TRAUMA: The Silent Echoes

 Some will hear of trauma and cannot help but interpret it passively as a buzzword thrown around on socials, a friend of a friend randomly saying something about being traumatized, a Gen Z lingua. They genuinely cannot relate to the idea of being shaken by an unfortunate event, hence, they lack clue on how to act around people traumatized.

To others, it has become a lifestyle laced with panic attacks, anxiety, constantly living in fear, having to sleep with an open eye, the urge to watch over ones shoulder, popping random pills to stay calm, being startled at the slightest noise, increased pace on narrow lonely paths, flashbacks, sweaty palm, conflicting loud scream in the head.

It was not always like this, never in your widest imagination did you envisage explaining your Innocence to the mob. You looked with eyes filled with unspoken plea, to tell them, to convince them that it was a bad joke, a prank gone wrong. Deep down, they know, they believed, he's not capable of that, but it is late, far too late, he is at the mercy of the mob's judgment, it is his word against the world or rather her words against his. In all, the outcome will not be favourable, it has never been. In similar situations, the truth surfaced after verdicts have been passed, never before nor during, always after.

The aftermath, a deep-rooted resentment similar to misogyny. Not born out of spite, but from a place of bruised truth and silenced innocence. A slow, dangerous transformation where pain begins to generalize, where one face becomes many, and trust dissolves into suspicion. He does not hate women, not truly, but he fears what their words can become in a split second, in a world that listens selectively. And in that fear, in that constant need to guard himself, something inside him hardens. Not all at once, not loudly, but slowly and quietly- until what remains is a man shaped more by what was taken from him than what he once was.

It does not announce itself when it begins. No thunderclap, no warning sign- the odd feeling that comes with dashing your left foot, no moment marked in bold ink, Just a before that felt ordinary, and an after that refuses to settle. Somewhere between those two points, something was taken- quietly or even loudly, violently, irreversibly.

To the world, she is still herself, she ought to be, it's been days, weeks, months that have ran into years. She laughs when expected, nods when spoken to, answers questions with rehearsed normalcy. But beneath the surface, there is a constant negotiation with memory. Not always clear, not always loud, but present. Lingering in shadows, in the way her body stiffens before her mind can explain why.

She avoids certain paths now, though she cannot always explain what makes them inherently dangerous. A scent, a voice, a passing resemblance, anything can tilt the ground beneath her feet. Nights are the hardest. Sleep comes like a risk, not a refuge. And when it does, it carries fragments she cannot fully escape, only endure.

There are questions she asks herself in silence, over and over, as though repetition might rewrite the past. Things she wishes she had done differently, words she wishes she had said sooner, exits she wishes she had seen. Even knowing somewhere deep and rational, that the blame was and should never be hers. But knowing is not the same as believing.

She learns to live in layers. The visible one- composed, functioning, almost convincing. And the hidden one- fragile, alert, carrying a weight no one quite sees. Trust is tampered. Safety becomes relative. And the world, once neutral, now feels like something to be carefully survived rather than freely lived in. The aftermath is not loud.

It is not just that they are gone. It is how they were taken, and how that moment whether sudden or stretched over time- rearranged something permanent on the inside.

There is no transition. One moment, everything exists as it should. The next, it doesn’t. No time to prepare the heart, no space to soften the blow. Just impact, both literal and emotional. Afterwards, speed feels different.

Fast cars. Sharp turns. Sound of screeching tires from a distance, hospital visits all makes you palpitate. Your body reacts before your mind can reason. Because somewhere inside, the world has proven that everything can end in a split second. And seconds can no longer be trusted.

At first, there is hope. Plans. Treatments. A belief that this is something to fight, something to overcome. You learn new language, medical terms , procedures and readings, probabilities- as though understanding them might give you control.

But trauma begins long before the loss. It builds in the watching. Watching them weaken, their body changes, moments of themselves slip away- physically, mentally, sometimes both. And each small decline feels like a quiet rehearsal for the inevitable.

And when the end finally comes, it is not a single moment- but a culmination of many smaller losses that led to it. What ties them together is not the cause, It is the imprint they leave behind. The way your body anticipate loss. The way your mind replays the final moments- whether it was something you never saw coming, or something you watched unfold in slow motion.

Ordinarily, seeing people walk in group is not something unusual, it is what almost every one did. You never thought a day would come when a group of people walking- towards you or not would scare you and make your knees feeble. 

You still see them in your sleep, their faces unmasked, their voice as loud as ever. You look at almost everyone their age, height and skin colour as a suspect. Then comes the profiling, if it dresses like a duck, walks like a duck, it is definitely a duck.

At the sight of random strangers walking, is your brain in hyper gymnastic mode, planning a possible way out "if, in case". You are always in a catch 22 mode. You rather stand at bus stand for long minutes assessing moving buses just so you'd see the one you'll feel safe in. 

The rule is simple, if there are more than 2 males, if their faces looks suspicious, if they pressure you to hop in, if there are no females, if the females don't look safe- DO NOT ENTER you say to yourself. You know better than to sit between two strangers, the idea is to sit with the driver- it's easier to signal for help and in worst case, jump out where your body can be seen and identified.

Sometimes, you burst out crying, the mental turmoil is taking a toll on you, you were never like this- judgmental, hyperventilating, suspicious. You don't know how long this will go on for.

Even when logic has answers, trauma does not accept them easily. Trauma is not a performance nor healing owed to anyone’s timeline. To those carrying it, your reactions are not weakness, nor your fear, failure, and your silence is not emptiness either. What you experienced was real, and so is the weight it left behind. You are allowed to take your time, to rebuild in fragments, to exist without having everything neatly put back together immediately, maka na, nkwụcha aburo ụjọ, you were beaten once, hence, why you're twice shy.

To the friend of a friend, understand that not everyone responds to shock the same way nor every wound visible. Every response will not make sense to you and that's fine. In all, choose empathy over judgment, patience over pressure, do not dismiss what you lack knowledge of. People do not need to be fixed or questioned into validity; they need to be met with humanity. A little patience, a little empathy, a little care goes a long way in the healing process of trauma victims. Choose to be kind.

Until my next post,
Stay loved,
Naz.