Back in the end of May, I wrote about what it was like to rewrite part of my trauma narrative. I had only written what I would consider the first half as it included my experience as an 8-year-old, 10-year-old, and 13-year-old. It was only a few days later that I worked on and completed my second half of the narrive, which included what happened at the age of 25. Yet, I am just now getting around to blogging about it.

I have some ongoing health issues that doctors are trying to figure out rather unsuccessfully. I went through a particularly tough patch in between rewriting part two of my narrative and this blog post. In fact, I was in the ER multiple times, barely left my house, and had extensive testing done, including a colonoscopy, internal vaginal ultrasound, CT scans, blood work, and more. I had a great ER doctor who looked through my entire chart and referred me to a new GI doctor who would actually treat me like a human. I am currently scheduled for a CT enterography (a test that looks at the small intestine in great detail). I am telling you all of these details to both provide context about why my blog post is coming so late but also to give you some insight into trauma. I have no doubt that much of what I am experiencing with GI symptoms is directly related to trauma. There is plenty of research to back that up, and I recall the very first time I had GI symptoms like this…it was as a 25-year-old. In fact, it was within five minutes of gaining physical freedom from the ongoing trauma and feeling of being trapped.

Without further ado, I will dive in. When I rewrote my narrative, my goal was to just let the pen hit the paper and keep moving. I don’t know if everything is in order. My brain doesn’t remember things in order; my brain plays associations and provides flashbacks that seem to be related but are not usually choronological. What I did try to do was include everything my brain thought of. I wasn’t holding back becuase I felt embarassed or ashamed. I wasn’t holding back because something seemed irrelevant. I wasn’t holding back because I didn’t want to sound hateful, judgmental, or angry. I just let the writing flow (as chronolically as possible, though).

Unlike the first part of the narrative, I didn’t write much about my response or emotion while putting my narrative down on paper again. I know I chose to write outside most of the time, and I chose sunny days when I could distract myself with birds, the warmth of the sun, and other sights and sounds. The process was difficult, but it was about getting it out again. It was about allowing the 25-year-old to be heard and seen, with compassion. The first time I wrote, it was about allowing the 25-year-old to tell her story, and sometimes that meant I would interject my thoughts and feelings about what happened. Usually that involved some pretty harsh judgments. I can’t say whether there is much judgment in what I wrote this time. I know when I skimmed it before writing this, I had some very strong feelings, but I didn’t hold hatred as I have before. I noticed intense embarassment. I noticed shame about having shame. I noticed a desire for things to be different.

As much as I dreaded rewriting the narrative, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It just was; it was difficult and necessary.

A couple of weeks ago, I had a dream that my therapist wanted me to read my new narrative out loud. In my dream, I started to read but at one point began to stutter as if I was a broken record on a loop, unable to get past the scratch. My body tensed, my muscles started to ache, my jaw tightened, my head throbbed, and my heart raced. All of those things were happening, and at some point I was seeing myself from above. When I woke up from that dream, I was sweating, tense, and had a headache. I also recognized in that moment that I was going to need to read it out loud despite not wanting to. You know what happened a few days later? My therapist told me she was going to read the rewrite as she had before, but at some point, I would need to read it out loud. I chuckled quietly and recounted my dream for her. Don’t get me wrong, I have NO desire to read any of those words out loud. But, I want to get on with my life.

What exactly does that even look like? I am not one of those people who can say I want to go back to being myself. I don’t have a strong sense of identity thanks to the earlier trauma. I have a lifetime of living in a protective state. I am not the only one out there like that. It really complicates therapy and healing too. Think about this: If you don’t have a concept of who you are except someone who is actively trying to heal, what happens when you’ve done the work and are no longer “sick” or “a victime” or “the hurt one.” Who are you? And what do you do know? That is terrifying to think about.

My therapist recently talked about how my process my be more of a shattering experience than a cathartic one. It’s not super reassuring to know that healing from trauma could be one of the most unraveling experiences of my life. Yet, I have the privelege of working to define who I am completely anew, as scary as that may end up being, but I also need to have more compassion, grace, and love for myself than I have ever believed possible.

Here’s the thing. I have a basic understanding of things I like. I have a basic understanding of what makes me happy. I trust myself. I trust my therapist. I trust the process. Most days. It’s gonna suck, AND I’m pretty sure it’s worth doing. It’s gonna be hard whether I choose to go on this journey or not, so I’m gonna choose the hard I can live with…the one with potentially the greatest cost but also the greatest reward.