With Friends Like These: Confronting Manifestations of Trauma in a Time of Isolation
By G. J. Sanford
I’ve never believed in spirits, but I do remember indulging in an instance of spooky mischief during a field trip to Bowers Mansion in Washoe Valley when I was no more than eight years old. While the other kids from the after-school program were enjoying their PB&Js and Capri Suns, a few of us snuck over to the back door of the mansion to listen for dead people. When the time came to elect someone to touch the door, the others balked. I volunteered. I remember the door as crumbling, wet with age and rot, though I now suspect that is an exaggeration of hindsight. In any case, when I pressed my hand and ear against it, I was surprised that it felt cold. A chilly ancient door in the middle of a Nevadan July? That’s more than enough for the right kind of performer. I can hear something, I whispered. They’re getting closer. Here, feel how cold the door is. Perhaps back then I harbored a desire to communicate with ghosts.
I’ve never believed in ghosts, so it’s difficult to understand why I keep encountering them in my dreams, which for me means finally meeting a new psychiatrist. The last time I spoke with a doctor was for a few minutes over the internet when the summer still aspired to outlast COVID-19 in spite of itself. These prescriptions should hold you over for 90 days. Goodbye. During the intake interview at the new clinic, after the rundown of diagnoses and medications etc., the doctor asked me if I’ve ever been evaluated for PTSD. Not specifically, I said. Well, I think you have PTSD. Is that so? Can you describe the nature of the abuse? Physical. Emotional. No, don’t be sorry. You weren’t there. Have you experienced any other major instances of trauma?
Some, I say, and that’s the end of it. But when I’m alone in my room later, I imagine telling him I’ve never believed in spirits, but on the playground in fifth grade, before a storm, I wielded the desert sky itself as evidence of supernatural powers. Imagine having an ounce of control over, well, anything at that age. I wanted to believe in my power to mold reality. Such storms are rare in Reno, where a formidable wall of clouds tumbles over the Carson Range en masse, sending an advance guard of mist heralding rain that, for once, has a bit of clatter behind its display. They are coming, I whispered to my friends. I was sure the portents were convincing, since they coincided with the news that my mother had died. I wanted to believe someone was coming, never mind who they were. Surely that kind of loss inspired something, required something of the universe, if only as acknowledgement. They are coming, I said, convincing no one. When my mother’s spirit comes to me now, it is silent. Is that benign enough?
In my mind, I tell him a knock these days is strange. Is it a ghost? Is it isolation driving me up the walls? Such incessant knocking. Some nights, when I find a certain door already open, I end up talking at length with the man who forced my youth into a shape that reflected his own weakness. Why didn’t you come for me when I died? he says (I did. He was unconscious when I arrived, so I watched him die. As far as I could tell, no ghost poured forth). Now that you are older, I am sure you understand. I recall that he died in December. Now December is breaking. I was in pain, he might insist. It’s okay, you see. I understand how a man becomes a poltergeist before he’s even gone. Where that man is now, he never has to try or fail at being human. He can be wholly himself, without chance of usurpation. He has nothing to break. Cradled in my body, he is freed of his burdens; physical, emotional.
Part of me wishes I’d told the psychiatrist that while I never used to believe in ghosts, these essences blooming inside me seem to beg the definition. I would have told him I can hardly breathe for all the selves in here. There are these spirits kicking. I know their names. I’d paint a picture for him: In a depression bath, after midnight, I keep my little radio low so as to not disturb my neighbors. I take deep breaths. I think about how in April I’ll be thirty. I think about how the week after my birthday will mark 15 years since the day my best friend died in my arms after an accident caused in part by my own recklessness. My flair for dramatics has cost much. When Dolly Parton comes on the radio, I’m pleased to encounter the old favorite: Here You Come Again. When I don’t listen to music in the bath it becomes too easy to envision another shadow on the wall, my friend casually soaking at the other end of the tub. In such moments I imagine he says things like how he can’t believe I’ve made it so far without him. I haven’t, I might say. Still, I try to avoid speaking to him as often as I can. Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll lose my hold, that he’ll smash out and leave me scattered. Just when I’ve begun to get myself together. Let’s say in the bath he looks stunning, much better than the last time I saw him. Better than a body has a right to. My greatest resource in such moments is to remember his eyes open, inquisitive and defiant, with that ineffable quality of blue my brain struggles to replicate in dreams. But lately, I might have said, it’s been difficult not to project him as I saw him on the operating table: his belly swollen with blood, his skin a blueish grey, his eyelids stiff and permanently shut.
When I left the clinic, the doctor handed me a list of therapists who specialize in treating PTSD. Something to get around to. A goal. Something new. It’s been over a year since I participated in therapy. Even before the pandemic forced many into isolationist lives, I mostly kept to myself and worked to manage as best I could without professional help, utilizing coping strategies I’d learned from past therapists so as to avoid the anxiety of meeting a new one. It’s not exactly enjoyable to recount traumas over and over for each new doctor or counselor’s initial interview (and even that assumes there’d be insurance and accessibility). I noticed on the top of the list is a recovery group I emailed last spring, only to recoil in panic when they called me later to set up an appointment. A chance for redemption? In my car after, I thought about how good it feels to be out in the sun. Despite the weakness of winter light, Reno seems resplendent in the afternoon. I wondered if I simply missed being outside, wishing I could believe it.
I’ve never believed in spirits but living alone and confronting these various manifestations of deep-seated trauma has taught me how they might exist in ways I did not previously expect. In such circumstances, a sunbeam becomes a nebula as easily as memory becomes a nightmare. Some say the dead live on in us in order to convey the idea that our loved ones are still with us in a wholesome, reassuring sense. I make no argument against this practice, but I think perhaps a distinction should be made. Right now, people everywhere are encountering loss on a scale many haven’t experienced in their lives. How many of the recent deaths will eventually be accompanied by warm hearts content in the knowledge that their love endures indefinitely, that it preserves the dead person’s memory? I wonder in spite of myself how many ghosts will be born of the troubles of this past year instead, how many will seep like poison into so many minds. Fondly remembering a loved one while understanding their death, even when accompanied by grief, is a step on the path to acceptance and recovery. Ghosts are different. They haunt. Personally, I am terrified to acquire more. It has been difficult enough just to live with and contextualize the ones that already occupy my body. There is no vacancy here, in mind or heart.
Finally, I would like to note that ghosts are not impressive conversationalists. If you ever encounter them—I sincerely hope you will not—you will note how they arrive under the guise of forgiveness or companionship, only to then remind you of your deficiencies, your regrets, the reasons you spend your nights awake and alone. They are born of suffering, of pain. In my opinion, they certainly would not make for good lovers, contrary to what we might have seen in the movies. I also can’t recommend going to them with confessions or curiosity or as therapy. They simply live for a captive audience.
Mental Health Resources and Links
Photo/Courtesy of G. J. Sanford.
G. J. Sanford is a queer poet and writer birthed and corrupted in Nevada's high desert. In 2019, they completed their MFA at the University of Nevada, Reno, and their work has appeared in journals and magazines such as Lady/Liberty/Lit, Ninth Letter, Frontier Poetry, december, River Styx, and others. In 2019 their manuscript PARADIGM TEMPORARILY UNDER CONSTRUCTION was selected as a finalist for the Akron Poetry Prize. They are, with writer Logan Seidl, co-editor of the Vitni Review.
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