Georgia on My Mind

Yesterday, Joe carted home an old record player from a garage sale. My sweet husband knows how much I have missed playing my old albums since our turntable quit spinning after a recent move. With eager anticipation, I selected Willie Nelson's Stardust album.

As Willie thrummed his guitar and sang "Just an old sweet song keeps Georgia on my mind," I lay back on my bed and closed my eyes. I remembered the night my uncle gave me Willie's album. It was my 19th birthday, and I had gone home from college for the weekend. My uncle's gift touched me, because he had never given me a birthday gift before. This was the kind of present that came as a complete surprise.

Music has always been my native language. It can move me in a way that words cannot. Unfortunately, music can also serve as a trigger for me. A trigger can be anything that takes us away from the present and back to our moment of trauma. When a trigger causes us to lose our perception of what is currently going on around us and makes us feel as if we are re-living a moment in the past, we are experiencing a flashback.

Triggers can be smells that remind us of the place where we were abused, or of our perpetrator's scent. The smell of freshly-cut hay takes one survivor back to a moment when she was raped in a barn. Another woman whose perpetrator smoked cigars remembers her childhood molestation whenever her neighbor walks past her house today with a cigar in hand.

For some survivors, visual images bring back the moment. The sight of men's hands used to send me into a panic that I couldn't understand.

For others, the trigger involves touch, such as a caress or a kiss. This can become problematic in current relationships, where loving touches from our partners evoke confusing fears. Even the sense of taste can catapult us backward in time.

Triggers can come from sounds in the environment during our moment of trauma. Last night, when Willie's voice gave way to his distinctive, twangy harmonica, I suddenly found myself back in my parents' house during that summer when I was 19. I was instantly experiencing the moment when my father approached me for the last time. He came to my bed one summer morning, where I lay sleeping under a sheet without a stitch on, because it was miserably hot outside. I awoke to find my father leaning over me. Alarms began going off in my head as I realized I had abandoned my pajamas in the night. Dad told me it was time to get up, and I told him I would when he left the room. With a devilish smile, he urged me to push back the covers while he watched. I clung tightly to the sheets and insisted that he leave.

After Dad walked out, I got up and dressed for breakfast. In the kitchen, I found my father sitting at the table with my mother, acting as if nothing unusual had occurred just moments before. An unbearably heavy sense of depression settled on me like a damp, moldy blanket. I was not safe in my own home. My father was a sexual predator, and my mother was oblivious to the fact that I was his prey. After choking down my breakfast, I went back to my room and locked the door. The stereo was my source of comfort, where Willie sang many tunes, including Georgia on My Mind.

The click of the record player shutting off drew me back to the present, where I found myself lying on my bed. I sat up, and that odious depression clung to me. Remembering the cognitive restructuring skills I had recently learned, I told myself that the depression belonged to the past, not the present. If I kept that in mind, I could listen to Willie and appreciate his talents in playing both the harmonica and the guitar. Just because my father chose to do something evil does not make Willie Nelson a partner in that crime. Instead of dwelling on the sadness that my father brought into my world, I can remember the tender moment when my uncle expressed love in an appropriate way with the gift of music to a teen who needed some reassurance.

I always find comfort in God's Word, and he frequently leads me to passages that speak to my pain. Psalm 77:4-6 reads, "You kept my eyes from closing; I was too troubled to speak. I thought about the former days, the years of long ago; I remembered my songs in the night..." God is telling me that during those moments when Willie's old, sweet songs spoke to my troubled heart, my Savior was there with me, aching for me. He is with me today as I fight to free myself from the ugly memories of my past.

What are your triggers? If you are struggling with images, sounds, tastes, smells, or sensations that keep dragging you into the past, ask God to help you replace those old memories with beautiful new ones. As members of a church family where we are dearly loved, this task is much easier to do than if we remain isolated. I pray that, with God's love and his Word, you will find a way to replace those painful thoughts with comforting ones.