Sometimes it is difficult to stay caught up on what is going on when life gets super busy. I see Dr. C. twice each week, but I don’t write twice per week. Instead, I work for my local government, coach soccer, run the soccer league as Vice-President while our President is out of the country for two months, watch my son’s cross country races, deal with a paralyzed (yes, paralyzed) digestive system, continue to make sure my hip is rehabilitated (I had major surgery in February), and handle a broken ankle that is not even two weeks old. With all of that going on, being a wife and mom, and taking the time to process my trauma therapy outside of sessions, I don’t have a lot of time to write. That’s okay, though. It means I am taking the spare time I do have to do things that are good for me. I go for walks (even with a broken ankle), listen to music, go to doctor’s appointments and physical therapy, pay attention to my food intake and try to eat small meals regularly, and read. I spend time with my family in the evenings, and I enjoy the sunshine while it is still out. There’s a lot I can’t do, but I do what I can with what I have right now. It doesn’t sound like much to say I am reading my trauma narrative in therapy. It actually seems quite mundane, but that’s because I am only telling you the action. There is much more to it than just reading out loud. And it’s hard to capture that for people who just don’t know the toll it can actually have on someone physically, mentally, and emotionally.

There are 23 pages of my trauma narrative, but pages 10 through 23 are the hardest to navigate through. I left off on page 15 of my trauma narrative when I last updated how therapy was progressing. I was proud of myself for the way I juggled the thoughts, sensations, and emotions in whatever capacity I was able to experience them. My threshold was higher than it had ever been, and I was able to process all those things with greater awareness and presence. Yet, when I finished all 23 pages, I noticed a similar tension that I was familiar with from previous sessions. It wasn’t something I recognized in the session, but rather something I noticed later when my body began trembling and twitching due to the fatigue of involuntary, constant muscle contraction (tension). In session, it felt like numbness, but later, it hit in waves of spasms and then relaxation, pain then ease, clenching my teeth and then noticing the tension in my head and opening my mouth to relax my jaw muscle. I noticed my breathing was different too. I would suddenly take a gasping breath that morphed into a double breath. Our bodies do this to relax. Mine was clearly trying to release the subconscious bracing.

All of these physical sensations became stronger when I restarted my narrative after a discussion of goals and direction. Dr. C. and I had concluded I should read the narrative again, but slower. I wasn’t supposed to read slower; I was supposed to use cues to stop and process more fully and accurately the sensations, thoughts, and emotions I was noticing. That would slow the process.

Following our first re-read session, I sent my therapist a message about feeling sad but also knowing my body is clenching as if to avoid emotional release through crying or whatever it needed to do. As mentioned above, I was aware that it was happening after the session, but the sensations seemed to intensify the more I missed cues during the session (the cues were more of an “off” feeling). It is as if my entire body were bracing against the intense emotions that have been lying dormant for so long. How could they be expressed? I was desperately seeking to hide what happened while simultaneously feeling guilt and shame, blaming myself, rather than acknowledging the pain, hurt, betrayal, fear, loneliness, grief, and desperation.

The very next session, Dr. C. and I had a conversation about slowing down even more. Both of us would be noting important clues that indicated the need to stop and process. She would note changes in tone, rate of speech, pauses, body language, eye movement, etc., while I would be noting my bodily sensations, emotions, and thoughts. Any “off” feeling would be important.

I began reading on page 15 or 16, where I had previously left off, and read to maybe halfway through page 18. Suddenly, I was very aware of the painful lump in my throat. What usually would easily swallow away and barely be noticed choked me, and I could feel a prick of subtle, fleeting pain. It was too late, even with the pain ducking away; my eyes started to water, and I couldn’t speak. I jerked involuntarily, and my notebook closed. I swallowed hard, blinked several times, clenched my jaw as tight as I could, and knew I had just intentionally pushed away the pain that I needed to let escape.

Dr. C. suspects that there is an enormous amount of grief, or something similar, that has gone unacknowledged. I know she is right. I feel sadness, but the deeper pain is hidden behind the physical bracing of my muscles, swallowing of the lump in my throat, and blinking the hot tears away. It was in the moment I went to continue the next paragraph on page 18 that my brain’s immediate protective nature missed the cues and didn’t tell my body to brace. Instead, a little pain leaked out. I couldn’t keep reading and was forced to pause. Despite intentionally pulling away from the pain, the pause forced me back in. Dr. C. asked what I was noticing. I was overwhelmed. I was frustrated that my gut reaction was to grab the pain and hide it again. I was struggling to find the sensations and name them, identify the emotions, and stay fully present despite the cascading, floating feeling that indicates dissociation that I was experiencing.

I was running on the street below, at least in my head. That’s how I could slow down while sitting on Dr. C.’s couch at that moment. My body could relax into each step it imagined I was taking while I tried to feel. It slowed my brain down to the pace of the run while I tried to identify the emotion that had so quickly hidden away, and then beaten away. Sadness. Sure. That was the mild, identifying word. But it was something much more intense that had tried to escape. What is the word for that emotion? What does that feel like in my body?

My feet were pounding the pavement as Dr. C. was speaking. She was summarizing what I had just read. She said something that struck a nerve. It hurt again. Keep running toward it. It can’t hurt you. My face felt hot, and tears started to stream down. A flood of thoughts and emotions was charging at me. The distress and despair I was feeling due to the fear, anger, and inability to change what had happened. It had happened. And it snowballed. It kept getting worse. And I lost time with my brother because of guilt. I lost almost 20 years of living because of this. Sure, I’ve had great moments and positive experiences. I have grown. But I HAVE LOST SO MUCH. I didn’t know, or rather didn’t think it was okay to, express that I had lost so much. When you spend 20 years stuck in the past, you really blame yourself for that, and permission to be upset about that doesn’t seem logical.

“I didn’t have to stop talking to my brother.”
“I didn’t have to let it bother me so much.”
“I could have continued in my career and achieved my license.”
“I should have reported it when it happened a second time.”

There are so many things I could say that make me believe 20 years of loss and stuckness isn’t something I could justifiably be upset about. Yet, I don’t get to choose how I feel, no matter how much I try.