Trauma recovery and healing are not for the faint of heart. If trauma itself infiltrates every part of your day, your being, and your relationships, guess what? So does healing. And that is tough. It isn’t meant to be a form of torture, but it can feel that way. Furthermore, retraumatization is possible, but it should be avoided as much as possible. And no one tells you that healing feels extremely unnerving. I want to tell you about 3 unnerving but necessary parts of my healing—each of these happened within the last 3 days.

DISPLACEMENT: KICK THE DOG

The first time you handle something well, you suddenly feel like you can’t handle it poorly, or worse, you are suddenly healed and shouldn’t continue to struggle. That brings me to my first story related to the “unraveling” I mentioned regarding my identity and healing process.

Both of my sessions last week included the reading of my trauma narrative by my therapist, Dr. C. The first session was much easier than the second. That is just the nature of my narrative and some of the work I have already done. The second session went surprisingly well, though it was more difficult. I came home from therapy the second day and wrote a blog post as I sometimes do, and as I am doing now. My husband read my blog post and commented that I am handling things differently/better than I have in the past. It was a simple statement. It was also a true statement. The problem was that it made me feel as though what I was feeling couldn’t be expressed honestly. It wasn’t his intent, but it was my experience. So, later that weekend, I could feel the agitation, insecurity, fear, pain, and anger creeping in, but I thought I didn’t have permission to be upset. Instead, I picked a fight with Tim. It was nonsense, and it was the safest way I could freak out. I apologized later and tried to explain that I was dysregulated and not handling my emotions well. Still, even that was hard because I felt frozen and incapable of articulating that I just wasn’t okay. Was it even okay not to be okay? I didn’t know, so I fought it. So, sure, I did handle the reading of my narrative well, but I still had REALLY BIG emotions that needed safe expression somehow, and I didn’t feel I had the permission to express those emotions as they were. That’s gonna happen. I’m also going to work on being more honest, expressing myself genuinely, and feeling safe.

DISCOMFORT: “THE BODY KEEPS THE SCORE“

If you are a woman reading this, I don’t have to tell you how uncomfortable it can be to have a pelvic exam when you go for your routine, yearly appointment. If you are a man reading this, turning your head and coughing just doesn’t compare. Bear with me as I add to the discomfort, though. Sexual trauma makes it that much harder to get naked, lie on a table with your legs spread open and feet in stirrups, and have a doctor sit between your legs with a speculum, swabs, and his or her fingers inside of your vagina. (I want to say here that I have a phenomenal OBGYN with some great stories about bike accidents to distract me).

Recently, like within the last two years, I started talking with my OBGYN at these appointments about pain. In September of 2024, I saw a physical therapist for pelvic floor issues (mostly pain). I returned this month to continue to try to deal with the same pain. Through the course of PT, running, and random yoga exercises and stretches, my physical therapist has determined that my pelvic floor, hip, and abdominal muscles are constantly being held so tight that most of the time I cannot relax them (or even take a deep breath). The course of action for this? Breathing exercises, stretching, various movements, and internal vaginal stretching and massage. Yup. A history of sexual trauma that makes exams and this PT very uncomfortable also makes it necessary. I have to ready myself physically and emotionally to go to this appointment once per week, and I haven’t been convinced it was going to help.

Today, I experienced the very first release of muscle tension. Years ago, I pulled my calf muscles so badly that I couldn’t bend my legs. My husband would massage them, and then try to help me stretch. He and I could both feel each time one small muscle fiber released. My leg would straighten ever so slightly. This pelvic muscle was released much the same way, but with a full relaxation rather than just a few fibers. It was immediate relief from the pain I was experiencing (and I honestly didn’t know how bad it was hurting until it released). I now need to purchase a tool to manually release the muscle in the same way my physical therapist does.

I hate the whole process. I hate that I have to go. I hate that trauma led me to this point. But, I think going to PT and facing the manual internal vaginal and pelvic floor muscle release is worth it. Healing in therapy, emotionally and psychologically, will likely help the physical problem, but sometimes we have to do the physical work too to fully heal.

DROPPING IN: EFFORTLESSLY INVESTED

I wasn’t entirely sure what therapy would look like today, knowing my therapist would finish reading my trauma narrative. I knew we would catch up in the beginning, and we did. I commented that I wanted to have both time and good health to go kayaking. We briefly discussed a couple of other things, and I mentioned my physical therapy to my therapist. I also knew she would ask how I felt about my 25-year-old self. I was prepared for that also. I spend a lot of time thinking about her right now. I spend a lot of time trying to be present for her as well. Finally, I am spending a lot less time trying to blame, shame, or hate her.

Dr. C. asked if I was ready to continue the narrative. I handed her the notebook, and she read the final two or so pages. What would be next? I wasn’t sure, but I wasn’t worried about it. And then Dr. C. flipped to the beginning of the 25-year-old’s story and started reading again. I listened to the words she read and then dropped in to focus on my breath before returning to the 25-year-old. My eyes followed birds and the occasional floating leaf outside, then subtly moved inside to see the weighted blanket on my lap and my 43-year-old hands. My muscles twitched here and there, and my face contorted a couple of times, but my body didn’t tense up. My feet moved slightly. My mouth moved slightly. The memories kept moving in my mind, unlike the usual stickiness of the broken record thoughts that repeated previously. And then I realized what emotions I wasn’t feeling versus what emotions I was feeling. There was no anger or hatred. Strangely, there was very little guilt or shame too. I was very sad. I was aware of the absolute loneliness and fear that the 25-year-old had been feeling. I was aware of how trapped she felt. I was aware of how desperately she wanted someone safe to help her or rescue her. All that awareness was devastating, and it was effortless. I was finally sitting with the 25-year-old, utterly unaware of how I had treated her for the past 18 years. I was only aware that she was sharing her story, and I was listening to it, wishing for something different for her. I was genuinely crushed for her rather than trying to crush her. I had managed to drop in with curiosity and compassion, sit and listen effortlessly, and see the 25-year-old for a moment. I don’t know that every moment will be like that, but this moment was, and every new moment like it will likely make compassion and empathy that much easier.