I want to relive my trauma. It is the only way to heal

BY SIMONE J. SMITH

My days in Panama began to flow into each other. I had begun to lose track of what day it was, not because I didn’t care, it was because I didn’t want to think about how long I had been there.

I had built a routine. I would wake up, roll up my bed, shower, eat breakfast, and then the gates were opened to our house, and we were allowed to do what we wanted.

I had begun to spend a lot of time walking around the prison. Panama was truly a beautiful country, and this was coming from someone who was only seeing a distorted fraction of it. I still remember the green of the trees, the flourishing flora, the heat of the sun; I would at times close my eyes and imagine being on vacation. I would imagine I was on a beach, soaking up the sun, sipping on something fruity, and delicious.

I would open my eyes to my reality, and each time think about how stupid I was to be daydreaming at a time like that. It is funny how much turmoil happens in your soul when you are dealing with a traumatic situation. I was doing my best to stay hopeful even though every day, I was faced with a harsh reality; I might be here for a while.

I had met other young women who shared their stories with me. Each story I heard sent me further into depression. Some of these women had been waiting for trial for over two years. I heard about lawyers who wouldn’t even show up to see their clients. Each story forced me to face an uncomfortable realism; I had put myself in this position. My decisions had put me in this place. Very soon, I could be that person saying to someone, “Oh! I have been here for three years waiting for my trial.” That thought to this day shook me to my core.

What also shocked me was the reaction to my story from the women in the prison. Most of them initially thought that I was in there for smuggling or trafficking drugs. When I shared with them that it was not the case, they would sit there in amazement. “They locked you up for that,” some of them would say, unsure of what to think. It made me think, and justified some of my initial thoughts. Could the American government not have handled this a different way, especially because I was Canadian.

Could they not have contacted the Canadian government and requested me to show up at the border, turn myself in for questioning. Why did they have to go to such extremes and have me locked up in another country 1,000 miles away?

It didn’t make sense to the women there, and to this day, it doesn’t make sense to me.

I began to take comfort in the fact that these women were so open to sharing their stories with me. It was around that time that I began to document my experiences on scrap pieces of a paper. There were certain parts of this experience that I did not want to forget. I truly believe this is when writing really became part of my life.

Writing became the way that I took pictures of my experience. Like a photographer, I wanted to capture the nuances of my experience. I knew that when I walked away from this experience that I would need reminders of exactly how I felt during this time in my life. I didn’t know that writing would become such a large part of my life. That I would be using it as a tool to not only heal myself, but to also heal others.

With pen to paper, I began to express my feelings to my parents, my boyfriend at the time, my friends. I wanted them to know how sorry I was for causing them worry, causing them pain.

Now, I wonder where these scrap pieces of paper are. I really want to find them to share them with you. I also want to go back to where my mind was during a time of great sadness. I want to relive my trauma. It is the only way to heal.