My trauma
CW: trauma, maybe
It is just past noon, I am on my way to physical therapy and somewhere within the great cavern of the Georgia Ave/Petworth metro station a man is screaming. I barely note this at first because when it comes to the section of Georgia Avenue where I live there is always someone screaming, whether it’s the bearded man warning us about Russia and China from the soapbox of his porch or the woman spanking her boyfriend who is bent over resignedly with his palms pressed up against the window of the Dunkin’ Donuts or indeed any number of men who yell at me from across the street demanding to know where my husband is. Screaming constitutes the base layer of the soundscape of our neighborhood, so there is no reason why there shouldn’t be someone screaming in the metro station at noon on a Thursday.
But as the escalator takes me deeper into the station it becomes clear to me from the tenor and non-verbal nature of the screams that they are no garden variety screams, they are screams of terror. And as if to bear out this revelation the screaming man suddenly sprints into view and starts cowering in the crevasse between the up escalator and the wall. He’s hiding from something, which is of course in his head, but I guess he mistakes me for it because when I step off the down escalator he tackles me to the ground. For half a minute, no one walks by and I feel impatient for someone to come and take him off of me because he is very strong and I cannot push him off by myself. Someone comes eventually, a Hispanic teenager who starts pulling at the screaming man while I kick him in the chest. After another half minute my teen rescuer succeeds in peeling him off and I stand up and thank him. He asks if I’m okay and I say I am okay. My assailant drops back down to the ground and begins writhing over the Metro tiles which I reflect are very distinctive, hexagonal and clay-red.
A small crowd has gathered. There is a guy in a black flatbrim cap who says he is calling 911. There is a girl with glasses and a high messy bun who has stopped on her way to the escalator. She says loudly that she does not know what to do but she’s sending good vibes. The man is swishing his dreadlocked head from side to side over the distinctive tiles like a mop. Is he having a seizure? The girl asks no one. Then she renews her offer of good vibes. Thanks darling, the guy on the phone says. 911 still hasn’t picked up and he shakes his head, disappointed in 911. The down escalator delivers into the frame a mother holding hands with her child. As they cut through the scene the mother clucks disapprovingly and says to her daughter: That’s why you don’t mess with drugs.
A station manager the size of a house waddles over and I feel vaguely unsettled to see him removed from the natural habitat of his booth. He sounds both bored and annoyed when he informs us that 911 is on its way and I wonder how often this kind of thing happens in his station. Then I repeat that 911 is coming for the benefit of the guy trying to call 911 because he is still on the phone, waiting for someone to pick up. The guy hangs up and says something again to the effect of 911 didn’t pick up his call even after two minutes and we both shake our heads in disappointment. I ask the enormous station manager if I have to stay and he says no so I move to go but then remember my glasses which are lying on the ground about two feet from the still writhing man so I go pick them up and leave.
My first thought while I’m waiting for the Green Line train to Branch Ave is of a French movie I haven’t seen and cannot remember the name of. It’s directed by Paul Verhoeven and it’s about a middle-aged businesswoman played by Isabelle Huppert who is brutally raped in her home by a stranger and decides to continue on with her life as if nothing had happened. I feel marginally more interested in seeing it, although not interested enough to Google the name.
My second thought, which is rather uncharitable, is that if I were a different person – a less interesting person, I guess – this attack would be the most exciting thing that’s happened to me all year.
Once I’m on the train I become aware of a stinging sensation coming from my chest. I look down to see that the vintage Gap t-shirt I was wearing under my Adidas track jacket has been ripped all around the collar and there are two bright pink slashes forming an X right above my left breast. It will be impossible to pull an Isabelle Huppert. I take a picture of the wound and send it to the Whatsapp chat with my girlfriends along with a message:
I just got attacked at the Petworth metro station by some guy on drugs! Be careful everyone.
Keyi responds immediately:
What???
Oh my goodness
Lauren are you ok?
Did you call the police?
Then Hannah:
Lauren!
This is terrible, do you need help now?
I write back:
The station manager called 911 but I am on my way to physical therapy
Natalie:
Yes seriously call the police?! Are you ok?
Me:
I feel fine but I will def ask for some disinfectant and bandaids at physical therapy
Hannah:
Do you want me to come over now
Me:
Aw thanks but I’m on the metro now!
Keyi:
Yes do you want me too? I can come over later tonight!!
Me:
The guy was having a paranoid attack I think
Hannah:
Damn, I’m so sorry!
Keyi:
I’m so sorry for this Lauren!!!!
This is traumatizing
Natalie:
Yes I volunteer Hannah and Keyi and if I were there I would show up too!
Keyi:
Let us know if you want to chat later
Or want me to show up physically
Me:
Aw thanks guys! I think the best thing is for me to go to work as usual but I’ll think about it and let you guys know tonight!
You guys are the best <3
Keyi:
Sure!
Keep us updated!
Poor little girl!
You don’t deserve this!!!
Me:
It’s just scary bc it was in the middle of the day and if there hasn’t [sic] been someone to pull him off I don’t know if I could have fought him off myself
Then, to put my friends at ease and because I think it is very funny, I tell them about the girl who kept sending good vibes.
After that I think about the attack and if I am traumatized by it and conclude that I am not. This leads me to consider what life experiences I’ve had in conjunction with which it feels honest to use the word “traumatic” and I come up with only two: a break up I went through when I was 18; and a several day-long Twitter attack that happened to me in January 2020 as the result of an article I had written. Then I re-read the Whatsapp conversation with my girlfriends and feel regret at sending the last message, about it being scary because what if it hadn’t been the middle of the day, because I am not actually scared by the possibility of something that didn’t happen. Testing this proposition I try on other terrifying hypotheticals: what if he’d had a knife? What if the attack had been sexual? But these spark nothing in me, maybe my imagination is not good enough.
Or maybe it’s that my fantasy life has been colonized by Korean dramas because soon my thoughts turn to Brian, who is my physical therapist, and who in the overdetermined K-drama version of my life would dress and bandage my wound in a charged moment that establishes mutual attraction but is cut off abruptly by me falling off my chair or the sudden appearance of some comic relief character. I like Brian. He is a bit shorter than me, blandly good looking, and ungifted at the part of his job where he has to put patients at ease, which I find endearing. Mostly what I like about Brian, though, is that the only thing he knows about me, aside from the fact I am experiencing cervical radiculopathy, is that I am a nanny. This tickles me, the idea that as far as Brian knows I am a respectable person with a respectable job,
I transfer to the red line at Gallery Place and get off at Dupont Circle. It is a perfect day, seventy-five degrees and clear. I walk past dining establishments packed with people enjoying lunch on the patio and think about how I too would like to enjoy patio dining sometime soon.
When I walk into the gym there is Brian, in his normal outfit of gray khakis and a black half-zip with the logo of the physical therapy practice on it.
How are you today? Brian asks.
It’s funny you ask, I say. I was attacked by a mentally ill man on the Metro on the way here and he scratched me up a bit. Do you all have some bandaids and disinfectant I could possibly use?
Oh my god, says Brian. Are you ok?
Yeah I’m fine, I say.
Then Brian leads me over the first aid kit and I show him the scratches peeking out above my now-ragged t-shirt collar. Brian notes that it looks like my scratches go pretty far down and if I would like some privacy while I disinfect I can use the bathroom on the second floor. Vaguely disappointed, I accept a pile of alcohol packets and bandages and make my way to the elevator.
In the bathroom I take off my t-shirt and inspect my wound. It looks quite rugged and sexy, especially paired with my neon green Nike sports bra. I take several mirror selfies after which I proceed to pat the alcohol swab over my slashes and it stings worse than anything ever has in my life.
Then I put my t-shirt back on and return downstairs. Brian has me get on one of the tables and starts massaging my neck. He asks me again if I am okay and I reply that I am and then I tell him about what is really bothering me, which is that my vintage Gap t-shirt has been destroyed beyond repair. I bought that t-shirt with my friend Gloria at the semi-illegal clothes market back in China, I tell him, and it has a lot of sentimental value.
Then I realize that I have brought up China and brace myself for the inevitable exchange.
You were in China? Brian asks.
Yes, I say.
For how long?
Five years.
What were you doing there?
I was a journalist.
And then:
Did you like it there?
I have been back for a year and a half and still don’t have a good answer to this question. I think for a few seconds and decide to respond with something that I’m sure is not a lie.
It was exciting, I say.
Brian keeps massaging my neck.
Not that getting assaulted by a guy having a psychotic break in the Metro isn’t also exciting, I add.
Brian laughs. Then he says: I don’t think I’m going to use public transport here.
Brian moved to DC in March 2020 for work and hasn’t seen much of the city. It makes me sad to think about a respectable person like Brian moving here at the start of the pandemic and feeling lonely and isolated.
Still, I feel defensive of the Metro. I say: I’m from here, I’ve used the Metro thousands of times and I’ve only been assaulted once.
I guess that’s not a bad ratio, Brian concedes.
Then we go back to the gym to do my strengthening exercises all of which seem to involve pretending to pinch a pencil between my shoulder blades. Brian asks some more about what kind of stuff I wrote when I was a journalist and I figure that if I have come out as eccentric I might as well be impressive so I tell him about an article I wrote about a Beijing mixed martial arts fighter who accidentally became a dissident and how a Hollywood producer wanted to option that story to adapt into a feature film but it doesn’t seem to move Brian very much, or perhaps I am not conveying myself too well while I channel half of my focus into pinching the pencil.
After physical therapy I go to pick up the boys from school. While I’m walking to the Farragut West metro I check my email and see there is a fan letter from a listener of the podcast and I feel a surge of happiness but before I can open it a man wearing a leather jacket with a lot of patches on it stops me and says: I don’t mean to scare you but. And I look up and he explains that he needs money to put on his SmartTrip card so he can ride the Metro and tells a longer story about his attempts to acquire that money that I can’t remember now. I apologize that I do not have any cash on me and he nods and tells me to have a blessed day and I tell him good luck.
On the metro I read the email from the listener, which is brief but very nice, and take a screenshot of it and text it to Drew. Drew responds that the listener seems oddly healthy, for a fan of ours. Then I send Drew the picture of my wound and write:
Some guy on PCP attacked me in the metro today
Wondering how we should leverage this to bring more listeners to the pod
Drew:
Oh god is that from a nail? Jesus
Maybe it was a Pynchon fan
Me:
Lmao
Drew:
Pynchonians love PCP. This is a good opportunity to earn some trauma points!
I hope you’re not too shaken up tho, that seems like a terrifying encounter
Me:
I knowww just think about how many more twitter followers we’d get if I earnestly tweeted about my “attack.”
After that I look through the mirror selfies I had taken at physical therapy. Before I can stop myself I choose one and post it to Instagram stories. And because I know it will draw questions if I don’t have some text explaining it I add a little caption that says something like: Check out this sexy ass injury I got from a guy having a psychotic break on the metro.
Immediately Lily responds to the story asking if I’m ok and I respond that I’m fine and recount the incident in more detail and she responds that that sounds horrifying and I tell her how I’m mostly upset about my t-shirt and she says again she’s so sorry and I send her three heart emojis.
Then I look at the story again and see that it only has six views which is basically equivalent to never having appeared at all and delete it. I know that the unwritten code of social media dictates that any announcement of trauma be met with a deluge of expressions of concern, solidarity or at the very least heart emojis, and the possibility that among that deluge of well-wishers there will be someone who is not close to me like Lily, who doesn’t actually care about my well-being but expresses their concern out of mere adherence to custom, and that I will reply to their empty wishes with the solemn gratitude required of a such a situation when I am not in fact traumatized in the first place, thus completing a pointless ritual with no benefit to either side, is absolutely mortifying to me.
I arrive at the boys’ school early and decide that since I have time to kill and I have just had an upsetting incident it is justifiable for me to visit the corner store and buy myself a treat even though I am technically on a diet, which I initiated recently in an effort to shed the weight I have gained since I had to stop cycling to work due to my cervical radiculopathy. At the store I purchase a bottle of water, a Rice Krispie treat and white cheddar Pop Corners with unusual decisiveness. I eat the Rice Krispie treat on the way back to school and it is disappointingly not as satisfying as I remember.
In the pick-up line I make sure to zip my Adidas track jacket all the way up, covering my ripped t-shirt and my wound, because I don’t want to upset the boys, although at the same time I wonder if I’m not denying them the social currency associated with having a babysitter who survived an attack by a crazy guy on the Metro; back in the fall when I had cornea surgery I was compelled to show the YouTube video of my grisly procedure to a great number of elementary schoolers in the park all of whom were duly impressed.
The big one and the little one emerge and the little one immediately clamors for my Pop Corners. In the park he eats them directly over my lap, shedding white cheddar dust all over my Adidas track pants.
Still in search of a satisfying trauma snack I text Hannah after I take the big one to soccer practice.
Me:
Hannah
I think I am in need of chocolate almond butter cups
From the Yes!
Can you possibly help me with this
Hannah responds: I can indeed! FRIENDSHIP MISSION
Then I thank her and feel briefly guilty because I am not actually traumatized. But then I suspect that Hannah understands I am not traumatized but that I very much need dark chocolate almond butter cups all the same and that I am utilizing my trauma card to acquire them and she respects that, which is just the kind of friendship we have.
Hannah knocks on the door just after I get home and I invite her in. In addition to four packets of Justin’s dark chocolate almond butter cups she has bought Tate’s gluten free chocolate chip cookies which she knows are my favorite. I feel a rush of gratitude although I do not hug her because neither of us are emotive in that way and besides there’s still coronavirus.
Then Sawyer gets back from work and Hannah asks does he know? And I say I haven’t texted them about it, them being my roommates, and Sawyer asks what happened. So I tell him about it and all three of us sit in the living room for a while, chatting.
Hannah asks if I told the kids or their parents about the incident and I say no.
If you had told your employers you could definitely have gotten off work for the day, Sawyer says.
Yeah but then what would I do? I say. Sit in my room and reflect on what happened?
Some reflection is good, says Sawyer.
I shrug and Sawyer tells a story about a similar incident he had on the Target escalator once with a guy having a psychotic episode although it is not as dramatic as my incident. Then Hannah and I talk about dry needling, which Brian has promised I will get in the next few weeks if my nerve pain does not subside, and we look at pictures and articles about it. I eat two dark chocolate almond butter cups and feel vaguely guilty about eating them when I haven’t yet had dinner.
Hannah leaves and I go back to the couch. How about you make me some dinner, I say to Sawyer, trying to see how far I can stretch my trauma card.
Sawyer murmurs non-commitally, he is looking at something on his phone.
What do I want to eat? I wonder out loud. Pizza? Chicken tenders?
I have chicken tenders in the freezer, Sawyer says, still looking at his phone. Do you want them?
Wait really? I say. Maybe I knew subconsciously that Sawyer had chicken tenders in the freezer. Chicken tenders are not something I usually eat.
Uh huh, Sawyer says. Then he looks up from his phone and says: Sorry, I’m just really mad about something on Twitter right now.
Oh, what’s happening? I ask, not actually wanting to know. I never want to know what’s happening on Twitter, that’s why I avoid it studiously.
Sawyer explains how a 13 year old boy in Chicago was shot dead by the police and how CNN wrote in an article about it that the boy was holding a gun when in fact the boy was not holding a gun, and how CNN is now refusing to retract or correct the article even though they’re being dragged on Twitter over it.
Well what do you expect? I say, adding: CNN sucks.
And I know that I have initiated the kind of tense exchange Sawyer and I have every few months in which he wants me to be outraged about something and I reflexively refuse to be outraged not necessarily because I don’t agree with what he’s outraged about but because I don’t like to have my opinions much less my emotions force fed to me.
Irritated, Sawyer tries to explain that the problem is much bigger than CNN being incompetent, that if these things aren’t called out it allows the media to continue its toxic practice of writing copaganda for the police, etc, and I nod along, wondering how he can use the word “copaganda” with a straight face. Then Sawyer says that he is going to DM the writer of the CNN story until he changes or retracts it.
I freeze at his last sentence. Wait really? I say. Don’t you have anything better to do?
I feel myself getting upset for the first time that day.
How can you be sure this journalist even wrote that line? I ask. When I got attacked on twitter last year all of the lines people were angry about were in fact written by my editor.
It was unironically traumatizing, all of those DMs and @’s, I say. It was awful.
Sawyer shrugs off my concern and says something about the facelessness of editors and how this isn’t an article about BTS it’s something very serious and I want to retort that the article I got dragged over was not in fact about BTS but I don’t. Instead I say that I still think it’s wrong to harass that journalist and we bicker for a little while longer and finally I say: agree to disagree, which is how these exchanges usually end.
After that Sawyer goes to the kitchen and I go up to my room to watch my Korean drama. It is about a Joseon dynasty crown prince with amnesia who is forced by his own edict to marry a peasant who is actually a noblewoman in disguise. The amnesiac crown prince is starting to realize that he has feelings for his wife when the evil village magistrate, who has come to despise the amnesiac crown prince after the crown prince embarrasses him at the village feast, has his goons kidnap the noblewoman-peasant and the crown prince starts going beserk trying to find her.
Sawyer knocks on my door. My chicken tenders are ready. I go downstairs, retrieve them from the microwave and go back to my room to eat them in bed. They are mushy, disgusting really, but satisfying.
The crown prince tracks the kidnappers to a bamboo grove where the peasant-noblewoman has been tied up to a tree. Suddenly discovering his forgotten martial arts acuity, the prince uses a branch to singlehandedly best the magistrates’ half dozen henchmen and they run away cowering. The prince rushes to untie his wife and they embrace in a touching moment.