Wisdom from the Trenches

In the aftermath of experiencing a traumatic event, survivors go through stages akin to the grieving process. Trauma leads to anguish and grief because it almost always stems from a loss – of autonomy, innocence, or health, to name just a few – and so, grief sets in. The grieving process is chaotic. The stages of the grieving process are fluid and can be cycled through in different orders and at different times. There is no set time frame for when it will be over. Revisiting previous stages of the process frequently occurs and sometimes, multiple stages overlap quite a bit or happen all at once, since the “steps” are described not to measure one’s steady progress toward healing, but to bring understanding to the complexity of healing from a deep hurt.

I have already discussed the initial shock and denial that I experienced after being assaulted in previous posts. Now I want to give you an example of how the grieving process can come in waves – or hit simultaneously: In my case (and this process is very much a personal process), shock gave way to denial, but I was still actively in denial when I first encountered rage. And this is the stage of grieving process I would like to discuss today: RAGE. What came upon me was a rage so violent that it shook this innocent, Christian girl to the core. I had become so accustomed to a lack of feeling after the first traumatic incident that overwhelming, murderous, blinding rage frightened me.

Even after I left the Army, anything could trigger rage within me. I would retreat to my bedroom, lock myself inside, sit on the bed, hug my knees, stare at the door, and seethe with anger. The door seemed to be my foe. Although it confused me, the door always became the object of my rage. Why would I lock myself in my room if all I wanted to do was bust through the door – fists flying, eyes wild, screaming in murderous rage, and beat down everything in my path? I could never answer that question because I couldn’t make sense of my rage. I was afraid of what I might do because the tornado of thoughts swirling in my head contained nothing pure, kind, or uplifting. In those episodes, I silenced blood-curdling screams by growling at the door, my eyes darkened as my heart cried out for God to shed some light on the situation, and I rocked gently, hugging my body so tightly that my legs would bruise in the process.

I was plagued by these rage-filled episodes for years before I started counseling. Eventually, the source was uncovered: Shortly after I was assaulted, I moved on to my permanent duty station in Germany. I was assigned to live in one of the older barracks buildings on post. On my first day, I was given a tour of the building. My room was a private bedroom, with no roommate. It was a modest, white room with a bed, a desk, a chair, a dresser, a bookshelf, a wall locker, and a miniature refrigerator. The kitchen was across the hallway from me, with all the commonly used appliances and cooking utensils.

The bathroom was the final stop on the tour. There was one, large public restroom for the entire floor. The door opened to several sinks below some mirrors. To the left was a wall of toilet stalls, such as you would see in a Target bathroom. To the right, a door which led to the three similarly-walled shower stalls. My tour guide made a point of mentioning that the bathroom was, in fact, co-ed. I raised my eyebrows at the mention of this and asked how that works with males and females right next to each other in stalls that couldn’t quite reach the floor and were just barely tall enough to cover my head from view. The soldier assured me that all soldiers on the floor treat each other with the utmost respect when it comes to use of the co-ed bathroom.

As we prepared to exit the bathroom, I heard a familiar voice boom down the hallway. Another new arrival was joking with a soldier on the floor. His laughter rang down the hallway and stopped me dead in my tracks. I knew that laugh. I froze in terror as I came to grips with my reality: For the next two years, I was doomed to share a co-ed bathroom with my rapist.

Over the course of those two years, I lived in constant danger of being attacked at any moment, even at my most vulnerable – while washing my face, going to the bathroom, or showering. I survived by becoming exhaustingly hypervigilant and behaving like an unpredictable time bomb of a woman. Anger fueled my overactive fight or flight response. But despite my protective measures, there were moments of utter helplessness when I was locked in my barracks room and he was pounding on my door, screaming obscenities, and bullying me to open the door and let him in. In those moments, I would sit on my bed, hug my knees tight to my chest, stare toward the door as if I could see through it to the person on the other side, gently rock…and rage. Like a caged animal, terrified by an abusive owner and desperately desiring to flee far from that place, I was trapped. And so, I began to bare my teeth. Rage welled up inside me, protected me, and consumed me – all at the same time.

By locking myself in my bedroom during rage-filled episodes, I was reliving my trauma. My counselor helped me understand why I was the way I was, but this did not stop the rages. I hated people when I raged. Afterwards, I would feel guilty and hate myself. Something had to break this cycle.

One night, instead of locking myself in a room, I ran away in anger. I sat in my car, praying for help, mercy, relief – anything! Instead, God gave me insight. I heard Him say, “You are angry at me.” I adamantly denied that immediately! Why would I be angry at God? How could anyone fault God…and live?? The voice said, “You are angry at me. Let it out. I can handle your rage.”

What came out of me next is not something I am proud of. A dam of emotion broke. I looked through the windshield into the starless sky and screamed the worst obscenities at God. Tears poured from my eyes and splashed on my jeans like a waterfall crashing to the depths below. Those blood-curdling screams rose from somewhere deep within me and launched like missiles at my God. I questioned His goodness, His Word, His character…His love. Infuriated, I beat Him with a relentless verbal lashing.

God took the brunt of my murderous rage that day without retaliating. I blasted Him with years of pent-up rage…and He listened to me state my case. He took the full blame for hurt someone else had caused me when they misused their free will. God listened until I sat still, blue in the face and hoarse from screaming. And then, He sat with me in my car as I cried in total despair.

It was a moonless and starless night. The world was dark and seemed empty – and that mirrored how I felt inside. All was lost. Even my faith seemed weak because I had questioned and accused God for something He had not done to me.

I never experienced rage episodes again. It was as if God soaked up all of the filth pouring out of me that had been destroying my soul – and spirited it away. I learned several things through that experience:

• Burying grief and anger is unhealthy and delays the healing process. As my counselor once told me, it’s as if I buried it all alive…and it kept popping out of the grave periodically, grabbing me by the ankle, and scaring the living daylights out of me!
• Voicing your rage over injustice in a safe space is important to moving forward after trauma. Putting words to your anger gives you the opportunity to say your piece and then lay the matter to rest – forever.
• God is big enough to handle the worst of emotions. If anger has seized your heart, He would rather an honest relationship with you than abject obedience.

Rage is an uncomfortable emotion, but is a natural response to injustice and acute pain. We should be angry about something that is not right! If we silence our anger, we exacerbate the pain and anguish inside of us and we erase our influence for good on the world around us. Every day we live in silence, the anger festers inside of us and consumes us, gnawing at our very souls. Silence cloaks our injuries instead of bringing them to the One who can clean them, properly bandage them, and ultimately heal them.

Speaking my rage over my circumstances out loud sounded absolutely awful, but released the tension within me, freeing me from my solitary confinement. Voicing my anger released the darkness forced into my life and let the light back in…but speaking up isn’t meant to save just one.

Speaking up draws together a vulnerable community that is willing to deal directly with difficult issues. Speaking up tells others they are not alone in their trials. Speaking up shows others that they need not suffer in silence. Speaking up validates each victim’s experience as inherently wrong. Speaking up correctly labels the crime as illegal, hurtful, wrong – giving survivors the courage to take the burden of shame that threatens to crush them off of their shoulders and place the blame for what happened to them squarely on the criminal who violated their space, their trust, and their bodies. Speaking up creates the safe space and authentic community others need to begin their own healing journeys.

Silence fails victims. Speaking up frees victims.