I want to share two things with my readers. The first is something I learned about myself that is likely true of you, whether you realize it or not. The second is something that I experienced in my therapy session that will maybe make us both feel a little more normal by my sharing it.

What I Learned: Seeing the Entire Truth

I have been sitting on this for a little bit now, but I thought it was important to share. Not just for my readers but for me. I walk through life saying, “I don’t want to forget this.” Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t work the way it used to after having Electroconvulsive Therapy, so I too often DO forget what I was trying to commit to memory. So, without further introduction…

A few therapy sessions ago, Dr. C. shattered a box in my brain. I had been keeping the 25-year-old’s most shame-laden story in there. Sure, I had opened the box before when I wrote out what happened, and I know (but don’t really recall) that my therapist read it aloud, BUT the experience was absent of the 43-year-old Self. This session, the one I wrote about in You Don’t Need a Padded Room, was different. I was present as a 43-year-old. I was engaged as much as possible. And my therapist was pushing the envelope with exposure while naming what happened…over and over. Each time she spoke my experience into existence, my brain’s pre-frontal cortex (logic, thinking part) lit up a little more. By the time I walked out of Dr. C.’s office, I was FEELING differently. The experience didn’t loom as large, but more importantly, I was viewing what happened differently. It was no longer about how I did something “so terrible.” Don’t get me wrong, it still seemed terrible, but the shift was in recognizing the entire story. The rest of the trees, if you will.

I always judged the 25-year-old harshly. She betrayed herself, and there was no excuse for it. She needed to be punished as often as it took to pay for it, as severely as possible to guarantee it would never happen again. But the second part of the story. The part I corrected my therapist on was that the 25-year-old STOPPED it. Yup, she betrayed herself INITIALLY, but she listened to the aching, panicked voice deep inside and stopped what was happening. Not once have I ever given myself credit for that. The 25-year-old was much braver, wiser, and stronger than I had ever given her credit for. Perhaps I should see her outside of the single narrative I replay over and over.

An Experience: It Feels Overwhelming; You Will Get Through It (With Compassion, Noticing, and Allowing)

I recently read a story about a woman who chose to give birth naturally at home. She was breathing through the contractions as women are taught to do. It was what she expected and was comfortable with, so she allowed each sensation to come and go. When the baby’s head began to crown and the pain became overwhelming, she started to tense and fight. She repeatedly told herself that something was wrong. This level of pain was unexpected and obviously not something she should be experiencing. The midwife reassured her multiple times that this was, in fact, normal and would pass. When the birthing woman took in what the midwife was saying and embraced it, the story of the pain changed. It became bearable. She was able to push. The baby was delivered and perfectly healthy. The pain almost immediately dissipated. The peak of the pain stopped the progress, but it was part of the process. It was necessary to bring this wonderful new life into the world.

Trauma therapy is like that. It feels overwhelming, wrong, and undoable, but I believe the other side of that is the birth of a new life. But process…it’s painful and feels unnatural. Let me tell you about my most recent experience.

My session started the same way. Dr. C. and I discussed my feelings toward the 25-year-old version of me. With any hint of judgment or harsh thoughts and feelings, we stay to look deeper rather than pull out the narrative. On this occasion, I noted a deeper, softer sense of compassion than I had been familiar with previously. There was less anger surrounding the actual event than has been typical. With this knowledge, she began reading my narrative. She started at a point that she had read several times before. It still elicits strong feelings, so it felt like I was jumping into a frozen pond and feeling the immediate discomfort. Body sensations pulsed through me, emotions rapidly and chaotically fluctuated, and my thoughts raced. I felt overloaded, overwhelmed. Processing the narrative, emotions, thoughts, and sensations together became nearly impossible. But I sat and listened. I stayed present. I tried not to judge the narrative, the 25-year-old, or my personal, in-the-moment experiences.

Dr. C. stopped reading. She had finished the last page. “What are you noticing?”

It took a long time for me to answer. The overwhelm made it difficult to focus and nearly impossible to put words to my experience. And I was fighting to stay present as it all came in unpredictable waves, no torrents. Finally, I said, “I’m overwhelmed by the sensations, thoughts, and emotions.”

“Try to identify some.”

I chose to focus on the simple things first: my emotions. I started with one piece of the narrative and picked my way through the weeds of each part. I named several emotions, but I don’t think I named even half of my feelings. Tears fell down my cheeks. I didn’t even try to stop them. That’s new. And just like that, the session time was over. My body, brain, and heart were in a state of utter confusion (and overload). To follow with the metaphor, the baby’s head has crowned, and I know it’s supposed to hurt. I need to wait for the next contraction before pushing again. In the meantime, I will breathe.

Perhaps I’ll share my thoughts, feelings, and sensations in a future blog post, but I am still trying to sort through it for now. When/if I do share, I think it will further normalize anyone’s traumatic experience.