I Dissociated

I dissociated during the disaster. For the longest time, I referred to this as my “Out of Body Experience,” but I didn’t speak of it with many people. I did try to write about it but even then it proved difficult to find words to convey the ineffable state I entered when my body realized New Orleans had become a dangerous place.

It happened Monday afternoon, maybe 12 hours after Katrina passed. With sunlight streaming down and peaceful blue skies above, Frank and I left the Royal Street building where we’d sheltered and took a walk through the Quarter to see how folks had fared.

When we first hit the streets, you could feel camaraderie in the air. People were relieved the storm had passed and so little damage had been done. Sure, some roofs were leaking, some trees were down in parks, and folks told us of a building on Toulouse Street—I think—that had lost its chimney. But, in general, people seemed happy, helping one another or cleaning the streets in front of their buildings. No one in the Quarter, including us, yet knew that the levees had failed.

When we hit Esplanade Avenue, the boundary between the Quarter and the neighborhoods known as the Marigny and the Bywater, I felt a sudden shift in mood. There weren’t many people on the streets and those we saw looked nervous. A police cruiser drove by, the only car on the street, and as I stared at the uniformed men inside, I saw wide-eyed shock on their faces.

As Frank and I walked toward the river (the Mississippi, that is), we encountered an elderly man standing motionless in the center of the street. He was balding and shirtless, wearing khaki shorts and clean white sneakers. His face, like his potbelly below, was pointing straight downriver. As we passed the man, we heard him mumbling,

There are bodies in the Bywater, bodies in the Bywater, you know.

We ignored the man. He freaked us out. We didn’t stop to check on him. We just kept moving.

We walked along the River to Canal Street, New Orleans’ main thoroughfare, and that was when it happened. Here is how I’ve written of it in my unpublished memoir of Katrina:

Frank and I joined a crowd gathered at the foot of Canal. As we approached, I could smell nervous perspiration—the heavy odor of fear. I peered around the people and looked out on to Canal. Big objects like industrial fans had been dashed to the ground and lay splayed next to broken power lines. Wet draperies flapped like flags from the broken windows of the high-rise hotels. Display windows had shattered at the Canal Place Mall. Carefully dressed Brooks Brothers mannequins stood covered in glass, their fall sweaters still jauntily tied about their necks, their button downs only slightly wet.

Like the mannequins, the crowd was still. As we stared at the damage, Frank squeezed my damp hand. Then, something strange happened. My perspective shifted.

All at once, I could see everything, as if I were floating above the city. I peered below me and saw New Orleanians wandering through the debris, confused looking cops gathering on Canal Street. I glanced further and saw houses filled with water and bodies floating in the water.

All the while, the people in the French Quarter continued to blithely clean up.

This was truly a magical experience. It was as if my fear had revealed a superpower I hadn’t known I possessed. I was flying above everything. I could see everything. I could conquer all this!

I opened myself up to my new vision. This time, I realized, New Orleans hadn’t dodged another bullet. This time we were in trouble.

We have to get inside, I thought. We have to get back to the building. It’s not safe out here. Keep your cool and get home, my vision told me, and you will survive.

Then, my perspective suddenly returned to the ground. I turned to Frank next to me and smiled. He smiled back. We stood like that for a few minutes, just staring at each other, holding hands, and smiling big dumb smiles until I found myself wondering if Frank had had a vision too.

“I think we should get back to the Royal Street building,” Frank said, “there’s nothing we can do out here.”

“You’re right,” I answered, “it’s dangerous.”

And, with that, we turned and walked toward the Quarter.

Recently, I’ve been reading books about trauma recommended to me by my therapist in Austin. In The Body Bears the Burdon: Trauma, Dissociation, and Disease (2001, NY: The Haworth Medical Press), Robert C. Scaer, MD, discusses the chemicals that were probably floating around my brain as I floated above the city. One of the most startling things I learned from Scaer is that the eyes of a person under stress can actually see more! Scaer writes:

The eyes diverge at the moment of trauma…This response is as automatic as the stretch reflex, and serves to maximize the field of vision in the situation of threat or danger. (2001: 49)

The books I’ve been reading also tell me that my Out of Body Experience may be the origin of some of the PTSD symptoms I’ve experienced.

Since the disaster, when presented with a stressful but normal situation—like the oh-so-necessary-looking for a job, I often freeze, feeling unable to sit down and write letters or fill out forms. Before Katrina, I’d always been a go-getter, never afraid of rejection or new situations, so my freeze response has surprised me.

Now, I wonder if this response may be due to the fact that, during my ultimate experience of survival, I came through with flying colors because I hid inside a building, flying under everybody’s radar until my friends and I could get out of the city.

As my neighbor, who I’ll call J, a youthful 26 year old Iraq veteran with a Purple Heart and PTSD, recently said to me,

The Body is an amazing thing. It gives you what you need to survive but then it’s like it doesn’t know how to turn it off once you’re back in normal life.

Lucky for me, I’m finding that as I come to understand more about my disaster experiences, it’s becoming easier for me to again participate successfully in life. Recently, with hard work, therapy, and thought, I’m becoming more resilient, more able to face normal challenges. But healing is a journey and I’m still on that journey. I strive for even greater healing in the future.

But what I’m left wondering is whether any of you reading this blog have had or heard of similar dissociative experiences, occurring during Katrina or some other traumatic circumstance. I know it’s hard to discuss things like this. It may make us feel vulnerable or we may fear people’s reactions. But I, for one, am tired of that fear and hope this blog can be a safe place for discussion. So, please, share your experiences and ideas. I’d like to know that I’m not alone!!! Best, Donna