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When I was 20， the man I was dating died. We were traveling together thousands of miles from home in a remote part of Southeast Asia， and one morning， he didn’t wake up. His breathing was labored and intermittent. I attempted CPR and then got him to a doctor， his body hastily wrapped in a sheet and placed in the back of a truck. It was too late. His 22-year-old heart， for complicated reasons， had stopped beating.
That tragedy changed me in more ways than I can recount or understand even now， almost nine years later. But one of the starkest consequences was an enduring， painful fear that people I loved would die， disappear， evaporate. My fiance Corey knows this fear well. Throughout our sixyear relationship， he has patiently reassured me countless times that he is alive and safe. He has come home from a trip to the library， where he didn’t have cellphone reception， to find me convinced he had died in a car accident. He once spent more time comforting me than the reverse during a trip to a D.C. emergency room for an allergic reaction that swelled his hands and face. Just last weekend， when he flew to Austin for a bachelor party， I texted him， “I get anxious when you fly without me.” He replied， “I know” — and after he arrived：“Landed.”
This is not a struggle I speak of often. Not because I am ashamed—in fact， I feel strongly that trauma is publicly discussed far too little—but because it is difficult to put into words. That feeling in my gut of helplessness and panic， which rises to my chest and then seizes my throat， can be assuaged only when I see or hear him.
It is a battle I have seen cast in an entirely new light since the Amtrak crash on Tuesday. I have now seen it in a mirror.
I was in the third car of Train 188. I regularly commute on the Northeast Regional corridor between Brooklyn， my home， and Washington， where my office is located. （I am an editor at Foreign Policy magazine.） The first two hours of the trip were smooth. I transcribed an interview and edited an article; I checked my to-do list for June 6， the day Corey and I are getting married. Somewhere in Maryland， a young man in a white Navy uniform boarded; when he asked to take the aisle seat to my right， he called me “ma’am.”
Just after Philadelphia， we picked up speed. Too much speed， it seemed. As we headed into a curve， it felt more like a careen. The train jolted. My seatmate， who had been dozing， reached out to brace himself. We jolted again. Then the entire car began to shake violently， as if struck by an earthquake. People screamed as seats rattled and luggage fell. Suddenly， we were tipping to the side， maybe rolling—so much machine， and so many bodies， all tossed. Everything was black; I couldn’t tell where I was， where anything was. I felt my body at once suspended in the air yet pressed by an unseen and enormous force into a seat， or maybe it was a wall. The train hit earth， and I tasted metal and dirt. I remember thinking， “When we come to a stop， will I be dead？”
When the car did stop moving， I was breathing. My limbs were functioning. My seatmate was gone; I never saw him again. I climbed over where he should have been and crouched on a luggage rack， yelling along with so many others that we had to find a way out. I was wearing a dress and my left shoe. I felt blood oozing from scrapes on my legs. After a few short minutes， a man hauled me up through a window someone had slid open. We stood on the top of the train—really its left side—surveying the surreal. People were stumbling away from the twisted， smoldering wreckage. My back， injured in the crash， ached worse with each passing second， and my heavy， bruised chest made it difficult to breathe. But I followed them. We all followed each other， holding hands or wrapping arms around shoulders. No one pushed， demanded extra attention. “We are so lucky，” said a young woman who would eventually support me as we walked away from the scene. “Do you know how lucky we are？”
I borrowed a cellphone to call Corey. “Our train derailed，”I said matter-of-factly as helicopter lights began to brush the ground around me. He was in the car driving south from New York in minutes. At the same time， I was put into the back of a police car and sped away from the scene with sirens blaring.
It would be four hours before I finally saw Corey， at Temple University Hospital. By that time， I had been X-rayed（my ribs were bruised， maybe slightly cracked in places） and had an EKG done. A nurse had given me socks， since I had only the one shoe. She was one in a string of strangers who had offered embraces， water， sweatshirts， kind words， whatever seemed needed. I tried to keep track of all of their names， telling myself I would write them all notes of thanks one day; but there were so many， it became impossible. When I was discharged， I held the arm of a security officer as I entered the holding area Temple had designated for family. My teeth were chattering uncontrollably， something they have continued to do for spurts of time since the accident. My fiance saw me but barely recognized me across the room—partially because he needs glasses， but also because my face was coated in dirt. When he hugged me， he said it was all okay. His usual， soothing reassurance. But in his eyes and in his voice， I recognized something different. I saw myself. It was a reflection of the fear I live with， that I fight against. Later， after he helped me wash off the dirt and blood， my fiance told me that even after I called from the scene， he was worried that I would die. There would be internal bleeding. He would get to the hospital， but I would be gone. It was jarring to hear the speculative， alarming words I would usually be the one to say—the “what ifs，” we call them—coming from him.
Over the past few days， we have said so many times how fortunate we are. We have watched the news， seen the faces and names of the dead and felt a chill of horrible sadness. We have also smiled and kissed， held hands while sleeping， seeking to feel constantly comforted. But we have shared something else， too—the terror that only I once fathomed.
I saw it Thursday morning， after I went to my parents’ Philadelphia hotel room to take a bath， leaving Corey behind in our room to rest. When he eventually joined us， he entered， saw me sitting in a bathrobe and began to cry. “I can’t be away from you for too long right now，” he said， leaning down to hug me.
The fear of loss， that someone can be snapped out of existence at any second， comes from the same deep， emotional well as love. Maybe it is love’s dark twin. It’s incredibly powerful—strong enough to poison your thinking to assume the worst will happen， in even the most mundane situations.
在我20歲时，我正在交往的男友去世了。我们一起外出游玩，到了离家很远的东南亚边远地区，一天早上，他没有醒来。他呼吸困难并且断断续续的。我对他实施心肺复苏，然后给他找了一位医生，他被匆忙地用被单裹着，放上一辆货车尾箱里。但太迟了，出于某些复杂的原因，他22岁的心脏停止了跳动。
那次悲剧给我带来了很多改变，直到现在，九年过去了，还有些是我说不出来的，或不能理解的。但其中一个最可怕的后果是我心中长久地埋下了一个痛苦的恐惧——我爱的人会死去、失踪、消失。我未婚夫科里十分了解我的恐惧。在我们交往的六年里，他无数次耐心地抚慰我——他活着并很安全。他曾经有一次去了图书馆，那里没有手机信号，回来后发现我以为他发生车祸死了。有一次，他的双手和脸因过敏而肿了，在去华盛顿特区急诊室的路上，他反而花了更多的时间来安慰我。就在上周末，他要飞去奥斯汀市参加一个单身派对时，我发信息给他：“你没跟我一起坐飞机让我很担心。”他回复：“我知道”——他到达后发来信息：“到达。”
我很少会说出心中这一恐惧。不是因为我感到羞愧——事实是，我强烈地感觉到精神创伤极少被公开讨论——而是因为这很难用言语说清楚。肚子里的无助和恐慌上升到胸腔，然后紧抓着我的喉咙，这种感觉只有在我看到他或听到他的声音时才得以缓解。
周二的美国铁路撞车事故让我看到这场斗争的另一面。现在，我可以从镜子里看到它。
我那时在188号列车的第三节车厢。我常常要途经东北区域，往返于位于布鲁克林的家和位于华盛顿的办公室。（我是美国《外交政策》杂志的一名编辑。）前两个小时的行程很顺畅，我写下了一篇采访，编辑了一篇文章;我查看了6月6日的任务清单——我和科里将在那天结婚。在马里兰州的某个地方，一个穿着白色海军服的年轻男子上了车;他向我请求要坐我右边的过道位置时，称呼我为“女士”。
刚过了费城，我们的车就加速了。速度似乎太快了。我们转弯时，感觉像是侧翻。火车一阵颠簸，我旁边正在打瞌睡的同伴伸出双手找平衡。又一次颠簸。接着整辆车开始剧烈地摇晃，仿佛遇到了地震。
座椅哐当作响，行李掉了下来，人们开始尖叫。突然，我们向一边翻倒，也许是翻滚——那么多的机器，那么多的身体，全都甩起来了。周围全黑了，我不知道自己在哪儿，不知道其他东西在哪儿。我感到身体悬在半空，但被某种看不见的巨大力量固定在椅子或墙上。火车撞到地面，我嘴巴尝到了金属和泥土的味道。我记得当时想的是：“我们停下来时，我会死去吗？” 车最终停下来时，我还在呼吸。我的四肢还能活动。坐我旁边的同伴不见了;我后来再也没有见过他。我爬到他原来的位置，趴在一个行李架上，和其他许多人一起叫喊，我们需要找到出口。我穿着裙子，左脚穿着鞋。我感觉血液从我脚上的伤口处慢慢渗出。几分钟后，一个男人把我从别人推开的窗户中拉出来。我们站在火车顶上——其实是火车左面——审视着周围不现实的一切。人们蹒跚地离开扭曲、冒烟的废墟。我的背部在撞击中受了伤，疼痛逐渐增加，我那沉重、擦伤了的胸腔难以呼吸。但我仍跟着大伙。我们一个跟着一个，拉着手或搂着肩膀。没有人推搡，没有人要求额外照顾。“我们太幸运了，”一个年轻的女士说，她后来帮助我离开现场。“你知道我们有多幸运吗？”
我借了个电话打给科里。“我们的火车脱轨了，”我以平静的语气对他说，这时，直升飞机的灯光开始扫过我周围的地面。几分钟后，他坐上了从纽约出发往南開的车。与此同时，我被抬上了警车的后车厢，伴随着大声鸣叫的警笛疾驰着离开现场。
四个小时后，我终于在天普大学医院见到了科里。那时我已经照了X光（我的肋骨擦伤了，可能几处有轻微骨折），做了心电图。由于我只穿着一只鞋子，一位护士给了我一双袜子。除了这位护士，还有很多陌生人给了我们很多帮助，如拥抱、水、长袖汗衫、安慰的话语等等。我试着记下他们的名字，告诉自己以后要给他们送感谢卡;但人太多了，这不可能做到。当我出院时，一位保安扶着我到天普大学医院为家人提供的等候区。我的牙齿不受控制地打颤，事故发生后就一直这样。我经过房间时，我的未婚夫看见了我但几乎认不出来，不仅仅是因为他近视，更因为我的脸蒙上了灰尘。他拥抱着我，对我说没事了——一贯的令人宽慰的语气。
但在他的眼里和声音里，我发现了一些特别的东西。我看到了自己。那是伴随着我并让我苦苦挣扎的恐惧。他帮我洗去灰尘和血迹后告诉我，虽然我在现场给他打了电话，他还是担心我会死去。因为可能会有内出血。也许他去到医院后我就死了。这些推测性的、警惕性的话语是我常常会说的，我们称之为“万一问题”，现在从他口中听到让我很震惊。
在过去几天里，我们说了无数次我们是多么幸运。我们在新闻里看到死者的照片和名字，感到一阵阵恐惧、悲伤。我们对彼此微笑、亲吻对方，睡觉时牵着手，一直在寻求安全感。除此以外，我们还有着共同的恐惧感——从前只有我自己体会过。
周四早上，我看到了他的恐惧。我到我父母在费城的酒店房间里洗澡，科里留在我们的房间休息。他后来也过来了，进入房间后看到我穿着浴袍坐在那里，他哭了起来：“我现在不能离开你太久，”他说着，弯下身来拥抱我。
失去的恐惧——一个人会随时消失——和爱的深渊一样深沉、感性。也许它是爱的黑暗面。它有着异常强大的力量——强大得侵袭你的思想，让你在最平常的情况下假设发生最坏的事情。
That tragedy changed me in more ways than I can recount or understand even now， almost nine years later. But one of the starkest consequences was an enduring， painful fear that people I loved would die， disappear， evaporate. My fiance Corey knows this fear well. Throughout our sixyear relationship， he has patiently reassured me countless times that he is alive and safe. He has come home from a trip to the library， where he didn’t have cellphone reception， to find me convinced he had died in a car accident. He once spent more time comforting me than the reverse during a trip to a D.C. emergency room for an allergic reaction that swelled his hands and face. Just last weekend， when he flew to Austin for a bachelor party， I texted him， “I get anxious when you fly without me.” He replied， “I know” — and after he arrived：“Landed.”
This is not a struggle I speak of often. Not because I am ashamed—in fact， I feel strongly that trauma is publicly discussed far too little—but because it is difficult to put into words. That feeling in my gut of helplessness and panic， which rises to my chest and then seizes my throat， can be assuaged only when I see or hear him.
It is a battle I have seen cast in an entirely new light since the Amtrak crash on Tuesday. I have now seen it in a mirror.
I was in the third car of Train 188. I regularly commute on the Northeast Regional corridor between Brooklyn， my home， and Washington， where my office is located. （I am an editor at Foreign Policy magazine.） The first two hours of the trip were smooth. I transcribed an interview and edited an article; I checked my to-do list for June 6， the day Corey and I are getting married. Somewhere in Maryland， a young man in a white Navy uniform boarded; when he asked to take the aisle seat to my right， he called me “ma’am.”
Just after Philadelphia， we picked up speed. Too much speed， it seemed. As we headed into a curve， it felt more like a careen. The train jolted. My seatmate， who had been dozing， reached out to brace himself. We jolted again. Then the entire car began to shake violently， as if struck by an earthquake. People screamed as seats rattled and luggage fell. Suddenly， we were tipping to the side， maybe rolling—so much machine， and so many bodies， all tossed. Everything was black; I couldn’t tell where I was， where anything was. I felt my body at once suspended in the air yet pressed by an unseen and enormous force into a seat， or maybe it was a wall. The train hit earth， and I tasted metal and dirt. I remember thinking， “When we come to a stop， will I be dead？”
When the car did stop moving， I was breathing. My limbs were functioning. My seatmate was gone; I never saw him again. I climbed over where he should have been and crouched on a luggage rack， yelling along with so many others that we had to find a way out. I was wearing a dress and my left shoe. I felt blood oozing from scrapes on my legs. After a few short minutes， a man hauled me up through a window someone had slid open. We stood on the top of the train—really its left side—surveying the surreal. People were stumbling away from the twisted， smoldering wreckage. My back， injured in the crash， ached worse with each passing second， and my heavy， bruised chest made it difficult to breathe. But I followed them. We all followed each other， holding hands or wrapping arms around shoulders. No one pushed， demanded extra attention. “We are so lucky，” said a young woman who would eventually support me as we walked away from the scene. “Do you know how lucky we are？”
I borrowed a cellphone to call Corey. “Our train derailed，”I said matter-of-factly as helicopter lights began to brush the ground around me. He was in the car driving south from New York in minutes. At the same time， I was put into the back of a police car and sped away from the scene with sirens blaring.
It would be four hours before I finally saw Corey， at Temple University Hospital. By that time， I had been X-rayed（my ribs were bruised， maybe slightly cracked in places） and had an EKG done. A nurse had given me socks， since I had only the one shoe. She was one in a string of strangers who had offered embraces， water， sweatshirts， kind words， whatever seemed needed. I tried to keep track of all of their names， telling myself I would write them all notes of thanks one day; but there were so many， it became impossible. When I was discharged， I held the arm of a security officer as I entered the holding area Temple had designated for family. My teeth were chattering uncontrollably， something they have continued to do for spurts of time since the accident. My fiance saw me but barely recognized me across the room—partially because he needs glasses， but also because my face was coated in dirt. When he hugged me， he said it was all okay. His usual， soothing reassurance. But in his eyes and in his voice， I recognized something different. I saw myself. It was a reflection of the fear I live with， that I fight against. Later， after he helped me wash off the dirt and blood， my fiance told me that even after I called from the scene， he was worried that I would die. There would be internal bleeding. He would get to the hospital， but I would be gone. It was jarring to hear the speculative， alarming words I would usually be the one to say—the “what ifs，” we call them—coming from him.
Over the past few days， we have said so many times how fortunate we are. We have watched the news， seen the faces and names of the dead and felt a chill of horrible sadness. We have also smiled and kissed， held hands while sleeping， seeking to feel constantly comforted. But we have shared something else， too—the terror that only I once fathomed.
I saw it Thursday morning， after I went to my parents’ Philadelphia hotel room to take a bath， leaving Corey behind in our room to rest. When he eventually joined us， he entered， saw me sitting in a bathrobe and began to cry. “I can’t be away from you for too long right now，” he said， leaning down to hug me.
The fear of loss， that someone can be snapped out of existence at any second， comes from the same deep， emotional well as love. Maybe it is love’s dark twin. It’s incredibly powerful—strong enough to poison your thinking to assume the worst will happen， in even the most mundane situations.
在我20歲时，我正在交往的男友去世了。我们一起外出游玩，到了离家很远的东南亚边远地区，一天早上，他没有醒来。他呼吸困难并且断断续续的。我对他实施心肺复苏，然后给他找了一位医生，他被匆忙地用被单裹着，放上一辆货车尾箱里。但太迟了，出于某些复杂的原因，他22岁的心脏停止了跳动。
那次悲剧给我带来了很多改变，直到现在，九年过去了，还有些是我说不出来的，或不能理解的。但其中一个最可怕的后果是我心中长久地埋下了一个痛苦的恐惧——我爱的人会死去、失踪、消失。我未婚夫科里十分了解我的恐惧。在我们交往的六年里，他无数次耐心地抚慰我——他活着并很安全。他曾经有一次去了图书馆，那里没有手机信号，回来后发现我以为他发生车祸死了。有一次，他的双手和脸因过敏而肿了，在去华盛顿特区急诊室的路上，他反而花了更多的时间来安慰我。就在上周末，他要飞去奥斯汀市参加一个单身派对时，我发信息给他：“你没跟我一起坐飞机让我很担心。”他回复：“我知道”——他到达后发来信息：“到达。”
我很少会说出心中这一恐惧。不是因为我感到羞愧——事实是，我强烈地感觉到精神创伤极少被公开讨论——而是因为这很难用言语说清楚。肚子里的无助和恐慌上升到胸腔，然后紧抓着我的喉咙，这种感觉只有在我看到他或听到他的声音时才得以缓解。
周二的美国铁路撞车事故让我看到这场斗争的另一面。现在，我可以从镜子里看到它。
我那时在188号列车的第三节车厢。我常常要途经东北区域，往返于位于布鲁克林的家和位于华盛顿的办公室。（我是美国《外交政策》杂志的一名编辑。）前两个小时的行程很顺畅，我写下了一篇采访，编辑了一篇文章;我查看了6月6日的任务清单——我和科里将在那天结婚。在马里兰州的某个地方，一个穿着白色海军服的年轻男子上了车;他向我请求要坐我右边的过道位置时，称呼我为“女士”。
刚过了费城，我们的车就加速了。速度似乎太快了。我们转弯时，感觉像是侧翻。火车一阵颠簸，我旁边正在打瞌睡的同伴伸出双手找平衡。又一次颠簸。接着整辆车开始剧烈地摇晃，仿佛遇到了地震。
座椅哐当作响，行李掉了下来，人们开始尖叫。突然，我们向一边翻倒，也许是翻滚——那么多的机器，那么多的身体，全都甩起来了。周围全黑了，我不知道自己在哪儿，不知道其他东西在哪儿。我感到身体悬在半空，但被某种看不见的巨大力量固定在椅子或墙上。火车撞到地面，我嘴巴尝到了金属和泥土的味道。我记得当时想的是：“我们停下来时，我会死去吗？” 车最终停下来时，我还在呼吸。我的四肢还能活动。坐我旁边的同伴不见了;我后来再也没有见过他。我爬到他原来的位置，趴在一个行李架上，和其他许多人一起叫喊，我们需要找到出口。我穿着裙子，左脚穿着鞋。我感觉血液从我脚上的伤口处慢慢渗出。几分钟后，一个男人把我从别人推开的窗户中拉出来。我们站在火车顶上——其实是火车左面——审视着周围不现实的一切。人们蹒跚地离开扭曲、冒烟的废墟。我的背部在撞击中受了伤，疼痛逐渐增加，我那沉重、擦伤了的胸腔难以呼吸。但我仍跟着大伙。我们一个跟着一个，拉着手或搂着肩膀。没有人推搡，没有人要求额外照顾。“我们太幸运了，”一个年轻的女士说，她后来帮助我离开现场。“你知道我们有多幸运吗？”
我借了个电话打给科里。“我们的火车脱轨了，”我以平静的语气对他说，这时，直升飞机的灯光开始扫过我周围的地面。几分钟后，他坐上了从纽约出发往南開的车。与此同时，我被抬上了警车的后车厢，伴随着大声鸣叫的警笛疾驰着离开现场。
四个小时后，我终于在天普大学医院见到了科里。那时我已经照了X光（我的肋骨擦伤了，可能几处有轻微骨折），做了心电图。由于我只穿着一只鞋子，一位护士给了我一双袜子。除了这位护士，还有很多陌生人给了我们很多帮助，如拥抱、水、长袖汗衫、安慰的话语等等。我试着记下他们的名字，告诉自己以后要给他们送感谢卡;但人太多了，这不可能做到。当我出院时，一位保安扶着我到天普大学医院为家人提供的等候区。我的牙齿不受控制地打颤，事故发生后就一直这样。我经过房间时，我的未婚夫看见了我但几乎认不出来，不仅仅是因为他近视，更因为我的脸蒙上了灰尘。他拥抱着我，对我说没事了——一贯的令人宽慰的语气。
但在他的眼里和声音里，我发现了一些特别的东西。我看到了自己。那是伴随着我并让我苦苦挣扎的恐惧。他帮我洗去灰尘和血迹后告诉我，虽然我在现场给他打了电话，他还是担心我会死去。因为可能会有内出血。也许他去到医院后我就死了。这些推测性的、警惕性的话语是我常常会说的，我们称之为“万一问题”，现在从他口中听到让我很震惊。
在过去几天里，我们说了无数次我们是多么幸运。我们在新闻里看到死者的照片和名字，感到一阵阵恐惧、悲伤。我们对彼此微笑、亲吻对方，睡觉时牵着手，一直在寻求安全感。除此以外，我们还有着共同的恐惧感——从前只有我自己体会过。
周四早上，我看到了他的恐惧。我到我父母在费城的酒店房间里洗澡，科里留在我们的房间休息。他后来也过来了，进入房间后看到我穿着浴袍坐在那里，他哭了起来：“我现在不能离开你太久，”他说着，弯下身来拥抱我。
失去的恐惧——一个人会随时消失——和爱的深渊一样深沉、感性。也许它是爱的黑暗面。它有着异常强大的力量——强大得侵袭你的思想，让你在最平常的情况下假设发生最坏的事情。