A philosopher named Nietzsche wrote, “What doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.” Experiences that are traumatic, if they don’t succeed in killing us off, can actually make us stronger. Steel is tempered by being put through extreme heat. Strong people, sometimes, are the result of hard times.
Science research at the current moment is finding that Nietzsche might have been right. “There might be a curvilinear relation between levels of posttraumatic stress and positive change,” reports Joseph and Butler in a piece entitled Positive Changes Following Adversity (2010).
One of the often-cited cases where hardship made people stronger is the after-effect of September 11th and how people reassessed their lives and rebuilt it on different values after it happened. Leibby Kletzky’s traumatic kidnapping might end up having the same positive aftermath, people reassessing and questioning their values and putting into motion changes that are for the better.
As for you, survivor of abuse, trauma is painful. It feels like it is killing you off, at times. But, if it hasn’t killed you off, it might have just made you into a stronger, more capable, more value-oriented person. If not yet, then it will, if you deal with it head on.
If there is opportunity for growth from past trauma as research claims, then you too should claim that growth for yourself. Go ahead and make the post-traumatic growth happen in your life. Let past pain build you stronger.
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Joseph, S. & Butler, L.D. (2010). Positive Changes Following Adversity. PTSD Research Quarterly. 21:3
If you haven’t yet read this (unfortunately, I can’t give the author credit as it has made its rounds with Anonymous on the byline). It definitely is based on something very Jewish — if you open the Yom Kippur Machzor you will find that we say, we are like lumps of clay in the Potter’s hands. Here is the piece:
Once a couple strolled into a fine china storre and spotted the most exquisite, dainty, perfect teacup. They asked the store clerk if they could see it up close, exclaiming, “We’ve never seen a cup quite so beautiful.”
As they examined the teacup, they heard it speak to them. “My friends, let me tell you my story. I wasn’t always a teacup. There was a time when I was just a lump of red clay, oozing around with my fellow mud friends and family. Then, one day, someone came along and scooped me up, away from my familiar, homey spot. I cried out, but my cries were ignored. Then, the potter took me and rolled me, pounded and patted me over and over and I yelled, “Hey, that hurts. Don’t do that. Stop.’ But my cries were ignored as the potter gently said, “Not yet!’” Next thing that I knew I was slapped onto a spinning wheel where I was spun round and around and around. ‘Stop! I’m dizzy! I’m going to be sick. Stop,”’ I screamed. But the only reply were the two words, “Not yet.’”
“While I was spinning, the work on me didn’t stop. The potter kept forming me, working me, nudging me. Then he put me in the kiln. Such a fire. Such heat. I screamed for all I was worth, pleading, “Get me out of here! Stop.” But the potter just repeated his line, “Not yet.’”
“When I thought I couldn’t bear it another minute, the door opened. He carefully took me out and put me on the shelf, and I began to cool. Oh, that felt so good! Ah, much better, I thought. But, after being cooled, I was again picked up. This time a paintbrush tickled me as paint was applied. Ugh, that smell, and those fumes! “Oh, please, Stop!’ I cried. The potter only shook his head and said. ‘Not yet!’”
“Then I was back in the oven, the paint and the varnish sinking into and sealing every pore. I screamed. I cried. I was convinced I’d never survive. I was ready to give up. When I thought I couldn’t hold on one second longer, the over door was opened and out I was lifted. This time I was placed on a rack to cool, and as I felt the cool air soothe my surface, I dreaded what might possibly come next. However, it was over. The potter brought me a mirror and told me to look at my own reflection. As I looked at myself, I was awed. “That’s not me, that can’t be me. It’s beautiful. I’m beautiful!”
Then the potter spoke up to me and said, “I know it hurt the process, the working out of you, the spinning, the baking, the painting, and I heard you screaming for me to leave you alone but…if I didn’t pound you as clay, you would have dried up. If I didn’t spin you, you would have crumbled. If Ididn’t bake you, you would crack. If I hadn’t painted you, you would be blah. Each step of pain, each step of the way, was leading to making you greater. Now you are strong, long-lasting and a work of art. Now you are perfect.”