Season of the Fallen Sun

By Trina M. Laughlin

When confronted with a sudden and tragic loss, we are catapulted into a world of darkness. Everything that once held meaning is challenged, and it becomes necessary to redefine the largest and smallest concepts of life. Even the simplest everyday words no longer retain their meaning. Words can become elaborate worlds of their own. Season of the Fallen Sun is one mothers journey through word worlds like beginnings, listen, time, reconstruction, respite, and hope. It is a story of how the exploration of those worlds can impact healing and recovery, even at a time when healing and recovery seem inconceivable. While this is a personal story, it is simultaneously a universal human story. Every human being unwillingly buys a ticket on the ride called heartbreak. While every persons journey when confronted with heartbreak, is different; there are aspects that will at the very least, feel the same. Although life will never be the same, in the places where it is different, we can still find life and living.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Oct 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504340458

Trina M. Laughlin

Trina Laughlin is a licensed clinical social worker who has focused her twenty-plus-year career on trauma. She has spoken nationally and is the co-author of The Power of Story – A Process of Renewal for Therapists Who Treat Trauma (2005). She resides in Rochester, New York.

Book preview

SEASON

of the

FALLEN SUN

TRINA M. LAUGHLIN

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Copyright © 2015 Trina M. Laughlin.

Cover by Kristen M. Laughlin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Balboa Press

A Division of Hay House

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www.balboapress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5043-4044-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-4046-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5043-4045-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015914447

Balboa Press rev. date: 10/26/2015

Contents

Chapter One Beginnings

Chapter Two Christmas

Chapter Three Journeys

Chapter Four Hatred

Chapter Five Constancy

Chapter Six Listen

Chapter Seven Balance

Chapter Eight Frozen

Chapter Nine Time

Chapter Ten Respite

Chapter Eleven Direction

Chapter Twelve Friendship

Chapter Thirteen Hope

Chapter Fourteen Reconstruction

Chapter Fifteen Home

Chapter Sixteen Thanksgiving

Chapter Seventeen Ticking

Chapter Eighteen Complications

Chapter Nineteen Endings

This book is dedicated to:

Dennis, Geoffrey, Kristen and Andrew

This book is a memoir. The events depicted herein are true; yet some dates, places, times, names and genders have been changed to protect the identification of certain parties in the text. In a further effort to protect identities, in some cases, details from numerous events have been combined and depicted as one.

PROLOGUE

The Season

PLEASE CALL ME TRINA. I hope it is OK to call you, Dear Reader.

By way of introduction it is important for you to know that a portion of my identity, probably a large portion, is that I am a Psychotherapist. As a therapist, I listen with people who have been traumatized. Many people have jobs or careers representing what they do, and some of us have jobs or careers representative of who we are. For me, I believe this psychotherapy thing I do is really a huge part of who I am.

Looking back at my life, it seems like I have attended numerous emotional, physical and spiritual training camps. Some of the camps seemed Olympic in size, while others were smaller and more manageable. Whether large or small, collectively, these camps prepared me for this who I am career; as well as for how I would one day experience the most cataclysmic event that any sane person could imagine or fear. But I digress.

I have been a trauma therapist for fifteen years. I would take the liberty to say that I am a good trauma therapist! For whatever reason, and it is my belief there is a reason, God has given me an ability to emotionally accompany people as they examine and integrate some of the most painful experiences of their lives. Therefore, I can honestly declare, I have been blessed with the most rewarding job in the world. People who are deeply wounded trust me, and through our journey together, they allow me to hold the most tragic moments of their lives in my hands, heart and soul.

The therapeutic journey is one of trying to help people move the memory of traumatic experiences from a place of darkness in their souls, to a place of illumination. With illumination people are often better able to find the jewel sewn deep within the fabric of the trauma. Sometimes the jewel is a very small gem, yet it is always one that is large enough for them to take its worth and begin to rebuild their lives. It is always a gift.

Reflecting on the deeper meaning within a tragedy and looking for the gift in the trauma, does not equal making the tragic event good, nor does it make it a positive experience. The therapeutic journey is about navigating through this thing called life, the good and the bad of it, and integrating the experiences in order to form our new present. If every day was a warm summer day, with a perfect breeze and a crystal blue sky; or a day where we can smell hot dogs roasting on the grill, and hear the sound of children splashing in the pool; then we wouldn’t have such an acute appreciation for when we remember those days. Those days become memories of perfection, but life is imperfect at its best. Life is a tapestry of perfect, OK, not so good, and sometimes tragic moments and days. If we truly experience life’s imperfections as well as its joys, we are better able to integrate the vastly different experiences in a deeper, healthier, and more meaningful way.

In order to acquire the mysterious gift in the trauma, the afflicted person must be willing to look for it. Even if they do not actively look, they must be at least willing to let down their resistance and allow the gift to find them.

Throughout these past fifteen years, while I have been a therapist, I have heard many troubling recollections. I have witnessed a cruel reality wherein ordinary people suffer the most horrific life events. I have realized that even when these traumatized people are sitting right across from us at work for forty hours a week, or are our neighbors for twenty years, or marry our niece or nephew, we still may never even know about their deep pain and hurt. For a handful of these people I have been allowed to become a companion on their journey of healing. After the prism of their life’s assumptions has fallen off the chain they wear around their necks, and it completely shatters on the ground, together we attempt to sift through the broken pieces and look for ways we can recreate a new prism of assumptions.

The prism is as unique as each of the individual people who wear it. In it’s beautiful intricate design and crystal clarity, it catches the sun and refracts it. The prism projects the rainbow of our daydreams, plans, and visions, across the enormous movie screen of our life story. We are able to envision the type of job we will have, the number of children we will have, and even what each of those children might look like. We see ourselves socializing with friends, and how the socializing changes as we move through our 30’s, 40’s, and into retirement. We can see ourselves teaching our children to ride a bicycle with no training wheels. We can even visualize what it will look like for our son or daughter to teach their son or daughter, the same way we taught them. We are able to imagine our own retirement, and think about how our daily activities will transition from work tasks to more recreational things. We get a snapshot of ourselves dancing at the wedding of our oldest child, even though that child is still only ten years old, or perhaps not even born yet. Even if we are new parents, we are able to visualize the future Christmases where the family is all grown, and they return home for those special sacred days; the days that are the substance and definition of family and holidays. Our prisms hold the events of our life yet to be seen, yet keenly imagined and projected within our minds. These beautiful assumptions of our lives are created based on having an expectation that we will continue along the normative pathways of our society and culture. For some people, aside from minor bumps, bruises, and re-writes along the way, these assumptions play out into reality. For other people, one day the prism of assumption with its’ Waterford crystal clarity, drops to the tile floor and shatters into a billion tiny pieces. The prism shatters because of events that are shocking, terrifying and overwhelming. These events are called trauma, and trauma has the distinct ability to push a person beyond their normal capacity to cope. This has been my job. It has been my job to meet a person after such an event, assess their reduced level of coping, and help them begin to rebuild, recover, and cope again. Simply put, I attempt to help them get better after the really, really, really bad thing happens to them.

Our lives are peppered with multiple seasons. Seasons are periods of time marked by special events or activities. We are most familiar with seasons being one of the natural periods into which the year is divided. Every school child can identify summer, autumn, winter and spring. In addition, they can tell you about many of the features or characteristics of those differentiated seasons. We are also very aware of seasons that are recurrent times marked by major holidays, like the Christmas season, or the Easter season. Most of these chunks of time are relatively short, and we have a pretty clear idea of when they begin and when they end. These chunks of time have a specific set of parameters that allow them to claim their right to be referred to as a season.

This book is about a season. It is about a chunk of time when the very sun was pulled from the sky, and the world was plunged into a state of darkness. It remains to be seen if the season will be short or protracted, however I am doubtful that it will be brief.

It is December 4, 2010, I have just arrived home from Light up the Night, the tree lighting ceremony and festivities at Riverview Park in Sebastian, Florida. There was a parade with floats and all things festive. The parade began with Mrs. Claus, and ended with Santa Claus. Santa’s jobs on this night were twofold. The first was to make children shout with glee, creating expectant assumptions of his whereabouts on December 24th. His second job was to trip the holiday lights adorning the beautiful Douglas Fir Christmas tree, that stands at the center of Riverview Park.

I am back home. The switch for the lights has been tripped. When the lights first came on, it was as if they lit up the entire sky. For a brief moment, as dusk turned to darkness, the magnificently decorated Christmas tree was perfectly framed by the colorful night sky above it, and the beautiful waters of the Indian River behind it. This event ushers in the Christmas season for Sebastian, Florida. The cold snap we have had down here made it just cold enough to have allowed me to feel appropriate purchasing a hot chocolate. I cautiously sipped the hot beverage as I wandered from vendor to vendor in the park. I picked out a fresh wreath while I was there. The wreath will adorn our front door. I watched children climb onto Santa’s lap, and I spent time laughing with my friends.

It was not while I was there. It is only now, since I have arrived back home, that my first awareness of that other season pokes me. As I hang the wreath on my door, I am becoming aware it was only three years ago when the other season began. It was only three years ago when the crystal prism of assumptions that hung from an invisible chain around my neck, and represented my world, fell to the ground and shattered into a billion pieces.

It was this exact time of year. How odd, much like I helped usher in the Christmas season a few short hours ago; three years ago I was ushered out of the Christmas season, and into a cold and empty season of darkness.

For those of you who believe there can be gems sewn into the seams of the most tattered wardrobe; or for those of you who may believe in love, hope, life, friendship and God; and perhaps more so for those of you who believe neither, I invite you to accompany me through my Season of The Fallen Sun.

CHAPTER ONE

Beginnings

MY SEASON IN THE sun has ended. The interesting thing about endings is that at some point, there must have been a beginning. Once begun, there can be gradual endings that gently occur over the passage of time; or there can be abrupt endings, as in kaput, bupkus, finiti, done. The camera shot fades to black and the movie is over. We are left to figure out the rest on our own. Whether gradual or abrupt, there are sometimes signs of forewarning, or at forewarnings worst, foreboding. With hindsight, people can go back and clearly identify a point that was the beginning of the end.

Even though there were perceptable signs of our societal beginning of the end, none of those events seemed like they would directly affect me personally. I observed believers and non believers on the topic of climate change. Each side spoke elequently about how climate change would or wouldn’t influence our lives. There was also clear cut evidence that we were a nuclear world. Some of the world members played nice in the sandbox, and some did not. These are indeed large problems, yet I knew I was still OK. Even if one of these global events became our armegeddon, I personally felt I had all the resources I needed to not meet armegeddon kicking and screaming. If the asteroid hit, or the Earth returned to an ice age, or we were all obliterated by nukes, well for me that would just be that! I would merley show up. I would sit on the couch and read a good book, or perhaps I would stand at the edge of the shore waiting for the tidal wave to consume me and everything behind me. That type of sudden and cataclysmic end is completely unlike a world that seems to be slowly, but significantly, shifting into a state of darkness.

I was also becoming keenly aware of a different beginning of the end. The emotional and spiritual parts of the human climate were changing. As each year passed, people’s spirits seemed to be getting more dim and dark. Once again though I still felt confident in my own emotional and spiritual stamina. I felt confident that I would navigate through these dark changes affected, but perhaps less affected than others. I point out the backdrop of the changing culture, because I think it is important to note that my immediate world did not go dark over time. My darkness was not a byproduct of the larger cultural darkness that was already brewing. There was no forewarning or foreboding. My sun fell suddenly. It fell as if there had been opaque theater curtains rolled up out of my sight, waiting for their cue to suddenly be released. When the cord was pulled, black velvet curtains cascaded down around me like a tube of dusty blackness across the stage of my world. As much as I tried to writhe away from the musty, choking blackness of the curtain, I could ultimately only admit there was no exit.

Certainly there had been those hints of a general societal darkness, before the stagehand unrolled my specific curtain. I am practical enough to know there will always be elements of darkness in an illuminated world. Before my specific curtain fell, my work in trauma had provided me with a keen awareness that we, as a culture, were experiencing a season of darkness. The season of darkness was creeping into the fabric of our day-to-day living. First the darkness happened to individuals. The individual darkness left unresolved, sprang from the individual to others. In the beginning it remained within a micro system; yet as each of the afflicted began to become complacent, and accept the darkness as the way it is, it began to go viral. Not only had clusters of affected people accepted it, they in turn often orchestrated intentional or unintentional flash mobs. Everyone they could reach would arrange to meet and learn to dance the same dance of trauma and darkness. The symptoms of trauma exposure began to spread like a high-load contagion. Symptoms jumped from person to person, person to community, community to community, and community to culture. By the time my curtain dropped, I had already begun to fear that this season of darkness was becoming the new culture of the world.

I worked in this world and had come to know it intimately. Yet within all my professional wanderings through darkness, I still believed I carried some sort of lantern that kept me safe. I would however be remiss to say that I was completely unaffected by this societal darkness.

Before my season of darkness, I believed things were fixable; and for the most part the world was a safe place. Without being naïve I remained hopeful that the things I saw as indicators of societal darkness could be ameliorated in some way. After all, I was a Social Worker, specifically a trauma therapist. Personally and professionally I possessed skills that allowed me to help people navigate through emotional perfect storms.

I continued to observe cultural changes in mindset and heartset. I intrinsically knew these changes, if allowed to continue over time, would result in the deterioration of many things I held sacred. Basic concepts like treating others the way you want to be treated and good overpowering evil, could potentially become obsolete. Things like hope, resiliency, decency, compassion, acceptance and empathy were beginning to feel watered down. I had even begun wondering if my own attempt to hold onto and advocate for those beliefs, was beginning to make me obsolete. It was frightening to think that my age of the dinosaur obsolescence would become more obvious, more public, than my stubborn insistance on holding onto the land line in our house, or the fact that my children were still required to hand write thank you cards. The message was becoming, there are better, shorter, and simpler ways to do things. Problematically for me, some of those ways were to not do them at all. Clearly there were larger and smaller scale indicators of this impending darkness, yet they were indicators all the same.

Looking back, I began to more personally feel the intensity of the societal darkness, in early December of 2007. I remember saying to myself, man that was an interesting week! Perhaps for me, that week was the staging for the beginning of the end; it was the warning of, Alas, the season she is a changing!

Let me tell you about that week, because I can remember it vividly.

December 03 - December 07, 2007

Early in the week I did a full day presentation on the impact of trauma exposure on children. I speak nationally on this topic. I usually start slowing down my speaking schedule around the end of the year holidays. This past Tuesday was the last full day presentation of my speaking season.

I tend to try and put a lot of imagery into my presentations. The imagery helps the audience walk away with concrete images. Concrete images allow them to fully embrace the great and grave importance of this topic. My hope is if they can embrace that reality, then they might want to be an advocate or healer within the trauma community. What will they be healing, you ask? They will be healing the darkness that lives in the souls of children who suffer effects of trauma exposure. Keep in mind, one day those very same children will become the adults and leaders of our world.

Perhaps because I had a particularly busy speaking schedule this season; or perhaps because the imagery I chose to use in this final workshop was so poignantly graphic; or because of other influences or factors going on in my life, I couldn’t sleep the night after my last presentation.

For the first time in a long while, I couldn’t sleep a wink. At times during the night, I entered a sort of almost sleep. It felt like I was out of it enough that it prevented me from standing up or getting out of bed; but my mind was as active and awake as it is in broad daylight. In this sort of non-restful paralysis, I played and replayed the events of the day. I remembered the trauma references I had used. I remembered the cases I referenced with minute detail. My thoughts around these cases was as if I still had the cases open and active on my caseload. I work a great deal with children impacted by the trauma and horror of domestic violence. In my half asleep state, I was formulating responses to children who asked, Why did Daddy hurt Mommy? Where does Mommy go when she is dead? Will Santa bring Mommy home from heaven for Christmas this year?

There came a point during my visitations from the children of the night, when my dreams exploded into an actual surreal dream convention. In attendance in my dreams were not only people I have treated, but they were co-mingled with people I have loved, people from my past, and even people I had yet to meet.

One dream guest in particular was a fighter, a boxer. I had seen this very boxer in a professional bout some 43 years ago. I was just a child when I saw him. I had gone to the boxing event with my Dad. In my dream, the boxer leaned over the side of the ropes and stared at me. There was something about the way he stared at me. I clearly knew and understood, he really can’t see me at all. His eyes were open and they seemed to be directly fixated on me, but there was an observable vacancy in his eyes. Nothing was really registering for him.

I actually paused during my dream and remembered that disconnected look. I remembered it really was the way he looked at me when I was the kid in the audience.

In the real life part, so many years ago, the ring referee wheeled him around from the ropes and started shouting at him and counting numbers. It took until well after we had left the arena for my Dad to be able to explain what won by a TKO meant. In essence, this is what he told me:

Technical Knock Out (T.K.O.): Category: Boxing

A Knockout, is a winning criterion in boxing. It is achieved when one participant is unable to rise from the canvas within a specified period of time, a ten count; or when one participant loses consciousness, for any duration of time. In boxing, a referee can also declare a technical knockout (t.k.o.) when a participant is sufficiently injured, unbalanced, or confused so that they are unable to continue the fight.

Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Category: Boxing

That is exactly what happened that night. The boxer, who stared at me with turned off eyes, had lost the fight to the other guy because he was too dazed and confused to continue. My boxer lost the match by a TKO.

My sleepless night continued to be one tumultuous event after another, until ultimately the alarm went off at its usual time. I had long before given up on sleep and was actually already up. I scooted back into the bedroom so the alarm didn’t wake my still peacefully resting husband. I had been up pre-alarm by almost two hours. I was tired, but I’d been tired before. I knew I’d survive. I knew I would make it through the day, and I already looked forward to when I got home, hopefully early. I planned to come home and have time to wind down, rest, relax and ultimately sleep. I had already planned to go to bed early.

I stepped into the garage as my brain silently shouted, Wow, 19 degrees Fahrenheit! It was much colder than when I had pulled into the garage the night before. I was grateful for my travel mug of Leaf N’ Bean, Blueberry Cobbler coffee. I threw my two briefcases into the car and I headed off to the job I love. Please keep in mind, I really do. I genuinely love my job!

I am the clinical director of a trauma program. I design groups, co-create treatment plans, and supervise a staff of dedicated, skilled, hard working, and compassionate women. I have been blessed to have a job that feeds my mind, heart and pocketbook. Even though this job is sometimes wrapped in tragedy and sorrow, I can’t imagine doing anything I would prefer more than this. I do not embellish when I once again say, I love it!

Before I had even pulled out of the garage it had become alarmingly clear that my radio/CD player was not working. It had worked the night before when I pulled in. The challenge of not being able to figure out what was wrong with it was secondary to the dismay of not having it operational.

I stared at the voiceless CD player and began to learn things about myself. I discovered that I am a person of ritual. I am a person that uses rituals to keep myself at, or restore myself to, a sense of well-being. After a tough case, speaking, or a medical examiner review, I will choose a musical selection that can potentially restore me to equilibrium. Music is powerful, and the CD’s in my car encompass everything from Janis Joplin belting out encouragement for tyranny; to Glenn Miller coaxing the memory of my parents dancing in the grand ballroom of the now long gone, Hotel Buffalo. There are CD’s by Supertramp, Michael Crawford, Shania Twain, Mr. Louis Armstrong (as my mother liked to call him), Enigma, Avril Lavigne, Phoebe Snow (On A Train Of The Same Name), to U2 etc. There is no rhyme or reason to them, there is no particular genre. The wide range of music covers and elicits the wide range of emotions I might feel on any given day. There is no opera! I have never reaped solace from opera. I don’t know why. As I write this I find it quite interesting, considering that opera is one of the most emotional forms of music there is. Hmm, the self learning continues.

I give you this much detail, because it was truly that much mental detail I put myself through when I discovered the car CD system would not work. After my sleepless night, I had immediately realized, I truly need some particular type of music to listen to on the way in to work. I was thinking about the variety of CD’s I could have picked to fit the demand, all to no avail. I heard myself thinking, The CD player will not sing, and with that random thought I immediately shifted and began to think about my all time favorite book, Harper Lee’s, To Kill a Mockingbird. The words, It’s a sin to kill a Mockingbird, Scout, began echoing in my over taxed brain. My brain, both through the night and now, was operating like a pinball machine.

As each random thought pinged into the next random thought, it occurred to me, "Good God, I am already losing my mind, and I’m not even off our