When Trauma Doesn't End

Therapy for trauma begins when a person is safe. This is a problem when the trauma goes on and on.

The essence of trauma is the experience of being overwhelmed by events and our reaction to events that are beyond our capacity. This is especially true when something causes extreme fear or shame, and we are powerless (or believe ourselves to be powerless) to respond. We are then left with an unprocessed experience – a “happening” that is stuck, undigested, in our souls, bodies and memories, affecting us in many ways. Safety opens the door to the possibility of processing or integrating what had been too overwhelming. We can face reality and accept it. We can compassionately consent to it and move towards healing.

This has been my understanding of trauma for some time, and it has guided my therapy and teaching. But trauma that doesn’t end throws a tragic wrench into this and points to an even deeper powerlessness.

Some of you who have been following long enough to recall three early posts on my Substack in which I summarized what I learned during interviews with Ukrainian refugees while I visited Warsaw. One of the things that I was watching out for was for something in the experience of those fleeing a conflict zone that went beyond my previous (more domestic) understanding, requiring it to stretch out in a new direction.

The theme that stretched me the most was the way the interviewees spoke more of depression than trauma. Of course, depressive symptoms or clinical depression have always been associated with trauma and are often “co-morbid”¹ with PTSD when formal diagnostic categories are being considered.

But this seemed different. There seemed to be a certain kind of depression that overshadowed trauma as a prime cause of concern. I had to wonder whether this was because the traumatic events were clearly ongoing.

The refugees I spoke with, in the relative safety of Warsaw, were still deeply affected by the ongoing realities in Ukraine. Their homeland, including their friends, family, and the cultural and physical space that meant so much to them, were all still under frequent attacks. “Safety” only existed to the extent that they separated themselves from this ongoing reality. A certain boundary or space was needed to grant them a measure of safety, but they also still experienced the very real lack of safety for the people and places that represented their home. This two-layered reality that blended some safety with the real fear and powerlessness of the ongoing threats seemed to leave a depression that was deeper than what one might typically expect from trauma alone

Basel Adra in 'No Other Land'. Credit: Dogwoof

Last week, I watched the Oscar-winning documentary, No Other Land, (it is available to stream at no cost here) co-directed by Palestinians and Israelis: Basel Adra, Yuval Abraham, Hamdan Ballal, and Rachel Szor. Here is another ongoing trauma that has persisted much longer. The filming focuses on the West Bank expulsions in Masafer Yatta and was completed just after the brutal Hamas attacks and abductions of October 7, 2023 that triggered the intense escalation of Israeli atrocities in Gaza (the film primarily covers 2019-2023). The ongoing reality of events depicted in the film has recently been underlined by the killing of Awdah Hathaleen, a Palestinian activist who also worked on the film.

Of course, one could name other ongoing atrocities that persist even if they make the news less often – events in Sudan, Myanmar, Haiti… There are so many other places that we just grow numb when we try to take it all in. That numbness may actually be a point of commonality that draws us together.

A scene from No Other Land has a certain resonance in this way for western viewers: Basel sits in his West Bank village and scrolls on his phone because there is “nothing to do” despite all the stress and threat. Our experiences might be poles apart, and yet we share the temptation to distract ourselves and disengage in the face of our powerlessness to do more when so much more needs to be done. We can taste this depression from afar; how much more must that be a reality for those who face the ongoing threat daily.

What does healing mean when the trauma doesn’t end? Can one emerge from depression when one is still so powerless in the face of so much danger?

Facing this kind of reality without answers brings me back so often to the “Serenity Prayer”²:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I am continually struck by the wisdom regarding all levels of trauma contained in this prayer. We know that healing comes from that mix of doing something possible even in the midst of violence and chaos and threat. And from accepting that one is simultaneously powerless about so much, while sorting out what belongs in which category. That “Serenity-Prayer-Blend” seems to characterize those who do well in the midst of ongoing trauma – staying engaged and doing what they can while seeing and acknowledging what they are powerless to change. This does not mean the depression goes away, but it’s not all of who they are.

Look for the echoes of depression and the Serenity Prayer in these scenes from No Other Land:

Yuval (the Israeli journalist) asks Basel (the Palestinian filmmaker): “Why are you on your phone all day?”

B: “It’s from stress. Stress. Stress. Stress.”

Y: “You’re afraid something will happen?”

B: “Yes, but also I’m stressed because I have nothing to do. What can I do besides being on my phone. I have nothing else. Only my phone.” (As viewers, we are catching that much of what Basel can do happens by phone with his filming and sharing with the outside world.)

When Yuval points out that he doesn’t know if he could have the hope and power that he sees in Basel if he were living his life. Basel responds, “Sometimes I think about it too hard. I feel this huge depression in me.”

There are moments when the poignancy of the difference between Yuval and Basel hits hard. Yuval has Israeli freedoms. He can leave and go to the relative safety of his home. One night, Yuval needs to go home to visit his mom. Basel says, “Well, I have no way to leave this place.” And the look on Yuval’s face as he feels the impact of this difference says a great deal.

Later:

B: “I shut down. I ran out of power.”

Y: “So turn yourself off. Shut down.”

And then they return to their filmmaking that would eventually succeed in helping so many of us see what life is like in the West Bank.

The shutting down, this part of oneself that stays depressed is necessary and human. We can always add the practice of lament - not an active “doing” but at least an “expressing.” Even as one who watches the unending trauma from a safe home, I need that lament (and/or tears) to keep the numbness from making me turn away. Writing this felt like a lament; I don’t like to admit that some depression just makes sense.

1. Co-morbid refers to two “disorders” that are diagnosed concurrently

2. In a synchronistic moment,

Bradley Jersak

’s latest post happened to give me a shout-out yesterday while also pointing to the Serenity Prayer. And

Diana Butler Bass

also focused on that prayer this week (reminding one that North America has an unending trauma as well). I suspect our times require this reminder a lot.

[This is part of a series of posts exploring a contemplative pathway to healing/maturing that I call “a compassionate consent to reality.” For an introduction to the project, you may want to see this post here, or perhaps better, a summary here. I’m so grateful for your interest and for any comments that you may have!]