us, something rooted deeply in the nostalgia of slumber parties. By the time we made it outside, we were wiping our eyes, finally able to take a breath. The night air was warm and full of the smell of wet grass. Is it really that late? The smell reminded me of summer and that intangible feeling of endless possibility. Almost like magic. My heart ached a little then, realizing this was goodbye. I shivered suddenly. 

“Hey, I hope this isn’t weird,” Beth started, handing over the eraser. I couldn’t see her face but I could tell she was uncomfortable. “Do you want to hang out again? I don’t have a whole lot of friends around here.” My heart skipped a beat. The slumber party nostalgia welled up in me again, nearly sparkling. My face sported a stubborn grin, unapologetic and full of relief.

“Yeah. That sounds great.”