“We push away what we can never understand
We push away the unimaginable”
– Lin-Manuel Miranda, “It’s Quiet Uptown” from Hamilton
I heard this song - “It’s Quiet Uptown” - years ago, before I saw the show live or even knew the story. When I first listened to the lyrics, really listened, I cried. It hit deep in my gut as it spoke a universal truth to me.
Angelica sings about Alexander Hamilton’s attempt to heal from the sudden violent death of his son and repair his relationship with his wife. He knows he failed her because of the short-sighted counsel he gave their son about dealing with an adversary, advice that resulted in a fatal duel that ended the young man’s life. The song is haunting in the way Angelica (Eliza’s sister) observes the couple from afar, and how the townspeople sing their choral echoes as they themselves watch from a distance.
The song perfectly encapsulates the isolation of healing from a trauma no one understands, nor wants to get close to. In this beautiful song, you can feel this couple going about their lives, almost aimlessly, in the wake of their loss, Hamilton walking for hours as people watch his hair turn grey, Eliza on her own, empty, and unable to engage with him. Nowhere in the song does anyone approach him, or her.
It is simply Hamilton and Eliza, each alone in their pain.
It would appear there is nothing one can do when the worst that can be imagined for a parent has come to pass.
What can anyone say, what can anyone do?
An unimaginable grief
Grief from a profound loss, and in particular, one that is not well-understood, is a lonely place to be. It is what is referred to in the psychological literature as “disenfranchised.”
Disenfranchised grief was coined by Ken Doka in the 1980s. It refers to "losses in a mourner's life of relationships that are not socially sanctioned."1 An example might be the death of an affair partner. Aaron Lazare presented two kinds of losses that further differentiate disenfranchised grief: socially negated, or ignored, losses (such as pregnancy loss, either spontaneous or induced) and “socially unspeakable losses,”2 meaning that there is social stigma about this particular loss. An example here might include death by suicide.
In contrast, if someone loses a spouse, or a parent, there is usually the social response of condolences and support, as these deaths are socially sanctioned, meaning "acceptable" or “regular” experiences of grief (not to diminish in any way the pain associated with these types of losses).
But the ones not accepted by society, or ones too painful to imagine, like the loss of the child in Hamilton? These experiences carry a weight that is over and above the grief much of society can understand. Experiencing this kind of loss can result in the mourner feeling isolated, since a significant component is missing in the processing of their grief: that of social support.
Disenfranchised trauma
Social support is often absent during recovery from trauma such as sexual assault, rape, or childhood sexual abuse. The isolation this causes can add to grief brewing within, not unlike the examples mentioned above. However, what’s different for survivors is that there is no external “death” that can be pointed to, but instead, there is a painful internal death for the multiple losses that have been and continue to be endured. These losses are often strange and unclear for the survivor, making them hard to define. Recovery is difficult, since speaking about their abuse is neither encouraged nor accepted. In the wake of such experiences, I believe we ought to call trauma a person cannot speak about disenfranchised trauma.
“There is a painful internal death for the multiple losses that have been and continue to be endured.”
It is a trauma that is unspeakable.
Judith Herman writes about “unspeakable” violations in her book Trauma and Recovery, stating that the atrocities “refuse to be buried.”3 Her book emerged after decades of working with victims of intimate partner and sexual violence. Herman’s words, originally published in 1992, could not be more apt today. Unprocessed trauma, trauma that isn't given a voice, does not stay buried. It only goes underground, ready to come to light at a moment’s trigger.
“Trauma is perhaps the most avoided, ignored, belittled, denied, misunderstood, and untreated cause of human suffering.” - Peter A. Levine, PhD4
When we ignore and devalue a person’s traumatic experience, we deny their humanity. Through our inaction, we are communicating that what they lived is not worth supporting or grieving. I would offer it is the things we don’t talk about when faced with a disenfranchised experience that creates more grief. Being forced to remain silent due to an “unaccepted” experience perpetuates a situation in which the ones who need support the most are denied it. And this social response (or lack thereof) makes recovery from this kind of trauma doubly painful. The pain is not only due to the initial experience(s), but also to the ongoing stigmatizing nature that is caused or maintained by societal repression due to judgment, lack of appropriate information, and the myths that persist about the “unspeakable” traumas.
“Being forced to remain silent due to an ‘unaccepted’ experience perpetuates a situation in which the ones who need support the most are denied it.”
The disenfranchised nature of trauma creates a sense that survivors are somehow "different," almost as if they are put in a separate category from the rest of the world, creating a feeling that "they don't belong to the human race."5 This lack of belonging can lead someone to feeling as if they must hide and, as Bessel van der Kolk writes in The Body Keeps the Score, the result is that “shame becomes the dominant emotion and hiding the truth the central preoccupation."6
The loss of connection to our social world is one of many losses for survivors. We are now different, and have now, in essence, been handed the crown of survivor, which means our experience has given us a whole collection of losses that cannot be adequately expressed.
Multiple Losses
There are many losses when in recovery from a disenfranchised trauma such as those of a sexual nature. In its wake, we are often alone. There are no flowers, no casseroles being dropped off, no one who understands. Relationships can falter under the weight of a survivor’s responses.
I found this wonderful article where the researcher articulates the losses so succinctly that I am compelled to quote her here (emphasis is mine; I have removed her in-article citations for ease of read but the link can be found in the footnotes):
Losses associated with sexual assault are numerous, cumulative, and multilayered. The primary loss is the loss of one’s pre-assault life and worldview. There are also a multitude of secondary or accompanying losses that may be both visible (e.g., friendship loss) and invisible (e.g., loss of trust). Secondary losses in sexual assault include, but are not limited to, loss of trust in self and others, such as beliefs about the goodness of others; loss of self-identity, freedom, and independence; loss of control and autonomy, such as in the timing of reporting; loss of a sense of safety and security; loss of positive self-concept or self-esteem; loss of finances and job; loss of social capital such as friends and social networks or intimate partnerships; and loss of sexual interest and other sex-related losses.7
Each of these losses can be an essay onto themselves. But there is no denying that once you have been the victim of sexual assault, there are multiple losses, factors in our lives that have changed more than someone who has not had these experiences can possibly understand.
I remember, a few weeks after the rape, waking up in the morning, feeling calm at first and then, as I fully emerged from sleep into full consciousness, remembering with horror the reality of my new identity: I was now a rape victim. A deep sickness entered me as I could not accept this about myself.
“I remembered with horror the reality of my new identity: I was now a rape victim.”
Now, this thought does not consume me as it once did. I no longer wake with this thought anymore. It’s simply an event that happened, one that has had lasting repercussions, but one that no longer defines me as it once did. But back then, it did. In my grief, I had to come to terms with a new identity, one that came with the loss of my pre-assault life and worldview.
Despite the disenfranchised nature of our experiences, we as survivors still require support as we navigate our losses and try to make sense of a world that has now changed before our eyes. Simply being able to trust others is a task that can feel terrifying. It requires patience from others, something they may not be prepared to give. Even so, “support for loss is a basic right or ‘unearned entitlement’ of survivors.”8 No matter who you are or where you are from, you are deserving of support.
We are. Because what we’ve suffered is unimaginable.
Life’s tests (or how do we go on?)
During the early days of my recovery, my therapist watched me grapple with grief and loss. He once sat regarding me and, with a calm expression, said something that has stayed with me ever since:
“Your suffering has dignity.”
I remember looking back at him in surprise. Those four words said so much. They reminded me that no matter how undignified I felt in my messy and devastated state, there was dignity in showing up every day to face my life, to keep going in the face of trauma and the horrible truths that revealed themselves to me daily (to learn more about this therapist’s impact, read here).
We are allowed to reclaim our dignity, our right to be here, and our sexuality. We are allowed, and I would add, encouraged, to release ourselves from the shame that can emerge in the wake of violations to ourselves, to our bodies. No matter what was taken from us before, no one can take our healing away from us now.
“No matter what was taken from us before, no one can take our healing away from us now.”
Even if someone took from us last night, last week, last year, or many years ago, no one can take this away. Our bodies belong to us, even if sometimes it seems that they don’t. As hard as it may be, it is our task to reclaim all these parts of ourselves so that we can go on, so that we can recover the pieces that were broken in the wake of a terrible and unspeakable experience.
A not-so-silent gesture
Still, there is hope for survivors as we learn about our own triggers and the particular challenges we encounter. Once we begin our process of healing for ourselves, we can learn how to communicate with those in our lives in a way they can perhaps understand, so they can support us without feeling burdened by our story.
In “It’s Quiet Uptown,” the lyrics illuminate a path towards healing:
There are moments that the words don’t reach
There’s a grace too powerful to name
We push away what we can never understand
We push away the unimaginable
They are standing in the garden
Alexander by Eliza’s side
She takes his hand
It’s quiet uptown.9
It is in this silent gesture, where Eliza takes Alexander’s hand, that she takes the first step towards him, indicating she is moving towards:
Forgiveness, can you imagine?10 sing the townspeople.
Can you imagine where healing might lie?
Yes, it is here, in relationship.
In the wake of disenfranchised trauma, it is in relationship that people can continue to heal from a trauma that was caused by relationship.
Yes, we can heal ourselves, noticing and being aware of our own triggers, and where our darkness lies (for more, read here). But where the healing continues is where it’s been sourced, in how we connect with others. If we can abolish the disenfranchised nature of this type of trauma and provide survivors with similar acknowledgment and support for our losses that we give those grieving other more traditionally accepted ones, imagine the kind of world we might live in.
Can you imagine?
From J. William Worden’s textbook, Grief Counselling and Grief Therapy 5th ed. (2018), page 4.
Again, from J. William Worden’s textbook, Grief Counselling and Grief Therapy 5th ed. (2018), page 4.
From Judith Herman, M.D.’s book Trauma and Recovery: The aftermath of violence from domestic abuse to political terror (1997), page 1.
From Peter Levine’s website: https://www.somaticexperiencing.com/home
From Bessel van der Kolk, M.D.’s book The Body Keeps the Score, page 67.
Again, from Bessel van der Kolk, M.D.’s book The Body Keeps the Score, page 67.
Article by Tashel Bordere (2017). “Disenfranchisement and Ambiguity in the Face of Loss: The Suffocated Grief of Sexual Assault Survivors: Sexual Assault, Loss, and Grief” University of Missouri (https://www.researchgate.net/publication/316346335_Disenfranchisement_and_Ambiguity_in_the_Face_of_Loss_The_Suffocated_Grief_of_Sexual_Assault_Survivors_Sexual_Assault_Loss_and_Grief), page 2.
Article by Tashel Bordere (2017). “Disenfranchisement and Ambiguity in the Face of Loss: The Suffocated Grief of Sexual Assault Survivors: Sexual Assault, Loss, and Grief” University of Missouri (https://www.researchgate.net/publication/316346335_Disenfranchisement_and_Ambiguity_in_the_Face_of_Loss_The_Suffocated_Grief_of_Sexual_Assault_Survivors_Sexual_Assault_Loss_and_Grief), page 2.
“It’s Quiet Uptown” from Hamilton by Lin-Manuel Miranda.
Again, “It’s Quiet Uptown” from Hamilton by Lin-Manuel Miranda.
I found this gem of yours on Substack's writer's office hours. I am glad that I did.