Coming Unlocked in Lockdown

September 3, 2020 § 10 Comments

By Hannah Storm

At the end of last year, I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, a result of multiple traumas in my personal and professional life. I’d had symptoms for several years but held off seeking help because of the legacy of an abusive relationship in which I was frequently accused of being mentally ill and unable to cope. I know now this is a tactic used by abusers and the damaging effect domestic abuse can have on mental health. I was also conscious of the taboos that still exist in my industry, where journalists rarely admit vulnerability. Shame is a common symptom of PTSD. Writing helped me erase that shame.

As England went into lockdown in mid-March, I started seeing a new therapist. I was anxious about sessions via video from within the thin walls of my house. PTSD means some of my memories were wrongly stored, some of them buried so deep I could not immediately remember aspects of some things that had happened to me. To get better, I needed to process them, but I resisted my therapist’s attempts to have me relive the most traumatic experiences through the computer, and I suggested writing about them instead. He agreed.

Every week, words poured onto the page, surfacing memories buried for years, bringing technicolor to my traumas. This brought its own risks, and my therapist warned I might feel worse before I felt better. He was right. At times I was almost overwhelmed by grief or exhaustion. I kept writing, motivated by my desire to fill in the memories of my past so my brain could better process my trauma. I also tried to free-write most mornings for 15 minutes, often returning to the boxes opened in my brain. I checked back in with my therapist, told him how I was, what I was writing. I started to feel a little more in control of my memories, a little more compassion for myself.

Although my world had become so much smaller in many ways because of being locked down, it allowed my writing world to grow. Somehow, lockdown has unlocked something else through my writing.

I finally broke my silence about my PTSD in an article for the journalism website

But my writing was more than a public acknowledgment of my pain. It helped me recall more clearly an evening in the Dominican Republic when I was sexually assaulted, just hours before my first visit to Haiti in 2004. I understood what had motivated damaging decisions I made later, including my descent into the long-lasting abusive relationship, and how often others had effectively coerced me into these choices.

I wrote and rewrote, lived and relived. I covered 15 years of memories, as many countries, and 30,000 words to date of what I hope will one day be a memoir, though this was far from the original motivation.

Much of my writing focuses on Haiti. Through writing I recognised how my second visit there, just months after my first, had been an attempt to make sense of the earlier sexual assault. During that second trip, I met young women and girls who had been raped, for whom there would never be justice in a place where rape was just another weapon of war. I wrote about my guilt that I had abandoned them after leaving Haiti because my freelance salary would not cover the security measures I needed to avoid being kidnapped or killed myself. I made my peace with that guilt though I will never forget those young women.

I went on to write about how I was raped a year later by someone connected with the man who assaulted me in the Dominican Republic. By reliving my memories on the page, I  gained clarity about the physical and psychological backdrop to that later incident in Brazil.

I wrote about my last visit to Haiti as journalist in 2010, days after the country was devastated by a massive earthquake. I wrote about the people I met, who had endured so much. I realised why certain smells and sudden loud sounds still affect me, and I started to see themes in my writing, like how I felt often as if I was standing on unstable ground, the familiar fabric of my existence pulled from beneath my feet, or the idea of aftershocks as a series of linked traumas.

My writing also helped me remember happier times – travels through Latin America and the Caribbean: bonds forged with people and places who taught me about beauty rather than brutality. I wrote about some of my achievements too, erased by my abusers who had invoked my silence.

A couple of weeks ago, we found a buyer for our house, and I started to sort through some things stored in the loft. From a bag, I pulled out my old Brownie Guide uniform, sleeve full of badges, worn by a little girl with big dreams. Beneath it was a blue polo shirt and cream cargo pants last used in Haiti.  I lifted them to my nose, knowing they could not hold the smell of death. And finally, I discovered a box of papers from family court, charting times I was forced to fight to be free. I shredded the papers, washed the clothes and my husband took them to charity. I kept the uniform to show my kids. Then I started unlocking these words.


Hannah Storm writes creative nonfiction and flash as a way of paying tribute to the people she has met and processing her experiences of travelling the world during two decades as a journalist. Her work has been published widely online and in anthologies and she has been shortlisted and placed in several awards. She lives in the UK, works as a media consultant and runs marathons, also as an antidote to trauma. She is working on a memoir as a result of the writing she has achieved during lockdown.

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§ 10 Responses to Coming Unlocked in Lockdown

  • Sowjanya M says:

    Write to light your heart!
    Nothing is as torturous than holding an untold story inside you. For all the things that are ineffable, writing is the only mode it makes it effable.
    More power to you.

  • Kim Davis says:

    Hannah, I was deeply touched by your story. I recognize similar themes in my life and my writing. I feel a great deal of anger than being female makes us targets. Keep telling the stories, please.

  • dkzody says:

    I have often said, “write as if your life depended on it,” and here you are, proof. Keep writing, keep healing, keep living.

  • Margo Rochelle says:

    Glad to know that I can keep writing to unlock my anxiety.

  • bravely and beautifully shared.

  • Michael Lewis says:

    Yes, Hannah. This is powerful and moving writing. Thank you for having the courage to share. It is inspiring.

  • It is a true blessing that these months home have enabled you to “see and know the un-seeable” and experience the healing that is occurring with it. I am often stuck with amazement that so many can write memoir about their abuse histories and the PTSD they continue to resolve.

    I have written of it some but there is such a (varied) number of abuses that has occurred over 65 years –some in unusual situations–that I have always felt a reader might be too appalled or perhaps not believe the content. And my children would be horrified–they know of my trauma but the full truth would be devastating to them, I think. I wonder if you have felt that way, at all? So- I tend to write of it in poetry and fiction more, the few times I have, and only obliquely refer to it as a more general abuse history. And I often encourage others to seek help–do not put it off.

    In any case, Hannah, I am very glad you got therapy as did I several times over decades. It can be successfully addressed and one can heal enough to have a much happier life–many do not even know this is so. At age 76, I have found many more reasons to be glad to be alive–and loving, and strong. Regards and best wishes on your memoir writing.

  • Humera Shakoor says:

    You’re so brave and strong, Hannah. I’m proud of you. I’m very glad you opened and lightened your heart. You deserve so much better.

  • Brave and courageous! In writing your story, Hannah, you are healing the scars that hide inside us due to abusive treatment. As a survivor of abuse as a child, I am so glad you found the perfect therapy–writing–to bring back the buried memories. You are indeed the picture of a survivor!

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