The Myth of Normal 27

A flashback to our chapter’s tragic opening scene, only this time set in a parallel universe where my trauma imprints don’t rule the day: The plane lands and Rae’s text pops up on my screen. “Hmm, that’s not what I expected,” I say to myself. “But I get it: she’s probably immersed in her painting. Nothing new there, nor anything personal. Actually, I can empathize: How many times have I gotten so absorbed in work that the clock got away from me? Okay, taxi it is.” I might well notice some disappointed feelings, in which case I allow myself to feel them until they pass; in effect, I choose vulnerability over victimhood. Arriving home, there is no upset, no emotional detaching, no sulking—maybe some gentle teasing, but all within the bounds of loving humor and with affinity intact. I would have thus exhibited what is called response flexibility: the ability to choose how we address life’s inevitable ups and downs, its disappointments, triumphs, and challenges. “Human freedom involves our capacity to pause between stimulus and response and, in that pause, to choose the one response toward which we wish to throw our weight,” wrote the psychologist Rollo May. [12] Trauma robs us of that freedom. Response flexibility is a function of the midfrontal portion of our cerebral cortex. No infant is born with any such capacity: babies’ behavior is governed by instinct and reflex, not conscious selection. The freedom to choose develops as the brain develops. The more severe and the earlier the trauma, the less opportunity response flexibility has to become encoded in the appropriate brain circuits, and the faster it becomes disabled. One becomes stuck in predictable, automatic defensive reactions, especially to stressful stimuli. Emotionally and cognitively, our range of movement becomes well- nigh sclerotic—and the greater the trauma, the more stringent the constraints. The past hijacks and co-opts the present, again and again. Trauma Fosters a Shame-Based View of the Self One of the saddest letters I have ever received was from a Seattle man who had read my book on addiction, In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts, in which I show that addiction is an outcome—not the only one possible, but a prevalent one—of childhood trauma. Nine years sober, he was still struggling, had not