The Brutal Truth
Speak back to trauma. It's the best thing to do when you can't outrun it anymore. Swearing lets you know you don't need to run to live in the light.
I have an image of Bessel van der Kolk, MD, a world-renowned neuroscientist/trauma expert and author of The Body Keeps the Score, grinning broadly as I lie in bed on day 3 after my toe surgery.
I hear his sacred words about how you can't run away from trauma. He says it again: "The body keeps the score."
As I meet his eyes with a teacher’s glare and a shit-eating grin that says exactly how I feel, I let it rip: "Fuck you, Bessel!" and then, repeat each word distinctly a few times until I see him wince when he feels my pain.
I think of it as a sign of affection, like I used to do with my college roommate when he would relate to me the honest brutality of life in his typical “Dave” way.
He was a country boy from a dairy farm in the cold southern tier of New York who returned home after years of brutal study to serve his community as a family doctor.
I think about my foot surgeon telling me that I could hold off surgery for a while, but eventually my body would let me know.
That was around the beginning of COVID. Nearly 5 years later, my inflamed arthritic big toe—and its two loyal companions—were not happy, reminding me every day that it was time.
I couldn't just grit my teeth and enjoy the scenery along the lake near my house when I went out for my daily run. The brutality of life caught up with me when I lost my balance one day and fell on my face.
Yeah, Bessel, fuck you! Boy, does that feel good to say right now as the pain throbs in my foot like a dead weight—or an alien species squatting in my body.
Don’t turn away. This is what trauma feels like for a lot of people.
My supervisor, the great SueAnne Piliero, Ph.D., taught me that a lot of her patients like to swear. It makes the pain real, and when you swear together, it's a beautiful song to behold—often calming the pain inside.
At those times, throw out the fake therapy voice and just be real. But don't be a fake swearer if that's not your way. That just sounds like you’re an annoying alien.
When you’re in pain, most people don't want to hear all the crap about this being a lesson for life. They just need to hear the brutal truth that what they went through when they experienced the trauma was really bad, but they weren't bad.
And most of all, what happened is over now, and they can begin to gather the parts that stayed stuck in the past, the ones that carried the brutality, and bring them home.
A colleague of mine who knows a fair bit about astrology once told me that with my sign, I really appreciate people who tell it like it is, no matter how bad it sounds.
When I asked my surgeon what the recovery would be like from this type of surgery, she looked me in the eyes with deep compassion and quickly said, "Brutal!"
I replied in my typical way, "I guess the body keeps the score—it could be worse, I guess."
She added, "That's true. I think the hardest part for you will be non-weight bearing for 6 weeks."
I nodded and shook my head. Finally, I looked at her and said a few choice swear words—the kind my wife and I used to warn our kids not to repeat.
She looked up and just smiled, saying, "I hear you. It's brutal, but I've been doing this work for a long time and have gotten pretty good at it. It’s not perfect—you can’t run, but you’ll still be able to walk. I think it's the right time."
At that moment, I felt surprisingly calm as I knew she wasn't just a great doctor but was a good person. She really cared about me—and my body could feel it. It’s the same feeling pulsing in my foot as it is in my heart right now.
I'm just smiling and laughing with Bessel as we now say together in unrehearsed synchrony, "The body keeps the score."
As he leaves the room, I smile and proclaim, "Maybe I'll write something to honor your words someday." He turns back and says, “You just did.”
In writing this now, I tell myself, it’s not just the words that are important, but how I say them.
That’s the brutal truth.
But here’s the other truth: when I put it into words, I start to feel something shift. Like the pain isn’t just pain anymore—it’s part of a story that’s becoming mine to tell.
That’s a story where the trauma has new meaning, and so do I. The body’s still keeping the score—but the love is shining both ways.
That’s how I know I am healing, and you are, too!
Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold, or long to be held by, in the light of invisibility.
Dr. Cecil is a licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. He specializes in treating complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma, bringing therapy to life through heartfelt stories and images of connection and healing that emerge from the light of invisibility.