By Amanda Knox

The pain started Sunday when I was on a plane for five hours. It was a dull ache across my lower back, like I had been punched in the kidneys the day before. A few days later, the dull ache was accompanied by stabbing pain in my abdomen, especially on my right side. It hurt to hinge at the waist, sit up or down, get into a car, carry a bag over my shoulder. It hurt to laugh.

The least uncomfortable position was to lay prone on my back, which I did. I lay in bed in the middle of the day, alert but weary, willing the pain to go away. Despite the fact that my partner was there to care for me, my anxiety spiked. The pain made me feel estranged from the functional world of people uninterrupted by pain.
I cried. It took a lot of talking to get me through what felt like a baby panic attack. The problem was, though the situation of being nursed by my partner for a kidney infection was as far away as you could get from the isolation of imprisonment, the feeling of physical pain triggered the memory of existential pain.

I don’t mean for things to remind me of prison. I’d rather not be taken back to those memories willy-nilly, or worse yet, when I’m feeling particularly vulnerable. I’d rather treat my memories like a tool. All memories—especially those of experiences which were acute, prolonged, or both—are like a wrench to open my empathy valves. To be triggered into remembering unexpectedly and against your will is like springing a leak, the pressure of which depends upon the acuteness of the memory triggered.

Prison is a whole other world from the one the majority of us live in. There’s standing in line at the grocery store, and there’s standing in line for a pat down. There’s a closed door that you can open, and there’s a closed door that you can’t.

Lying on my back as my partner petted my hair, I thought of the complex dilemma faced by people who are haunted by past trauma. Exonerees, rape victims, the families of murder victims, or anyone who has suffered a tragic, unexpected loss of a loved one…These kinds of pain are complex, and yet, we expect ourselves and others to eventually get over whatever happened and move on. And if someone’s painful memories continue to be triggered by mundane circumstances, we judge them for indulging in victimhood.

But like physical healing, psychological healing leaves a scar. Memories don’t just go away. And even if they could, I wouldn’t want them to. Healthy trauma processing transforms the inescapable past into a powerful tool that you can pull from your belt as occasions for empathy arise. When a friend looks to me for comfort in a moment of tragic upheaval, I tap into the memory of returning to prison after hearing the guilty verdict and 26-year sentence. It’s painful to remember this, but it helps me connect with my friend. Other times I can’t control the triggering of the memory, and I may be forever learning how to bear it in unexpected ways and at unexpected times.
Fortunately, the people holding my hand have powerful empathy wrenches of their own.