by Lila Zimmerman, MFT

HELENE

I attempt again to write about a grief I don’t yet understand. A pending grief, an anticipated grief. But I hold myself as far back as I can from the depths of confrontation of the loss. This position is one where I feel comfortable, it’s theoretical and contemplative rather than submersive and more to the point, disastrous.

In September of last year, Hurricane Helene tore through the southern Appalachians, pouring rain that flooded the rivers and oversaturated the land. The creek banks and riverbanks have permanently moved and changed size, ripping apart roads that do not have another obvious place to be built. The land is transformed forever, homes and businesses washed away, many lives lost and thousands of others altered in perpetuity. A true disaster. This is where I grew up. Where I was raised. Where I learned to exist.

Those not from Appalachia might not understand how closely the roads that we travel daily follow the winds of the rivers. They were built there because they could only be built there, hemmed in by mountains. Our arterial routes follow riparian veins. I grew up being driven on these roads. Pressing my nose against the window, blowing hot breath, and drawing hearts into fogged glass. Later learning to drive, shredding clutches as my father insisted I learn to drive a stick. Up the mountain, down the mountain, through the mountain. These mountains are gentle. They roll rather than pierce. I grew up feeling held by the gentle and ancient topography of western North Carolina.

It was believed by those of us who are from there that it was a sanctuary, protected. There is an obvious link to trauma here. The way it can happen one day without warning and suddenly everything is rearranged. But I don’t want to write about that, so I’ll theorize again.

I have a patient who knows where I am from. After the hurricane, he became distraught with concern about me. Asking me in session how I was, texting me about my family, and sending articles. I believe he was afraid his aggression caused the storm that ripped apart my hometown. He believes his violent impulses have this kind of capacity to ruin me. He often comes twenty, thirty minutes late to his sessions - perhaps to spare me his destruction. I assure him in earnest, “My family is okay, my family is strong and has survived worse.” Sublimating the message, “I can handle you, with all of your rage and your power. You will not destroy me.” I found this helpful, attending to the transference rather than the reality. Though of course, my patient did not create the storm and likely will not destroy me with his rage, I wonder if I am in fact destroyed by this storm. I was across the country, the skies in Oakland were so blue that day. But my heart couldn’t stop racing and my mind couldn’t stop repeating, “There has been a disaster! Can anyone feel it?”