I woke up in a cold sweat. My heart wasn’t pounding as it normally does when I have a nightmare. No, it was actually quite slow, and my breathing was shallow. This happens sometimes, usually when I am frozen in my dream. This wasn’t directly a trauma dream that I was frozen in though. I was having a dream about therapy. I was spending a lot of time thinking about, or maybe worrying about, what I knew was coming next in therapy. Apparently, my brain was also trying to process it during sleep as well.

I was sitting in my therapist’s office with my gray notebook in my hands, attempting to read my trauma narrative, but I was stuck like a broken record. I was frozen and stuttering the same words, as if unable to move on to the next one. I’ve attempted to discuss what happened to me in many different ways, but I could never get the words to come out of my mouth. I would become silent. I would dissociate. I would be frozen with fear. And as many times as I have felt like a failure, I didn’t want that to happen again. So, I guess it makes sense that my brain decided to play the worst-case scenario for me in my sleep.

“How do you feel about the 25-year-old?” I’ve grown to expect this question. I’ve also made a point of asking myself the same questions quite frequently. And after a recent session in which I acknowledged that all of that trauma happened to me, the 43-year-old, I also try to assess how I feel about my current self. “I feel compassion and sadness.” I’m not sure if that’s what I actually said, but I do know that is how I most often feel.

“I’d like for you to start reading your narrative aloud.” She wasn’t forcing me. She asked what I thought. She asked if I was willing. She gave me reassurance. She told me she’d stop me on occasion to check in. She told me we could stop at any time. So, just like in my dream, I pulled out my gray notebook, held it in my hands, and turned to page one.

As I anticipated, the first nine pages were difficult, but reminded me of the immense healing I have already experienced. I felt a range of emotions, including shame, embarrassment, and a gamut of others, such as sadness, loneliness, and anger, but they came and went as I read the narrative. My experience was real. It was exactly as I imagined most people feel when they reflect on something terrible. Not stuck. Fluid and moving like a river or clouds.

As promised, Dr. C. did stop me a couple of times through the first nine pages. I noted humor and minor details of my life that now stand out to me positively.

Plenty of time remained, so I turned to page ten. Page ten is the start of what tends to play on repeat; makes me avoid places, people, and situations; and causes me the most emotional and mental turmoil than anything else in my life. Page ten begins the story of why I fought to die by suicide. It begins the story of why I have hated myself, punished myself, and lived nearly 20 years in a state of trauma responses. This would not be easy. No one would expect it to be.

I made it to page fifteen before we stopped to process at the end of the session. Not bad for someone who has tiny, somewhat messy handwriting and requires glasses to read, but didn’t have them at the time. More importantly, not bad for someone who was using their own voice to articulate what happened to them when they were younger. There were intense waves of different emotions coming at me quickly, but they were also leaving just as quickly and being replaced by another wave. I was trying to read, regulate my emotions, regulate my responses, stay present rather than reading in a state of disconnect, and see the words on the page. Juggling all of those things at once means that if something breaks down, it is going to be obvious. I started to trip over words (but at least I wasn’t frozen, stuttering, and repeating the same word over and over!). Granted, they were hard to read, but I had done well up to a certain point. I was probably becoming overwhelmed. Dr. C. picked up on it and stopped me. We lingered there for a bit. She wanted me to dig deep and notice what I was feeling and sensing. What was my body experiencing? What emotions could I identify? I was digging deep and noticing some sensations and emotions. But it also seemed somewhat vague. The work to regulate was also somewhat keeping me from noticing the essential feelings and sensations needed for integration. I’m not disappointed in myself. In fact, I am actually proud of myself. Reading was both harder and easier than I thought it would be. I hate that it’s hard, but I am proud of myself for doing it.

Now, let’s go back to the ‘digging deep’ part. I was vaguely aware of a sensation that I could not quite bring fully to my mind. I knew there was something, and I knew it was overwhelming despite not being able to actually pinpoint what it was and where it was coming from. Later that evening, I was listening to the crickets outside my bedroom window and the soft breathing of my dog when I felt a very familiar sensation. It wasn’t the same one I felt earlier in the day. It was the sensation I get when I have extreme muscle tension that hasn’t released in hours. It’s an awkward muscle cramp and stabbing feeling. That’s when I realized the sensation from earlier that I hadn’t been able to pinpoint. I hate that I couldn’t figure it out in session, but I’m proud of myself for recognizing it later and trying to work with and through it.

I am on a journey, and each step is just that, it’s a step.