The Call
Memory Recalled: October 17, 2020 | Age When Memory Happened: 48
My legs wobbled as I jumped from a sound sleep to catch the ringing phone. It had already rung twice. Sharp, darting rings as my senses translated that it was 2 am in the morning. I had always been a night owl, but after conducting a PR campaign for a Silicon Valley doctor who had written a book on sleep patterns, I had transformed myself forcefully into an early bird.
“Hello.” My voice cracked as my vocal cords warmed to vibrate from slumber.
A soft voice tiptoed through the phone’s speaker. “Aunt Michelle? Can you talk? I feel like I might hurt myself.”
I stood up, wiping the sleep from my eyes. It was the daughter of a friend. The words ‘hurt myself’ felt like cold water on my face instantly waking me. “Of course, sweetie. You know I told you to call me anytime day or night. Talk to me.”
She and I shared an experience. In college, she had been raped by a boyfriend. As an eight-year-old, I had been molested by a neighbor. She knew my story since she entered puberty. I had told every child in my life in case they ever needed an ear, an understanding adult. This is something I never had in my own childhood and I was determined to give to all the children in my life.
The silence on the phone was filled with soft crying. We shared the breaths between us. “I tried to direct message you Aunt Michelle on Facebook, but then I remembered I had your phone number. I’m just not wanting to be in my body tonight.”
“Sweetie, the call is between us. Talk to me. What do you need, babe?”
She continued to cry.
I heard my own breath echo through the phone.
“My body. I just don’t want to feel my body anymore. It’s too painful.”
On a date with a boy she trusted, he had forced himself upon her. I knew the story. Memories flooded from my early twenties. Dates and hormones ever reminded me of touches I’d rather forget.
“Tell me what you need right now, babe. I’m here.”
She continued to cry.
I heard my own breath echo through the phone.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get over how he touched me. I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable in my own skin again. Aunt Michelle, I want to end it. I can’t take the pain. Just tell me, does the pain go away? Does it ever get better?”
She continued to cry.
I heard my own breath echo through the phone. I stared at the floor.
With her words, I recall my life, my pain, and all that worked and didn’t work. I contemplated what was truthful now at almost fifty years of age, had my pain gotten better? Had my life emancipated itself from the prison created by my perpetrator from age 8 until age 20? Had putting him in jail for molesting me allowed me to live my life without his influence? Did his death in jail give me peace? Was I, thirty years later still in pain like this young survivor? Was I still feeling the bristle of unwanted touches, unwanted advances, force, and torture? Was I, like her, totally alone after all that’s transpired?
I returned to the call. Drifting to the past while in the present became a skill I had perfected. It was good she was on the phone and couldn’t see my eyes wander to the corner of the ceiling to find my next answer, to find my next savior from the present. “Listen, sweetie, it takes work, but it does get better. I promise. I have a wonderful life, an amazing husband, great hobbies, and a career I’m so passionate about. You will have the same. Just get through tonight. Know the pain you’re feeling in your body -- that disconnection you’re feeling from it. Sweetie, that’s temporary. I won’t lie to you. That never goes away, but over time and if you work at it, that pain gets smaller and smaller, and it stops having power over you. The flashbacks settle. You learn to manage the flashbacks.”
She continued to cry.
I heard my own breath echo through the phone.
“Think of a storm. Do you know how lightning and thunder can be scary when you hear and experience them? Our pain is like lightning and thunder. In the morning, after the storm passes, so do lightning and thunder. Babe, I promise you, when you wake up, the pain you’re feeling now, like thunder, will be transformed into the sunshine. With the next storm, that thunder may be back, but like this time, you can weather the storm. You will learn how to take care of yourself while the rain is pouring, the thunder is rumbling, and the lightning is striking. All you must do moment to moment is do what it takes to take care of yourself. I’m still learning how to take care of myself. That’s a lifelong journey, but I promise you, you will always have help. Just ask, as you’ve done now. I’m here, babe. What do you need?”
She continued to cry. I heard my own breath echo through the phone.
“Sweetie, what do you need?”
Her call was my calling.
✧༺♕༻✧
W.R.I.T.E. THE TRAUMA – Reader Reflection for “The Call”
Self-Care Note: This chapter touches on themes that may activate old memories or emotions. Please pause, breathe, or take a break if needed.
Why This Matters:
When we witness someone else’s pain — especially unexpectedly — it often stirs the parts of us that learned to stay calm, helpful, or invisible. Writing about these moments creates space between the event and the nervous system’s reaction.
W — Write
• Have you ever received a call or message that placed you in someone else’s crisis?
• What came up for you emotionally or physically?
R — Relate
• What part of their story felt familiar to you?
• Did the call activate an old pattern, role, or memory?
I — Interrupt
• What story does your mind tell you in moments like this? (“I must fix this,” “I can’t say no,” “I have to stay strong.”)
• What gentle phrase, breath, or boundary could interrupt that automatic pattern?
T — Tell
• Who in your life has earned the right to hear your truth about moments like these?
• What would it feel like to tell them what the call brought up for you?
E — Embody
• What movement helps your body return to safety after absorbing someone else’s pain?
• What does your body need right now?
