In our household, it is affectionately referred to as “bad juju.” I suppose that acknowledging temporary insanity with a dose of humor is half the battle. But when our lives are humming along at a fairly even keel, it is not at all humorous when one of us suddenly stumbles into it. The bad juju.
For us, bad juju is what we call an old wound that we thought was healed but isn’t – somewhat akin to post traumatic stress. An otherwise innocent situation can unexpectedly propel us back to a disturbing memory, registering an immediate, fear-based reaction – an emotional nosedive.
One such unfortunate ambush occurred when I was dating my husband, Doug. We were living about 300 miles apart at the time, and we had spent many wonderful hours on the phone getting acquainted over the previous several weeks. So he was aware of my dark history – my 20-year marriage to an abusive man. I felt quite confident that the combination of many months of counseling – together with the support of family and friends – had led me far along my path to recovery. I was naïve, having not the slightest suspicion that the bad juju was close at hand but hidden from view – an emotional land mine.