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Posts Tagged ‘healing’

Something has happened since I started EMDR.  I’ve always felt different sides of me experiencing different things and struggle to balance them.  That experience is not to say that I have different “parts”, simply that *I* am experiencing conflicting things in my brain, all of which is most definitely *me*.  Lately I’ve been doing well.  I’ve been getting out of the house, walking, doing things with the kids, planning for the future.  This is a good thing.  Lately I’ve been doing poorly.  I’ve been obsessing over memories, feeling self-destructive, binge-eating, feeling hopeless and hating myself.  Lately I’ve been improving.  I’ve been feeling stronger, standing straighter, feeling saner.  Lately I’ve been in crisis.  I’ve been feeling overwhelmed, needing help, feeling chaotic and needing support.

The trouble is that I used to feel these things simultaneously and struggle with the conflict.  Now I am feeling these things simultaneously, but it is as if they exist separately.  It doesn’t feel like me.  It feels like me, but not me.  It feels like a division is growing between the feelings and the separation is growing between what is going well and what is going badly.  The feelings of wellness seem to be thriving and growing stronger.  The feelings of crisis seem to be thriving and growing stronger.  I am so confused.

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I feel like I’m on the verge of something dangerous.  I’m so conflicted about the possibility of my therapy ending that a huge part of me just wants to throw in the towel now.  My therapist said she wouldn’t leave me in the lurch – she said she’d take me on as a pro-bono client if we couldn’t get approved for additional sessions.  I am grateful for that, but I still feel so much uncertainty about it.  Maybe I’m just scared because things got tough and this is an easy out?  I am scared.  I’m scared to continue, I’m scared to stop, I’m scared to move.

I saw an old friend last night.  We were best friends in high school and I haven’t seen him in nearly ten years.  The last time I saw him was in the weeks surrounding the death of my foster mother (who was also a very dear friend and mother-figure to him).  We keep in touch on facebook, but it is all very superficial.  I feel like he is someone who really knows me.  Someone who knew me before I became all the different characters I’ve played in my life.  Someone who knows the person I”d like to rediscover.

We met at the bar, because his visit was short and he was under a lot of pressure to visit too many people, so he just said to everyone – meet me at the bar Wednesday night if you want to see me.  I was agonizing about whether to go or not.  I loathe social interactions in general, and showing up at the local bar felt like a LOT of pressure for me.  I worried that there would be people there I don’t get along with – people I used to know who never really liked me and vice versa…  I drank a beer before I left home and put on some eyeliner and mascara for armor and steeled myself for the worst.  I couldn’t bring myself to pull in the parking lot.  I drove past and parked at the drugstore for a few minutes while I made up my mind to go back.  Eventually, I did.  I’m glad I did.  The first ones there were his aunt and cousins and a friend from high school that I didn’t hate.  I knew most of them from childhood, so it was more comfortable than I had feared.  His mom and more cousins came in and I was buffered by people that felt like family, so it was ok.  His Ma was asking who one girl was and I replied “you know her, one of the twins with the dad who was principal and smacked the kids around?”   Oops.  I have a pretty big voice.  Everyone shushed me, and if the girl overheard, she had the grace not to acknowledge it.  It was a pretty big deal back in the day – he ended up being prosecuted for it years later but when we were in school it was the norm.

My gaffe wasn’t quite as bad as his cousin K’s… my friend, K and I went out to smoke a cigarette and ran into one of their distant cousins that he didn’t immediately recognize.  He was in his twenties, very gaunt, pretty grungy and missing most of his teeth.  They went through the obligatory “oh, you’re so-and-so’s boy” and figured it out before too long.  Then K pipes up “what happened to your teeth?”  In these parts, there are a lot of skinny young people with no teeth… methamphetamine abuse is rampant.  Alternately, you see people who have suddenly gained 80lbs… those are the ones who are on methadone for the prescription opiate abuse that was lately replaced with meth as the drug of choice.  My friend was mortified.  I just laughed… I mean, hey, it is their family… if you can’t be up front with your own kin, then what?

I drank two more beers and was feeling pretty good.  We told embarrassing stories from yesteryear and had some laughs.  My friend asked me to come hang out as his motel room for a while, confessing that I was the one he really wanted to see anyway.  It was strange.  I always used to be the one with my shit together – he was the basket case.  He was always drinking or smoking too much, getting his heart broken and crashing his car.  I was always the one picking up the pieces and making things right.  Now he has a steady job, gets along well with his family and has a great house and two dogs and two cats.  He couldn’t understand how things had gotten so bad for me.   We had no secrets back then, so he has always known about the abuse, but the way we talked about it then, it was normal.  It was just par for the course that shitty things had happened to us.  He said that looking back he could see I used to have disproportionate reactions to things – it all makes more sense to him now with the understanding of PTSD.  He used to get such a kick out of my exaggerated startle response and laughed his ass off surprising me and making me shriek.

What puzzled him is that I looked so normal.  He said that just looking at me he would never know that anything was wrong.  I think that is pretty significant – I mean, I’ve worked a lifetime to behave as if every thing is okay… I’m a pro at it.  He couldn’t understand that the evening going “well” for me meant that I spent it sitting on my hands with my heart pounding out of my chest.  That I agonized over every word that came out of my mouth and beat myself up, second-guessing every turn of phrase.  He couldn’t see how my stomach lurched whenever I caught anyone’s eye or how I panicked when someone spoke to me – so consumed with fear of responding appropriately that I barely caught everything they said.

And that’s when things are going *WELL*.  I didn’t run screaming from the room.  I didn’t burst out sobbing.  I didn’t scream at anyone or let slip any of the colorful adjectives I was using to describe them in my mind.  I didn’t vomit, fart or shit myself, so the evening was a success.

Today I’m paying the price.  Three beers, three cigarettes and staying out until 11 might as well have been a three day bender…  I had to get up early and get my son to his first driver’s ed class and take the truck to the garage.  The good news is that the repair was $150 less than expected.  The bad news is that the tires are worn down to the wires, it needs an alignment, most of the undercarriage looks like flaky pastry because the rust is so bad, the brakes are shot, the brake lines are rusted, the vacuum hose is broken, the oxygen sensor wire has been chewed by a mouse and there is a hole in the floor big enough to pass a hand through…  Oh, and it probably won’t pass inspection.

**BAD WORD**

So, I’m panicked and overwhelmed and nervous and agitated and hung over and tired and angry and frustrated and confused and annoyed and just plain wiped out.  And I don’t know what to do.

I should be grateful that my mechanic is a sweet, honest man (and my ex) who genuinely cares about my safety and well-being.  I should be happy that the old heap is all paid for and even runs at all.  I should be thrilled that he made my son’s day by offering to sell him a 1984 VW for $100.  I am actually excited about the idea of him having the old car to work on and rebuild.  It will be a great learning experience for him and the car is old and simple enough for him to do the work himself.  He’ll be that much more inclined to take care of it and feel good about it if he does it himself.  I am less excited about the colossal task of cleaning out the garage to make room for the car…

I think things will be okay.  I think I’ll get it figured out.  I think I need a good night’s sleep.

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I had a good mom moment last night…  My 16 year old has been struggling in Biology.  He could hardly contain his excitement as he brought me his latest quiz to show me his grade – he scored a 99!  I congratulated him and said (jokingly) “go put it on the fridge!”  He did and I smiled.  Later, I saw he had updated his Facebook status to:

“Slim feels awesome because his mom told him to put his biology quiz on the fridge!”

**GRIN**

He’s a big, hairy teenager, but he’s still my little boy – I have to remember that 🙂

On a more sour note, I’m in a bit of a pickle about therapy.  Starting July 1, my insurance will only allow 18 therapy sessions per year.  My therapist wants to change our appointments to once a week (currently twice a week) starting then to stretch the time out.  I’m so confused about it all.  Part of me wants to throw in the towel right now.  I feel like it is pointless to continue now if I’m going to get stuck with no therapy come fall when my depression usually gets worse.  How can I spend the winter with no support?  I feel like I’ve come so far and now we’re just going to have to stop – at whatever point I’m at in 18 weeks.  Alternately, I’d like to keep going twice a week to try to get as much EMDR in as we can and have more time in the fall to adjust before winter hits… I just don’t know what to do.  My therapist is looking into what the options are, if there is a possibility of petitioning to continue with additional sessions if the situation warrants it.  She said she’d fight to keep me there as long as I need it.  I just feel so hopeless.  It took me so long to build a trusting relationship with her and I feel like I’ve come so far in a year – now they expect me to just stop?  It doesn’t make any sense – Even a year of therapy can’t cost as much as a hospitalization!  I understand the idea of keeping costs down, but realistically, I’m in crisis just dealing with the news – what am I going to do when I have to give up my primary support and assistance?  It took me 38 years to get this fucked up, now I’m supposed to fix it in 18 sessions???  I’ve been struggling the past few weeks as so many things have been dredged up in therapy and I’ve fought to stuff them back down – this really feels like a setback.

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I have been in a bit of a fog the past few days.  I think I just ended up shutting down after addressing the child sexual abuse in therapy.  I fought with myself about whether it was true or not (I know it is true – these weren’t new memories, just the first time I’ve processed them as the painful experiences they really were).  The propaganda campaign is too strong.  I couldn’t fight it, so my mind responded by shutting down.  We were supposed to do another EMDR session on Thursday, but I thought it best not to.  I didn’t want to be upset this weekend.  Today is my younger son’s school play.  He is excited, he has a great part and I’m sure it will be terrific.

But I don’t want to go.

I get so overwhelmed in crowds – especially school functions where I feel like everyone is judging me.  I will go.  I wouldn’t miss it for the world.  The hard part is that it marks a difficult anniversary.  Last year, after my son’s play, I went home and fell apart.  I had a psychotic break and ended up in the psych hospital for two weeks.  I remember sitting in the school gym, alone in the back on the bleachers.  I was shaking.  I was terrified that someone would talk to me and I didn’t think I could handle it.  I raced out as soon as the play was over.  I didn’t even take the time to tell my son what a wonderful job he did.  I was a wreck.  I can’t keep punishing myself for it – I mean, I was psychotic.  I was hallucinating and paranoid and utterly out of my mind.  It wasn’t something I could control and I did the right thing by seeking help before I hurt myself.

That said, today is going to be hard.

I *know* that it isn’t going to happen again.  I know that I’m in a completely different place today than I was a year ago.  I’m stronger, healthier and more focused.  It has been weeks since I spent a day in bed or even slept during the day.  I’m okay.  I can handle this.  My dad is coming.  I know it’ll be hard for him too.  He just lost his dog and I’m sure he’s worried that people will bring it up and he might fall apart.

I can do this.  It is rainy and cold today.  I’ll get in the shower and put on clean clothes, and I’ll go.  And it will be okay.

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It was cold and gray today.  I pulled on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a faded old flannel plaid shirt.  I pulled my black Chuck’s out from under the bed and felt a little more like myself when I slipped them on.  I might look a little silly, pushing forty at almost 300 lbs in my All-Stars, but it feels like me.  I spend most of my days in pretty anonymous clothing, the same stretchy comfy clothes that every other plus size Walmart shopper in America wears.  Today I was inspired – just a little.  And it felt good.

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Which is the best reason not to mow your lawn.  However, your neighbors may not agree.  My lawn is currently sporting a look similar to the spiky haircut I gave my Barbie in second grade… I didn’t watch my twelve year old mow it, but I suspect he didn’t follow a pattern, but just aimed for the spots that looked tallest and didn’t notice how much he missed.  He got high praise for his efforts, and I enjoy a quiet smile when I look out the window.  His brother, of course, thinks this is emblematic of how easy his little brother’s life is and how he Never Has To Do Anything… At sixteen, he is meticulous in his mowing, but he had his bad haircut moments too 🙂

I’m still reeling.  I’ve been busy with kids this weekend which is good.  I spent time with my friends 2 and 8 year olds, riding bikes down to the beach and playing at the playground.  My body aches with all the physical activity, but it is a pleasant soreness.  I just keep looking at the kids and thinking how small and innocent they are and that is how it should be.  I’m so hurt and sad that my innocence was taken from me.  Looking back, I see that my mother really laid the ground work for it.  With her scrubbing me and telling me I stunk, it was clear from my earliest memories that *down there* is a place where bad things happen.  The abuse by those boys served to confirm it.  Girl parts are dirty, smelly places where bad things happen.

Words are not coming easily today.  I need to get dressed and get to therapy.  The sky is gray and it looks like rain, so I didn’t leave early to spend some time walking on the waterfront as I usually do.  I’ve been catching up on blogs and drinking too much coffee, trying to sort out what I want to deal with in today’s session.  I think we need to take some time to process the last EMDR session before doing another one.  I’m really struggling with the voices that say I’ve made it all up and that none of this really happened.  That just doesn’t jive with the power of that wave of emotion that came over me in my last session.  I just saw the image of C’s strange wrinkly boy part and the sadness welled up like a wave and filled me like I’ve never experienced.  When I connect the emotion with the event, it seems so strange how disconnected I’ve been for so long.  When I recognize how young I was and how wrong those things were, I feel so strange having written it all off as something that just happens or something that all kids do.  Granted, kids of the same age will play doctor and so forth, but these boys were between 4 and 8 years older than me.  They were teenagers with men’s bodies – they had no business using a child the way they did.  It continued for a while – that summer at least – with my brother and his friend.  I thought for so long that it was my fault for wanting to play with the big kids.  I never really understood that I was a victim.

I wonder sometimes if I should just let the grass grow.  I don’t spend any time out there.  I only mow it for the neighbors – well, for the people who drive by, my neighbors are all dead since I live next to a cemetery.  I’ve been cutting myself off all these years to try to be appropriate, to not offend, to fit in.  I’ve stifled thoughts and memories in order to be a good girl.  What if I stopped cutting myself off?  What if I let all this out and deal with it?  If I let the grass grow tall and strong in my heart, will it kill off the weeds?  Am I strong enough to find out?

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Remember wearing little white undershirts?  Thin, sleeveless shirts with little scalloped edges on the neck and arm holes?  I was wearing an undershirt the day I was molested by my brother and two older friends.  I was just a little girl.  I don’t know exactly when it happened.  I’ve always tried to avoid thinking about it.  I’ve been dreading it coming up in therapy because I felt such shame and guilt.  I thought it was my fault.  I wanted to play with the big kids.  I just wanted to be included.  One of the boys was at least eight years older than me, his sister showed me what to do.  I remember his anatomy in a way no child should.  I was just a little girl.  I might have been 8 or 9.  I tried to find a picture, but there is a gap in my album between six and ten.  This is me in fifth grade, a year or two after this happened.

I was just a little girl.

I had hand-me-down Toughskins jeans and a big belt buckle from Texas.  I wanted to be a cowgirl.

So yesterday’s session was pretty rough.  This wasn’t a new memory, but I experienced it in an entirely new way.  I remembered being up in the little house and being so proud to be able to play with the big kids.  Then sadness just pushed up inside me like a tidal wave and I sobbed.  I was just a little girl.  I was so little.  The boys were so big.  One of them was fat.  They were hairy.  No one would understand, we weren’t supposed to tell.  If I was very good, they’d let me do it again.  I was just a little girl wearing a thin white undershirt.

I’ve never cried about it.

I can’t describe the feeling that came over me.  I felt such grief, such despair.  I was so little.  I guess it was kind of a breakthrough.  It is the whole point of the EMDR – to allow me to process memories fully, to pull them out of that corner of my brain where I shoved them so long ago and have normal feelings about them.  I guess it is a good thing.  I just wish I could stop crying over it.  I had trouble calming down enough to leave the session.  How could I have ever thought that I was responsible for what they did to me?  How could I carry that guilt and shame for so long?  I think about what third and fourth graders look like… they are skinny and baby faced and silly and little.  The boys were in high school.  They were young men.

I’m giving myself permission to be sad.  I’m not planning to do anything today.  Just let myself be alone and try to cry it out.

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