Ninjas
Ninjas are objectively cool.
That’s right, ninjas. Black masked, katana-wielding, shuriken-throwing, butt-kicking assassins in the night. As a child of the 80s who grew up watching B movies, there were few things cooler than ninjas. Masters of the martial arts, they could sneak up on you regardless of how safe you thought you were, striking from the shadows, and be gone before anyone knew they were there.
Of course, since these were what could only be generously called “B” movies, they couldn’t really afford to shoot at night, so the “dark night of shadows” would frequently be 3 o’clock in the afternoon and tinted slightly blue.
I recently went on my first family vacation in fifteen years, traveling with my parents to Newport Beach California. My parents are in their late 70s and retired, but they’re pretty spry for their age. We’re focusing on our destination, however. Newport Beach is a place of wealth and privilege. A place of not only gated communities but gated homes. I saw multiple cars there worth more than I’ll make for the next fifteen years of my life. While I felt a little out of place, Newport Beach was safe.
This was my first time there, my folks had been there a few times, so they were excited to take me to their favorite breakfast cafe. A little bistro that fronts as your average corner diner with a guy in a T-shirt standing in front of a hanging chalkboard menu wearing a t-shirt and apron saying “what can I get ya?” They also served Chardonnay, with prices to match. The food also took a good while to come out, was carefully presented with the same careful plating I’ve seen at five-star restaurants, and tasted like heaven. Because this cafe was safe.
Then why is it that the second I walked into this place of delicious spinach egg-egg white omelet served with a side of wheat toast and perfectly seasoned diced potatoes, I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that I was under a threat to my life? Why did I know that someone was in my blindspot. You know the one–that one right between the shoulder blades–was going to stick a knife in if I didn’t find a place in that line where I could see them coming?
Because I was not safe.
I received my initial diagnosis of Post-traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) after getting out of a domestically abusive relationship and a year where I bounced in and out of hospitals and jails. My therapist had me chart said diagnosis on the hunch that it may go back a lot farther than initially believed due to exchanges like this one:
Them: “You say that you’re easily startled.”
Me: “Yeah, I jump out of my skin and scream really loud. Sometimes I’m skittish for the rest of the day. Everybody makes fun of me for it. But it’s no big deal, I’ve been that way since I was a little kid.”
Them: “Exactly.”
Since then, after years of working in Peer Support, I’ve found myself wishing that the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM) would add a symptom to the PTSD listing: The constant use of the statements like “but I didn’t have it as bad as other people” or “but it was no big deal.”
Because of the constant use of statements like these, they pulled out a big piece of newsprint, laid it out flat, and had me draw a horizontal line across it. They then asked me questions along the lines of:
- Has anyone ever attempted to or succeeded in breaking into your home when you were not there?
- Has anyone, including family members or friends, ever attacked you with a gun, knife, or some other weapon
These were to be expected, of course. The ones I didn’t expect were:
- Were you ever teased, hit, shoved, slapped, kicked, beaten up, had property stolen, or treated differently because of your race?
- Did you live with anyone who was a problem drinker or alcoholic, or who used street drugs?
For each question, I had to answer “yes” or “no” and list a year. The idea was to get me to think differently about the idea of “trauma” and how these things affect you. The answer to all of these was “yes,” by the way.
These were taken from a mix of a few different sources. The Trauma History Questionnaire (THQ), the Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACES), and an anti-bullying survey, among others. Each of these are measures designed to take away the minimization of statements like “it was no big deal.”
Mental health conditions are assassins. Masked, they can sneak up on you regardless of how safe you think you are, striking from the shadows; while I escaped that attack, fleeing the confines of the diner, and running back outside where I could once again breathe the stifling-but-safe air of summer–I was rattled.
Still, I found a place where I could find a corner, and make sure that I could see all potential attackers. A place where I could once again feel safe and enjoy my immaculately prepared spinach and egg-white omelet.
Unfortunately, the next stop was the grocery store. The grocery store has crowds, noise, confusion, and so. Many. Lines. Ninjas down every aisle. The grocery store is never safe, but we’ll save that one for Ninjas II: The Sour Kraut.