As I sit here, the day after Thanksgiving, only just coming out of my food coma, I’m trying to think: What is the opposite of this feeling, the reverse of satisfaction, delight and relaxation? There are many answers — sadness, school, hunger, pants that still fit. And more generally: trauma.
Trauma can be a physical wound or a mental injury, any event outside routine experience. It’s often associated with the kind of abuse that starts early, ends never and tickles Freud’s fancy.
But I think there’s also such a thing as trauma lite, trauma that occurs within the bounds of daily experience. These are the shocks that happen more often, with perhaps less permanent damage. It’s the trauma of an embarrassing moment or a small nuisance, of being caught in a lie, caught in a revolving door or caught with your pants down.
These types of trauma may be more superficial but are not necessarily less significant. In some ways, frequency makes overcoming these little moments of stupidity and shame more crucial to self-development than getting over the Oedipus complex. Our ability to react to and brush off small indignities defines us and prepares us for the larger disgraces of life.
Minor traumas (traumettes?) happen to all of us — we are constantly tripping over ourselves, saying inappropriate things, raising our hands when we don’t know the answer. Our lives are full of missteps, inconveniences and overreactions. These departures from routine can make us feel like we require treatment and hospitalization — or at least a few days of rest.
Case in point: For me, there’s nothing more traumatizing than haircuts. During my last, I was tempted to crawl around on the floor picking up clumps of hair crying, “Why, God, why?” The scissor shock eventually wore off, but it was stressful all the same.
Follicular Trauma is just one example. There are also traumas of fashion (Abuse of Leggings), language (Public Mispronunciation) and technology (Accidental Facebook Poke). These petite disasters leave us yearning for a flux capacitor just so we can save face. Variables like audience size, relative permanence and the sliding scale between humor and humiliation determine just how big these mini-agonies are. Cell Phone Disrupting Silence Trauma is better in a bigger arena, where people are less likely to realize that the “Womanizer” ringtone belongs to you. In contrast, Falling Down Steps Trauma is more bearable with fewer people around.
Traumas come and go with the seasons — in rain, there’s the Trauma of Forgotten Umbrellas, and in shine, the Trauma of Inconveniently Located Sunburn.
There is Awkward Phone Conversation Trauma and Song Stuck in Your Head Trauma, Dealing With Sales Personnel Trauma and Outside the Inside Joke Trauma. There are your Last Call Traumas, which include Closing Bars, Dying Phones and Finals Week.
These trivial traumas don’t last for years but just for minutes, hours or days. They are the kind of incidents that trigger blushes, bitten lips and buckled knees, deafening silences followed by “I can’t believe that happened.” They stick in your gut but, like indigestion, pass quickly.
There are also traumas that go both ways, that can be shallow or profound: These are the Traumas of Lost Things, of Nakedness, of Forgetting, of Gravity.
There are physical traumas that may not pack the punch of a car accident or a sports injury but still give you that squirmy, painful feeling that you’ll never heal again. These include Paper Cut, Hangnail and Mysterious Mole Traumas.
There’s no Trauma Ward for these little distresses, no therapist who will take you seriously if you want to talk about the Trauma of I Have Nothing to Wear, I Burned Myself Making Ramen or I Thought It Was Friday When It Was Only Wednesday.
Some of these are the stories you’ll tell when you’re older, laughing about them like you’re rarely able to in the moment. Others are stories you’ll — hopefully — forget tomorrow.
We learn not to sweat the small stuff, but I disagree with this. If volume counts for anything, then the insignificant is significant. The screw-ups should be relished, the imperfections celebrated with trumpets of idiocy and parades of mortification. What better path to self-discovery than to honor your bad hair days and your most embarrassing moments? Sweat the small stuff, and if you can bear the Trauma of Unsightly Perspiration, you can handle anything.
Rebecca’s column runs biweekly Tuesdays. She can be reached at r.marsh@cavalierdaily.com.
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