September 8, 2021
Day 342, Week 48
- Emotional State: Exhausted
I’m not going to spend today’s journal talking about my book. Today’s journal is about the flood, about trauma, about isolation and overwhelment (if this isn’t a word, I’m making it one).
The FloOD WATERS
Seven days ago, the rain pounded down on our house as Hurricane Ida passed overhead. It rained longer and harder than we’d ever seen; rainwater splashing up so high, it appeared to be reabsorbed into the deluge from whence it came.
Around midnight, I noticed my neighbors were still awake; their basement lights on. This was unusual. Not only did they go to bed early, but they never went into their basement this late. I walked down into the basement, checking to see if any water lurked in the corners.
We had little puddles around the outskirts of the basement walls, similar to what we’ve seen when it’s poured before. The rain had stopped, and it didn’t look like another band of rain was coming through, so we went to sleep. Like normal.
Fast forward to 8 am. I woke up and headed downstairs to make coffee and tea for us, as I normally do. As I round the first corner of our stairs, I hear the sound no homeowner ever wants to hear. Rushing water. It sounded as if we were running a bath with four faucets opened wide.
“Oh no.” I said as I quickened my steps.
“Oh no.” I said as I flicked the family room curtains aside and gazed upon the brown murky water surrounding my entire house; a river slooshing between our house and the ones across the street.
“Oh no.” I said as I glanced down at the water lapping my basement stairs. The water that was at least 2 or more feet high at this point.
“Oh no.” I said as my sleepy husband stumbled downstairs, and we faced the reality that Ida left us a present we didn’t want or need.
Our sump pump chugged away at removing water that kept pouring in. The little engine that could. If I could hug that pump, I would. (No, I wouldn’t. It’s in a hole in the ground in our basement, filled with creepy crawlys and nasty water, but you get what I mean). We’ve debated on whether it’s a girl or a boy (it’s a girl; my husband is wrong). We’ve bandied about names for it. Yes, it means that much to us now that we’ve seen it in action.
As the water receded more and we could get closer to our neighbors, we recounted the damage to our homes, comparing how high the water went.
“We got three feet and its still trickling in.”
“Ours is up to our rafters, just inches away from the first floor.”
“My sump pumps have stopped working and the water is filling the basement. I don’t know what to do. My husband always dealt with it.” (Her husband passed 6 years before).
Repeating how we experienced the flood. Rehashing it in a new way to somehow purge the overwhelming emotions laying behind it all. We were like drunks at a bar, without the benefit of having drunk anything.
Friday morning arrived. A beautiful day dawned and the real work of digging out after a flood began. Three days of emptying the basement, separating items to keep or toss. Three days of phone calls to plumbers and insurance adjusters, trying to get everyone here so that our life could go back to normal.
Three days of unending slog, dampness, rank smells emanating from our basement. Three days of buckets of bleach, water and soap to wash down the walls and floors. Three days of watching our neighbors fill up their curbs with the remnants of the life they had in the basement.
There were impromptu pizza parties. Hot bagels dropped off one morning; cleaning supplies shared across driveways.
We needed the laughter, the little joys, to keep us going, to keep us picking up that next thing, wash off that next item, put one foot in front of the other of picking up the pieces of our lives.
There were also loads of people driving down the street to “see” the damage, like we were a tourist attraction at Disneyland. Like our lives and our soggy basement goods were on display at a local museum. Like our street was a trainwreck everyone wanted to experience, but only from a distance.
The gas company arrived on Saturday, shutting off people’s gas in case the submerged meters got damaged and caused an explosion. Our house wasn’t in as deep and I managed to convince him to keep the meter on for the stove. I could’ve handled not cooking; we would’ve managed. But I just didn’t want to. I needed one thing to remain normal.
Because, you see, we were all hanging on by our fingertips. A fine thread holding us together, holding the emotions in, that could snap with one more thing going wrong. I’ve felt stretched to the max of my ability to keep it in. But if I let go, my husband would step up and take on more than even he could bear. He’s like that in a crisis. If I crack, he’ll rush to fill it up, not caring how much it is destroying him in the process.
And so we don’t crack. We don’t let it go. We hold it in so that neither one of us tips the balance of our kayak teetering on the edge of a cliff. One wrong move and we fall and break. One wrong move and everything changes.
The problem is that everything has already changed. The moment the full impact of the water-logged basement hit, the old us – who we were and how we functioned – died and were reborn.
First, into first responders – evaluate, strategize, execute.
Next, into construction workers – purge, clean, replace.
And our final metamorphosis will be into battle-hardened warriors. People who’ve experienced trauma and came out on the other side. People who now have a plan and a list of what to do next time, so that we’re prepared, at least mentally.
You can never prepare emotionally, not all the way. How can you prepare for emotions you haven’t felt yet, which you’ve only imagined but haven’t experienced?
Having your house invaded by rushing water is traumatic. I know this because I’ve lived it, but also because the sound of running water woke me up from a sound sleep on Saturday night and my first thought was panic and dread that I couldn’t take any more water in my basement. I hated the rain. I hated the clouds. I wanted it all to stop.
I was afraid of rain.
And this leads me to my other point – the isolation and aloneness you feel in this situation, even when surrounded by people going through it with you. Every other human not impacted by this flood would hear the rain and ignore it, enjoy it, think for a moment and then go back to sleep or move on with their day.
There has been an outpouring of support. “I’m sorry. At least you’re both okay.” “Are you okay?” “It’s only things.” And I appreciate it; we appreciate it. Who wouldn’t? But the people who weren’t in it, knee deep and slogging through soggy possessions, calculating how much it will cost to replace a water heater or a boiler, can have their moments of compassion and then go about their day. We don’t have that luxury.
On Saturday morning, I headed out to Home Depot to pick up some cleaning supplies. In line were a few people chatting about the flood and how quickly the water rose, but the rest of the customers were going about their normal day – house projects, fixing things, gardening.
I felt this schism, this outsiderness, this parallel reality feeling.
I wanted to rail at the people biking with their kids, clogging up the line at Home Depot, making it a fun holiday weekend. But that would get me nowhere. That would open up that crack I was desperately trying to keep closed. And it would do nothing but upset people who were doing nothing wrong.
We were on one side – the side of trauma – and they were on the other.
This is not my first rodeo. My first flood, but not my first trauma. I’ve felt the same in every traumatic experience I’ve had. Alone. Outside. Other.
Four years ago, almost to the day, we evacuated Key West, Florida, where we were on vacation, right before Irma hit. We managed to somehow get a large transport van from the rental company and we, along with our four new best friends that we’d just met in line, piled into the van and drove for 12 hours straight.
That ride felt like this one, except not as bad, not as extreme. We had nail biting moments waiting an hour to get gas while the pumps slowly drained of all but ultra-unleaded. We drove north on packed roads, dropping our new friends off at airports and hotels, before driving the remaining 7 hours to Jacksonville airport and our flight home. Another gas crisis loomed, but luckily, we found gas at the first stop we made.
Those friends understand some of the emotions we’re feeling right now, but only a smidge, a corner of them. Because then we just needed to get away. But now, we cannot escape it; I cannot escape it. It seeps into my pores, into my brains, batters at my existence. I wake up thinking of what’s to be done, what hasn’t happened, what needs to. I go to sleep worrying about what wasn’t done, what is coming up and how I’m going to handle it. It never stops, not for a moment.
It’s as if I’m being flooded, not by water, but by emotions, admin tasks, to-do lists.
And underneath it is the emotions I haven’t expressed. I won’t express. I can’t express. I feel like a patchwork doll, slapping a happy patch on the cracks that appear beneath my skin. And maybe they will hold. And maybe they won’t.
Maybe this isn’t the trauma that breaks me.
I dread the one that will, though. The one that rips open the seams I’ve patched and sewed closed over and over again. It’s why I’ve never let go, not really, from any of the trauma I’ve experienced. Because I am afraid that once I do, I’ll never be put back together again.
And that thought is what keeps me together, keeps me moving forward, through the trauma rather than wallowing in it.
Besides, we aren’t done. We have a long way to go to our new normal, the one where too much rain brings anxiety, the one where we know exactly how to navigate the insurance company policies and the outrageous quotes for repairs. The one where we have a game plan for flood warnings, down to which breakers to turn off in the basement and what items need to be removed.
We’re not there yet, but we’ll get there. Battered and bruised, our heads above the flood.
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