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The phrase "mental scars" has devolved to a cliché, the kind you hear on standup acts and sitcoms. "I once saw my grandma with her fist inside a chicken carcass. She said she was cleaning it, but this left me with mental scars." Ba-dum bum.
But it's a cliché based on something very real: traumas that you'd do anything to wind back the clock, take a different road or call a different friend or do anything different way back then to miss. Because a New Hampshire boy saw an orca kill animal trainer Dawn Brancheau at Orlando's SeaWorld earlier this year, his parents are suing the theme park.
According to WMUR-TV, Suzanne and Todd Connell claim that their son Bobby now has "mental scars," suffering nightmares and other persistent symptoms after the horrible spectacle unfolded while he was celebrating his tenth birthday at SeaWorld.
Filed by the Connells on Bobby's behalf, "the lawsuit states that because the whale had killed before, SeaWorld should never have allowed it to participate in a show. ... The lawsuit states that Bobby Connell has been left with 'mental scars that have manifested to physical impairments which will be with him for the rest of his life.'
"Home video shot by the Connells shows Brancheau interacting with the killer whale in the moments before her death. The lawsuit claims that prior to the attack, Bobby bonded with the trainer and then watched in horror as the whale dragged her underwater.
"The lawsuit states that at that time, he 'cried so profoundly that his face turned red and then a shade of blue.' ...
"The lawsuit states that the losses suffered by Bobby are 'permanent and/or continuing, and therefore the plaintiff will suffer the losses in the future.'
"The lawsuit is seeking at least $15,000 in damages," the report continues.
This story caught my interest not only because it relates to a shocking tragedy and because that tragedy occurred at a sea-themed tourist attraction just like the one in my hometown. It caught my interest because yesterday, to my surprise, I incurred some mental scars.
After a certain age, we like to think of ourselves as strong and resilient. We like to think that little things can't hurt us. Yet as I strolled through a lovely middle-class neighborhood, a small mayonnaise-colored dog -- perhaps a Pomeranian mix -- scuttled out from a garage, leaped at me and bit my leg.
It dug in, growling, its hind legs dangling, and like someone in a cartoon I actually had to shake it off. Luckily, I was wearing Levis, which prevented the dog's teeth from breaking the skin -- but only barely. A cluster of grazes stung fiercely amidst a palm-sized swelling mound dotted with purplish marks.
The dog's owner ran out of the garage apologizing. She did not speak much English. She worked for the owners of the house, and I knew that I could either make a big deal of it or not, but decided not to. I hate making big deals of things. I wasn't bleeding, after all. In high-school Spanish I told her that the dog was dangerous. She assured me that it had had all its vaccinations. She hugged me. Then I simply walked away.
The point of this story is that I have always loved dogs. I've been around them all my life and have never, within reason, feared them. Nor have I ever been bitten by one before, save a painless play-nip now and then. But enroute home yesterday after the bite, I found myself recoiling in horror from every dog I saw, even dogs on leashes across the street and dogs safely ensconced behind the closed windows of passing cars. This was a reflex; it happened instantly. Suddenly, after a lifetime of loving dogs and always, automatically, wanting to hold and hug and pet them -- I felt sick at the sight of them, flinching at the thought of their sharp slippery teeth.
Will I still feel this way when I go outside today? And are these mental scars?
