Plasma donations and trauma don't play nice


Last weekend, I read What My Bones Know, a Memoir of Healing from Complex Trauma, by Stephanie Foo. Stories of overcoming complex PTSD fascinate me, with my wind tunnel history of childhood neglect and fear, crappy relationships, and medical trauma.

A few months ago, I devoured I'm Glad My Mom Died, by Jennette McCurdy, with the same intensity. I was thrilled that someone else had the complex view of family I did.

I want to see what these people see, and learn what they learned. Stephanie Foo is not shy about presenting her worst side, and does not hide behind victimhood. The bigger the asshole she knew her early self to be, the more I identified with her.

The results of the sprint read through her book are these:

1. I feel like a failure for not having built the loving Garden of Eden family life Stephanie Foo has.

2. Super Type A people are not great mirrors for me.

3. I feel a vague sense of guilt at having been nearly adult when these things were happening to her, like I need to go back to the 90s and kick the asses of the parents who did that to her.

4. I see my early self in the shitty behavior she chronicles, and maybe that will make it easier to forgive that young woman.

5. Reading good books about trauma leaves me feeling raw and exposed for at least a week after.

6. Reading books about trauma while donating plasma will send me into major emotional flashback of chemo and then general worthlessness. And also maybe donating plasma and the resulting depression and anxiety is not a thing I can get on board with after all – in spite of the macabre thrill of paying the Trader Joe's grocery total with literal blood money.

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