Coping Mechanisms

I sat beneath an arbor at my guesthouse, sharing a bottle of red with two friends. So they remain my friends, I’ll just call them L and D.

L confessed that she’d started crying at her NGO’s stress management meeting and had to leave the room. When she returned to the meeting, supposedly composed, she began to sob again. She sighed. “Afterwards, I went to see the counselor who led the session. I realized I’ve been marking time with people’s deaths. Oh, that happened about the time Steve was killed, or this happened around when Christie died. I thought I was handling everything okay, but I guess I wasn’t. But there are people here who don’t seem to be fazed by any of this, though, and I don’t understand how they do it.”

“Denial. It’s a coping mechanism,” D replied brusquely. “If they admit the danger, they can’t handle it. It’s what they need to do to stay here.” She jabbed her finger at us for emphasis. “The real problem is people don’t realize when their expiration date for this country is. You need to go back to a normal place to understand what you’re doing and remember what the real world is like.” D would be leaving Afghanistan forever the next day, and I thought she sounded a trifle smug.

I balanced the wine glass on my stomach, slouching in my chair. “After Steve was killed, people kept telling me he was targeted because of something he did. It was Steve’s fault he died, and so they were safe. It wasn’t going to happen to them.”

L ran her hand through her black hair. “After Clementina was kidnapped, an Italian colleague of mine burst into tears. He’d been saying for months that he wasn’t a target because he was Italian and worked for an NGO. Part of the stress is fear for other people, and part is fear for yourself. Is that awful?”

D snorted. “It’s realistic.”

L’s eyes reddened. “The day I got word of Steve’s death, someone invited me to a party. I said “no” and they couldn’t understand why. But I do the same thing, don’t I? I hear a bomb go off, and then shrug and get on with things.”

“What else can you do?” I protested. “If you’re around to wonder about the bomb, you’re okay.”

L turned to me. “But it’s strange, isn’t it? We’re not acting normally anymore, are we?”

I shifted uncomfortably, thinking about some of my recent behavior. To my relief, a Belgian man and fellow inmate bounded up the patio steps. He sat down upon the wooden chair beside us and slung one leg across his knee. “What are we talking about?” he asked cheerfully.

I asked if he wanted some wine, then left to get him a glass from the dining room.

When I returned, he was laughing. “I remember once I went home and woke up to a thunderstorm. I thought I was being bombed! And then I did not know who was sleeping next to me. It was my wife!”

I handed L the empty glass and then extended my own. “Another refill on my coping mechanism?”