I was shot when I was nine years old. My message to survivors: there’s hope | Life and style

The day after I turned nine, August 27, 1961, I conquered the bike. After weeks of failed attempts while on vacation at my older cousin Lillian’s house in Michigan, I finally did it! I got on that bike and away I went. I turned the corner without falling and returned to the balcony, where my friends cheered and screamed in celebration.

The cheers suddenly died down. Everyone stares at me. Lillian, with zombie eyes and an open mouth, was holding a gun pointed downward. Somehow, I didn’t hear it.

My skinny body is twisted. My blue floral shorts with little straps on the shoulders were now crimson.

“Lillian, you shot me!” I screamed. “Call the police!”

The blast from Lillian’s gun, aimed at her husband, tore out my right kidney, appendix, and large intestine. Suction was pressed against my back as blood trickled onto the floor; The smell of iron was overwhelming. That shot caused permanent damage to tendons and nerves, destruction of the intestines, and temporary paralysis.

Every shooting tragedy in the United States brings me back to that balcony. In recent years, I return to this place often. In 2024, 250 children were killed, and 40,850 deaths were counted due to armed violence, according to the United Nations report. Gun Violence Archive.

In the ambulance that August day, I asked the paramedic: “Am I going to die?”

“I can’t promise you anything,” he replied.

His desperate response would end up traumatizing me more than the actual bullet.

Fight or flight? I chose to fight. There was no oxygen or pressure to stop the bleeding. I repeated my phone number over and over in my head. In the emergency room, she whispered, “Call my mom – Henderson 1-3631,” and passed out.

A visiting trauma surgeon stopped the bleeding and repaired, redirected, or removed multiple organs. Years in the future, doctors will marvel at his artistry. But at the time, the prognosis was grim. I lost a lot of blood. If the reconstructed intestinal system worked, if I didn’t have diabetes, and if I survived the surgeries, I would never be able to walk, or have children. If I survive at all, that is.

After a month and a half of being in and out of a coma, I woke up to my mother, Helen, beaming at the sound of gas coming out of me. My intestines were working. As she stood by my bed all those weeks, her feet swelled like golden brown loaves of bread.

On my first day home, my mom brought the wheelchair back to the hospital and said, “Eddie, in order to go back to school, you’re going to need to walk, honey.”

She had watched me in physical therapy and knew my potential. The pace is set. I will not be obligated. I was supposed to have a normal childhood, even if it seemed far from normal. I wore a metal polio-style brace on my right leg attached to my black and white lace-up Oxford shoes. She stumbled with the help of pine crutches.

But my father, Charlie, a former baseball player and Negro Leagues baseball player, was furious. Eventually, he let go of the torment of his anger and accepted the blessing of my survival. He has returned to his original belief system: hate kills.

As part of my morning routine, my mother had a colostomy bag taped to the open intestine on my right side. With these new “private parts” a safe secret, I went to school, Campfire Girls, and every activity I chose. In the evening, I would do housework and take care of my little brother. Although I was a spectacle, I was going to work to the best of my ability, and I did.

I have gained an unexpected gift of resilience and then empathy, which I rely on daily as a therapist.

In the 1960s, psychotherapy was not a reality in my community. Black people, both then and now, are often in a survival mode that requires compartmentalizing emotions. People prayed and cried about it. Most of them spoke to older people.

Now, in my fourth decade of practice, I see therapy as an absolute necessity for post-fire healing. My advice to childhood victims and their parents: Start treatment as soon as possible. This pain is too raw to control on your own. There, parents can openly cry about their losses, allowing them to become angry. Children may want to go in and out of therapy when they feel bored; They should be allowed flexibility in coming in and out of counselling. Also buy a punching bag.

Look for low-cost or free artistic expression opportunities for kids – cheap because they will get rid of most of them. When they show interest without your encouragement, invest a little more. Let them discover their true passion. They will cherish it and practice it when they can’t talk to anyone. Whatever it is, when they drop it, you drop it. On to their next adventure.

The goal for all survivors is to identify, cope with and experience the trauma and related triggers and manage its context and symptoms. She did this with the help of non-talk therapy, which is often used with children who have had incredibly difficult lives. The therapist creates a space, provides toys and art supplies for creativity, and is silently present as the child talks through his or her choice of creations and movements. I use play therapies with adults.

My therapy continues by not talking. I dress up dolls, crochet hats, write poems, and make crazy dog ​​clothes for the crazy dogs of Brooklyn. My husband receives a small comprehensive musical almost every day. The therapeutic power of artistic expression is invaluable. My parents allowed me a huge tool box, and taught me to pray, sing, or crochet when I needed to soothe myself. Making someone happy with a small gift you gave still carries childlike anticipation.

Lifelong PTSD. Sixty years after I was shot, while treating trauma from a car accident, I remembered burning metal and the smell of gunpowder from a gun blast (airbags deployed used a similar chemical). However, if you are dealing with the aftermath of a shooting, there is hope. With family, community, and therapeutic support, one can learn how to manage their emotional pain.

In my practice, I pass this belief on to others as I did with Carmen, a 15-year-old Latina girl with a history of neglect and abuse who became a thief. She completed high school and became a buyer in a store she once robbed. Or, Belinda, a 10-year-old Caribbean girl who was a burn victim. I stopped talking for several months. Through non-verbal therapy, we turned her survival instincts into strength. She became an actress in school and began to flourish in all areas of her life.

In times of inexplicable tragedy, we can also turn to our elders. I believe that the elderly, who are often neglected in every society, having lived through wars, recessions, epidemics, etc., can play a therapeutic role in post-image scenarios. Take advantage of mentorship programs such as Adoption of the Grandfathering Program. Young people and the elderly can mutually benefit by sharing old and new experiences. Is there no such program in your community? Sister with one development team.

I benefited from two Black elders—my mother, Helen, and my mentor, Robin—until my mid-60s. They taught me that the anger and resentment I could have carried all these years would have made me lose trust in people and give up on attachment.

We all have something to offer. We should be inspired by the commitment of enslaved African Americans when they learned to read illegally: “Everyone teach one.” If you are 18 years old and have witnessed violence, you can counsel a 13-year-old victim who feels that this life is no longer worth living.

I walked for the first time without a brace and crutch when I was 14 because I wanted to participate in the Miss Cleveland Forest Scholarship Pageant. Since then, I’ve ridden camels in Egypt, flown gliders in Virginia, and zip lined in Alabama, all of which would have been unimaginable in the weeks following the shooting.

As I write these words, metal pellets from the gun blast remain scattered around my spine – and I would likely have been paralyzed if they had been removed. I maintain my mental health as much as I maintain my physical health. My soul depends on how well I manage both. My resilience is evident in my work helping others as a therapist, and the fact that I am still riding a bike is a victory, one of many, since the day of the shooting.

Edith Langford, Ph.D., 72, therapist, Sometimes assistant professor He is currently working on the recently published memoir Trauma and Thrive Opinion piece About problem gambling between the elderly