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A few weeks ago, I was sitting quietly at my desk. Due to quarantine, this desk has become an at-home haven for me—where I can peacefully collect my thoughts and do my work. Having to readjust to Zoom therapy meetings and online workshops, I have found and created, over the course of the past few months, a safe space for working at home. Suddenly, a phone call interrupted my thoughts.
“Hello? Is this Nancy Kislin?” A gruff baritone voice cut through my afternoon repose. “There is a warrant out for your arrest.” No longer was the phone call a simple push awake from my calm afternoon—it morphed into sharp, piercing daggers, causing me to freeze. Taking a few deep breaths, I tried to focus on the man’s words, filtering out the panicked frenzy of thoughts that had started to race through my head.
Apparently, I had missed Jury Duty a few months ago and had failed to alert the court. I remember clearly that I had emailed the courthouse to notify them of my absence. “Ma’am, ma’am, you need to report to the county police department,” the man continued.
With these words, I was transported back to the summer before I started college, when I was still emerging into early adulthood. Renting a house at the Jersey shore the summer after high school graduation is a rite of passage for most Jersey kids. My girlfriends and I rented a house together, while our guy friends rented a house down the street. One night, one of my girlfriends decided to cook dinner. Suddenly a fire, caused by the grease, burst out—its flames standing tall and menacing. Immediately, we called the firemen to put it out. After the firemen left, we decided to relax, to ease ourselves from the night of chaos, with some wine and beer (which was still legal for 18-year-olds at the time).
Suddenly, I heard a bang at the door, like heavy fists pounding. My girlfriends and I jumped up. This was an unexpected visitor. Were the firemen back? Was there still smoke coming out of the house? I thought to myself as we raced to open the door, all of us still wearing our swimsuits from the beach. When the door opened, we were startled to find several policemen barging into our house. Like the phone call I had received, I heard a deep baritone voice proclaiming: “You are all under arrest!”
Immediately, I began to panic. I had no idea what we had done wrong and like any other 18-year-old, I did not want a police record nor could I imagine facing my parents with an arrest. My instincts kicked in and I asked a police officer if I could go get a shirt and shoes before piling into the police wagon with my friends. Racing back into the house, I quickly opened my suitcase and hid inside. Tears streamed down my face as I clutched my legs to my chest, hearing the house get quiet.
More than anything, I wanted the act of hiding to successfully transport me out of the situation. Yet, I heard my friend say, “Nancy, what are you doing in there?” followed by a policeman grabbing me by the hair, dragging me through the house, and pushing me into the wagon alongside the rest of my friends. My escape had failed.
That night, I was charged and locked behind bars. By the time the morning came, we were released. Yet, I had been scarred. My parents were, of course, mortified. They hired an attorney for me, convinced this was going to ruin my career. And I still had no idea what I had done wrong.
In mid-September, I returned home from college to appear in court. The day before court, my mom surprised me with a trip to the hairdresser. I was excited for this makeover—perhaps, I thought, it was a pleasant treat or a way to help cope with all that was going on in my life. Yet, the next thing I knew, the hairdresser took my long blonde hair and chopped it off—to my ears. The lawyer had told my mom that if the policemen didn’t recognize me, the charges would be dropped.
In court, not one of the officers appeared and the judge dismissed all charges. Apparently, the police had been watching our house for a few days—the last renters were dealing drugs out of the house. They didn’t realize that the drug dealers had left and we, a group of innocent kids, were just there to hang out. Once the police officers had barged into the house, they realized their mistake, but didn’t want to look foolish, so they arrested us for disturbing the peace. Besides my lost hair, thousands of dollars of attorney costs, sleepless nights, and disappointment from my family, I was left with a few deep scars.
When the man called me, declaring there to be a warrant for my arrest, I was triggered. My body responded to his words and the trauma of my teenage years jumped out of my memory to take center stage. Even if it was only for a few minutes, it reminded me about the long-lasting effects of trauma.
During the call, I ran down to my husband, an attorney, to ask him to listen and help assess the situation. He was confident that the call was a prank, and even if it wasn’t, it was an error—as I had taken the proper procedure to notify the court about missing jury duty. Later that evening, I spoke with my husband about what had happened with the phone call, revealing how it had reignited my past trauma, and thanked him for helping me with the call. Being able to share my past trauma with him continued to help me heal.
As I recalled the memories I had usually suppressed, about the way I was shaking inside the suitcase and the cold dread I felt inside a prison cell, I was able to look inward and observe my relationship with the memory. Recalling past trauma takes courage and will, but in doing so, we are able to bring attention to the memory, allowing us to see how we continue to hold onto the memory. While it may be out of our control when painful memories resurface, it is important to understand that how we handle and incorporate those memories in our life is in our control. It is only in talking about and sharing repressed memories that we are able to allow space for further healing. When we calm down and regroup after being negatively triggered, we are able to pay attention to our bodily and instinctive responses.
Since then, every time I hear a siren, I jump in fear. My body now has an instinctive response where I tense up, my heart beats faster, and my thoughts start generating scary stories. At the age of 18, I did not realize how long my experience would permeate in my mind, and how the feelings of fear and distraught associated with that event would never really leave me. While the event is not something I think about regularly, I have realized that many wounds stay buried in our minds until they are triggered.
When I realized that I was experiencing anxiety and my trauma was resurfacing, I took deep breaths, feeling the intensity of each release. No longer did I want to let my trauma take hold of me—I wanted to let my negative experience go, because I am on a continuous journey of healing. I am talking, writing, creating space for the feelings of trauma to be released and processed.
