What is EMDR?

What exactly is EMDR?

EMDR is a relatively new therapy developed in 1988 by Francine Shapiro. It stands for Eye Movement Desensitizing and Reprocessing. Here are a couple of links in case you want to check it out:

EMDR Institute (this website was touted by my therapist as the only website I should check out on EMDR. I just don't work that way, but it is a good resource).

EMDR- Wiki (Sorry, but I love me some Wiki)

My PTSD (Be careful with this website. It's a community forum, so you may read some triggering information on this site. I searched EMDR and read other people's experiences with the therapy. I suspect the therapy might be different for everyone because some people had experiences that I definitely did not have. So, as I said above, be careful. Read with an open mind and take everything with a grain of salt. Just because someone had a bad experience does not mean you automatically will too).

To be completely un-technical, EMDR is basically a therapy where you think about a disturbing memory while the left and right sides of your brain are stimulated continuously, one after the other, for a short amount of time. Most people report their memories being less disturbing after their brain is stimulated in this fashion. The theory is that emotional disturbance is caused by unprocessed memories. After a session of EMDR, memories associated with the disturbing memory may have come up for processing. My therapist explained it to me this way, in layman's terms:

Say your brain is like a filing cabinet. Some people are able to accept a memory and file it in the correct spot immediately, resulting in an orderly cabinet all the time. Other brains may look like a tornado went through. Papers scattered everywhere. Furniture tipped over, files spilling out. Dust flying up the air, waiting to settle. EMDR helps put the furniture back up right. Picks up those pieces of paper off the floor, and begins to put them in the correct alphabetical order within the files. Runs a duster over the entire room.

In that fashion, there can be lots of memories scattered about that someone is not even aware are out of their files. That's how the whole process has felt for me. I wish I'd written down my very first experience in session, but that was over a year ago. So I thought I'd share my experience from my last session, which was a couple of days ago-

*********Trigger Warnings: Emotional Abuse, Animal (Dog,Cat) Pain**********

Sessions always start with me and my therapist sitting down as she asks me how my week went. If anything disturbing happened, we hash that out. For example, a couple of weeks ago I found out that my mother has to have a double mastectomy, my brother may have congenital degenerative heart failure, and one of my absolute best couple friends is getting a divorce. I learned all this news in 2 days. Needless to say, we spent that session just talking. However, if I'm feeling good, we move along. A year ago, I chose "tappers" as my brain stimulation. Meaning, I hold little vibrating handles. EMDR can also be done with light instead of vibration. So, she hands me the tappers and asks me to begin some deep breathing. To relax. She then brings up whatever memory we are working on that day.

That day, we were working on a memory from when I was teenager. It was a day when I'd been chased home from the school bus by the neighbor kids. I was carrying my tenor saxophone case and in an absolute panic because it was so hard to run with that case. When I made it home and collapsed in the arm chair in the living room, my father appeared from the bathroom. Apparently, someone had used the last of the toilet paper and not changed the roll. My father, face red and angry, asked if I had done it. I honestly didn't know, but I shrugged. Most likely, disrespectfully. With his face even redder, he threw the empty cardboard tube at me and told me I was a selfish little bitch and a horrible person.

We start the EMDR session by me picturing this. My therapist always tells me to just observe the thoughts or memories that flow from here. Like watching scenery from a train. I'm not supposed to actively think, I just observe what comes next. As I was sitting there, eyes closed, remembering this event, my therapist starts the tapper.

Most of the time, memories just flow one into the other. Sometimes, I just sit there and my brain remembers the event in detail. Or my brain focuses on the anxiety of my stomach. This session was pretty normal though, and the memories began to flow. Straight from the memory of my dad throwing the tube at me, a flood wall gave out. Memories came seeping out very fast, seconds of events that slid into seconds of different events. These memories were all related to my college boyfriend. I saw the night we broke up, except I only saw me with tears streaming down my face, standing outside the University library in the rain. Then I saw a night at his house when he told me we'd never get back together right after we'd been intimate. This flashed to the memory of coming up behind his mom at one of his baseball games, only to hear her talking to her friend about her son's "trashy" girlfriend. To taking photos for one of his photography classes where he had to take pictures of a person, and he told me while I was posing that I looked hideous and couldn't I at least try to be pretty? Driving in his convertible to a 4th of July party as he's arguing with me about how much weight I've gained. Seeing him at a party, making out with one of my sorority sisters. Pushing me at a beach party. Telling me his friends hated me. Telling me that no one would ever love me because I was disgusting. When I say the memories flash, I mean flash. There was literally 1 second of each memory, and there were a lot more memories. By the time my therapist stopped the tappers to regroup, I was overwhelmed.

My therapist and I have concluded (long before this) that this college relationship was pretty traumatic. Memories from this relationship pop up repeatedly. As soon as I think I've "filed" all the memories, more come gushing out. I get frustrated but my therapist reminds me I'm trying to file an entire lifetime of memories that may not have been filed correctly. I've only been doing this a year in contrast to the 30+ years of memories I'm trying to muddle through.

After we regroup, we repeat the process usually 2-3 more times. We regroup every time and discuss the issues that arise. We always end with me focusing on my stomach because it's almost always anxious. By doing this technique, I'm usually able to quell the anxiety before I exit her office. I am always exhausted by this process. I tend to go home, collapse, and be completely useless the rest of the day. I don't cook, I don't clean, I can barely take my dogs outside. Depending on the severity of the session, the next day is usually exhaustive as well. I seem to come out of the fog on day 2, and unless it's PMS-time of the month, I feel good until I go back to her office.

It's hard work. But I'm feeling better than I have ever remembered feeling. Things that used to be impossible don't feel the same way to my body anymore. In the past, if I saw a dead dog or cat or even a bunny on the side of the road, I could be emotionally wiped for the rest of the day. The image would be burned in my brain. The image would flash up periodically throughout the day, tears pricking my eyes every time, the intrusive thoughts always picturing the poor animal gasping for its last breath. Completely alone. The thoughts that accompanied these experiences were always the same-

"There is so much pain in the world. So much pain it will never end."

"I cannot keep doing this. I cannot live the rest of my life feeling this way."

"We are doomed. We've destroyed our planet, each other, we hurt everything. What is the point?"

"I do not want to live. I can't do this anymore."

Anyone that is depressed can tell you how nearly impossible it is the live with these thoughts. How heavy and slow your body feels. How dragging a breath into your weary body feels like a 100-lb weight slowly bearing down on your chest. How even looking around the world feels murky and oppressive. However, I've been undergoing EMDR for over a year and I can readily tell you that those thoughts have been significantly reduced. I still get them occasionally, but my life isn't ruled by them any longer. I have also come to completely realize what people mean when they say, "Everything will be ok". I've heard these words my entire life, but they never developed one iota of comprehension until recently. The calm that comes with feeling rather than hearing that statement is truly something that every person can only understand for themselves once they've finally achieved it.

Some people recover repressed memories through EMDR. This has not happened to me. Every single memory that has come during EMDR is one I actively remember. My recovery of repressed memories has strictly come out of session. The reason I mention this is because my therapist and I did CBT for 1 year before we started the EMDR. My therapist wanted to make sure I had the tools to cope with whatever memories may come. Say what you want about CBT, but I'm a believer. The brain is a powerful instrument that we don't fully understand, but I believe there is something to be said for trying to change the way your brain works. A lot of the techniques I've learned from CBT work tremendously, diffusion being one of the most effective for me. In fact, when I had my latest flashback, I was able to diffuse almost immediately. Progress!

Feel free to email me with any questions you may have on EMDR. Please be aware that I am not a psychologist or therapist, I'm strictly a patient who can level with you on personal experience. As I mentioned above, I really do think everyone is different. My experience may not be your experience.

Till next time!

How Did I Become My Mom?

I have been writing and rewriting this post in my head. It's something I ponder quite a bit. I was just looking out the window, as the single-cup coffee brewer roared beside me, admiring the turtledoves that were roaming my garden. It warms my heart to see birds in the garden. I'm trying companion gardening this year, which means I've planted many different varieties of plants to encourage beneficial insects and birds to the garden. Besides the variety, I've added a bird bath. Hopefully to entice butterflies as much as birds to quench their thirst, and maybe stick around for lunch on a cucumber beetle. I catch myself thinking these things, and it makes me smile. If you'd know me growing up, you would find it so out of character that I concern myself with anything that involves being outdoors. And that's a tale that begins with my mom.

My mom and I have always had a complicated relationship. She had always pushed me to be more outgoing, and just generally out of my comfort zone. I begrudged her relentless couponing. Her frugalness embarrassed me in front of my friends. She was always trying to get me to help her outside, in the garden or with the lawn. I hated being outside. I hated getting dirty, and even worse, I had a monstrous fear of bees. A scream-and-run-for-your-life kind of fear. We fought. Constantly. I resented her so much, and the resentment didn't stop until I was 16. When I was 16, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. On top of the cancer diagnosis, my parents were going through a trial separation. It was a difficult time for both me and my brother. Because my father was temporarily out of the picture, I took his place in driving Mom to her chemo and radiation appointments. I also took his place as her confidante. I remember coming home from school so many days to my weepy mom, who would then place her head in my lap and sob. She confided in me things that no mom should have to confide to a child. My heart broke, every time. Silently, I made a vow to always protect my mom.

I can't remember the last time my mom and I had a fight. I can't remember the last time my little brother and my mom had a fight. The world changed when cancer hit.

My mother and father eventually reconciled. Mom and I retained our closeness for about 5 minutes. We didn't go back to a typical mother-daughter relationship, we are more like close acquaintances. I say acquaintances because we no longer share anything real. After what she's gone through in her life, my mom shut down emotionally. She copes with life by watching sports 24/7 and a glass of red wine at night. She'll talk to you all night about football but if I were to ask her to share any memories she has of her mom or childhood, the conversation would be over. Last September, my parents made their annual trip east to visit my husband and I. There was one really palpable moment where my mom and I were sitting on the back patio, and somehow the conversation started to turn genuine and emotional. I think we were talking about my therapy. I was in mid-sentence when I actively saw her eyes glaze over, and then she abruptly changed the subject. To sports.

I was so hurt in that moment. It's taken me a long time to accept that her behavior is not about me. It's about her. I have come to accept that that's just how my mom is. That moment took me back to one from childhood, and it's crazy how that's immediately where my mind went. It was a moment back when I was 13, or 14. I can't remember what we were doing, but my mom had taken me and my brother somewhere. Out of town, maybe for shopping? I do remember stopping at Arctic Circle (anyone remember those??). My mom was sitting next to me, and my brother across from us. My mom turned to me and asked how I got my eye lashes so curly. I was super-excited she asked, because at that age I was obsessed with makeup. I loved to talk about it. I excitedly began chattering away, and again, when I was in mid-sentence, my mom's eyes glazed over. She then turned to my brother and asked him about his cheeseburger. I was crushed. I can still remember, to this day, how stinging that was to me. Tears pricked my eyes, and I felt embarrassed for having shown my passion. Even today, I'm extremely sensitive to when a group of people I'm talking to doesn't care to be listening any longer. You don't have to stop me mid-breath, I know when to stop talking.

The way my mom is, is the exact opposite of how I want to be. My mom pushes her emotions down and in my opinion, doesn't process them. I tried for 32 years to not process my emotions, and I'm paying for it now. Immensely. Feeling a life time's worth of emotions all at once. It can be overwhelming, but I've come to realize, it's necessary. Yes, there is tons of pain that can bring on depressions. Yes, there are some days I do not want to get out of bed. Days I can't even brush my hair. Days where I'm crying from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to sleep. That's life though. These moments and feelings pass. You just have to wait for the feeling to crest, and then it will subside. Depression and anxiety are temporary. They always pass. It's the process of feeling that anxiety build, and looking for an inappropriate outlet that is unhealthy. My typical inappropriate outlets include vodka. Xanax. Vicodin. And more vodka. My mom's is football and ESPN 24 hours a day. Neither one is healthy, because neither deals with the problem at hand.

I'm either so much like her, or I've just learned to emulate her. Because yes, my first instinct with anxiety is to push it away. It's a problem I still struggle with today, a problem I will probably always struggle with. But I'm trying to be different. I'm trying to deal with my emotions in a healthy manner.

But you know what? I'm not just like her in the "bad" ways either. As an adult, I began couponing when A was laid off to save money. I got really into it. I ended up building a stockpile that A and I have been living off for 2 years. Man, did I catch grief on that one. Mowing the lawn became my chore, because I love being outside so much. Being outside in nature provides me with so much relief from all my feelings. It makes me feel one with the wind and sky. It helps me diffuse from emotions, and realize that most of my problems are problems created by society. People problems, I like to call them. I feel so at peace with a yoga playlist blaring in my ears, marching that lawn mower up and down the yard in rows. I love getting dirty. Screw garden gloves, you'll find me planting and pulling weeds with bare hands. I've actually read that getting your hands and feet in the dirt helps stave off depression. Bring it on, I say. While I'm still afraid of bees, EMDR helps every day with that (that's another topic entirely, one I will get to at some point). The more I age, the more it appears I picked up quite a few of her best qualities. Especially the ones I never expected to get.

Every once in awhile, A will suggest watching a movie or documentary and I will hem and haw, grumble, and drag my feet. It's times like those where he bursts out laughing and tells me I'm so much like my mom. 'Shall we just turn on sports?' he teases me. We have a good laugh, and then I change my mindset to watch the movie.

I may have inherited some of her less desirable traits, but I definitely got some of her finest. And some, all my own.

God IS Love

Running has been powerful therapy for me. I actually have no clue how it became an effective therapy for me, but I guess the point is that I found it. I was the child who hated to run. My mom made me play sports like soccer, basketball, and running track. I hated them all because they involved an exorbitant amount of running, soccer being the worst of all the sports my mom made me play. I just physically hated the feeling of running. My legs got tired, I could never find a rhythm to breathe, and I was slow. I would start to feel that cold sensation in my chest when I couldn't breathe, and there is nothing I hated more than that sensation. I seemed to have no endurance. How my brother was blessed with the tempo and endurance of a marathon runner, I'll never know. When I got to high school, I was deemed fit to choose my sports. I chose volleyball and dance team. In volleyball, the only running we did was during daily doubles and everyone knew the running only lasted 2 weeks. On dance team, I believe we only ran 1 time and it was because our coach couldn't get us to simmer the fuck down.

I knew what was up. I knew where the running was and where it wasn't. So how I became a runner as an adult is nothing short of a miracle.

When I first began therapy in the fall of 2013, I was given techniques to release stress and self-soothe. I was really good at pushing myself past my limits at that point, and not so good at taking it easy. I would rush into my therapist office, spit out an entire laundry list of things I wanted to accomplish that day, and then proceed to sit there and worry I wouldn't get it all done. I was wound as tight as Giselle Bundchen's ass. One of the first concepts the therapist and I needed to conquer was the concept that I needed time each day to relax. To have me time. My therapist suggested running. I looked at her like she'd grown a third tit. 'Never' I thought in that stubborn head of mine.

Never came sooner than I thought. A and I signed up for a breast cancer 5k, and we decided to do some training so we could run it. On our first practice run, I couldn't even run half a mile. It was summer, 70+ degrees, and I thought I was going. to. die. I think more water came out of my body on that first run than I'd ever put in my body! I ended up walking most of those first 3 miles, but everyone has to start somewhere. I ended up doing a combination of running and walking for that first 5k, but I was kind of hooked. I didn't feel the same way I felt when I was younger. I've thought about this so many times, and the only thing I can come up with is that I hated running because I felt like people were making me do it. And I don't do anything well when someone is making me do it.

It took me a couple of months before I could run a straight mile. It took me even longer before I could run a straight 3 miles. But along the way, I found something else. Something indescribable about myself. I could take the pain. I could handle the dead legs and the feeling that my heart was going to explode inside my chest. With each foot pounding the payment, I told myself that I was strong. That if I could handle this physical pain, I could handle anything. Any kind of mental pain, I could withstand. Every run I finished gave me such a high. A and I signed up for oodles of races.

We did one run during a very cold winter called the "Jingle Bell Jog". It was a night race, something A and I'd never done, and something we've never done again. The night was clear, but so very cold, around 30º I think. I stood in one spot, and jumped up and down until the race began. Once it began though, I calmed. Quite a bit. I found my pace, and tuned into my music. The race took us through downtown of our extremely small town, along the river, and under the bridge that separates Ohio from Kentucky.   I was running under the bridge, listening to Rihanna's "We Found Love", and staring up at the clear, frigid night sky. The stars seemed so bright, like I could reach out and touch them. Just then, for whatever reason, I tuned into a lyric in the song as Rihanna sang, "We found love in a hopeless place".

That resonated with me. A and I live in a despondently depressed area. The town at one time prospered, however large employers have since moved out of the area. The population is shrinking, and the population that has stuck around is largely on drugs. Pills are huge around here, although heroin and meth are becoming much cheaper and easier to come by since the local police began to crack down on pills. There are no unique restaurants, only chains. No unique stores, only Walmart and Kroger are left. The town is crumbling and dilapidated. Yet, as I ran along the river, I could not help but notice the beauty around me. The battered flood wall, covered with murals depicting the town's storied past. The way the large blue-green bridge gleamed in the moonlight. The water lapping gently at the rocky shore. Hoards of pounding feet behind, and in front of me. And I only felt love. I felt so much love I felt my heart would beat out of chest.

And that's when I saw it.

Spray-painted on the underside of the big bridge were these exact words- "God IS Love".

I don't know why these words threw me, but they did. Yes, I am an atheist. As much of an atheist as one can be at least, as I am not arrogant enough to proclaim I 100% know there is no god. But what if? What if everything that theists's claim they know about "God" is false? Part of the reason I can't jump on the religion train is because I can't get on board with so much pain and so much suffering. I just can't. There is no reason in the world a gentle and loving creator would allow the things that happen on Earth to happen (please read this article if you need an example). The only explanation can be chaos, and a universe that doesn't care what happens to us. I have no idea why the human brain must insist that we are the pinnacle of evolution, that we are huge, that we are everything. It's mind-boggling. But what if "God" is that part of us that is "Love"?

I was really feeling it in that moment. I saw beauty all around me, in front of me, and behind. And I loved them all. I saw a pack of people not caring about anything but their feet hitting the payment, and the feeling of drawing one more clear burst of air into their lungs. I saw people that were running for a cause, because the Jingle Bell Jog was supporting the local food pantry. I saw a crowd that was doing the best that they possibly could in that very moment.

And I felt love.

I felt compassion.

'Could this be God?' I dreamily pondered. Could it be that "God" was not some figure-head in the sky, but an overwhelmingly warm feeling manifested out of our own bodies? If so, I never wanted to leave the moment.

But, as all moments do, it passed. I think I stumbled a few minutes later, and began to think about my ankle being a bit sore. A few minutes after that, I realized I was nearing the end and picked up the pace. And just a few minutes after that, I was sweaty and out of breath at the finish line, no doubt with a brain completely full of different thoughts.

I never forget that moment though. Seeing those words on the bridge is burned in my brain, a split-second I will never forget. I can close my eyes, and still see those words. Hauntingly beautiful in cheap, red, Walmart spray paint.

A lot of the time, it's hard to feel that way again. Every now and then, a run will make me that introspective. Yoga and mediation do the trick, too. I spend a lot of time mediating on love and its so-closely-related emotion, hate. Compassion. Empathy. Forgiveness. I mediate on these feelings, and try to let them encompass me. Let them open my heart, fill my body, and push out the doubt. The shame and heaviness that I'm convinced all humans feel. And you know what?

It makes me feel better.

I feel like this post flows freely into a post on forgiveness, so I'm going to stop there for today. The only thing I'm hoping people get out of this post today is to show you these technique that therapists try to get everyone to do- like exercise- they do work. They can work way more effectively than medicine sometimes, in my opinion. I'm also hoping you yourself might take some time to ponder on what I think is the most powerful emotion in the universe- love.

Till next time!

My Most Vivid Flashback

It's Saturday morning. I'm sitting here, completely and utterly annoyed. I'm trying not to be, but unfortunately, I get like this a lot. My irritability is part of the reason I chose not to have kids, as I feel bad enough when I snap at my dogs when I'm cranky. Part of the reason I'm so annoyed is because me and A (my husband) got a new puppy. Right now we are in the process of potty training, as well as life training. Those of you who've raised dogs from puppies know what I'm talking about. Not only do they have to learn they can't take a huge shit on your living room floor, they have to learn not to bark at the UPS guy. Not to dig in my lettuce beds. Not to attempt chewing off my fingers. Among other things. Due to the potty training, the puppy has to go out A LOT. Like, a lot, a lot, a lot.  And when he goes outside, he gets a treat. Well, my 2 older dogs want in on this. Now they are sitting by the door at all odd hours, wanting to go out. It might not sound like much, but if every time you walked into a room where 1 of 3 dogs were constantly wanting to go out, you might get annoyed too.

The other reason I'm annoyed is my other blog. Yep, I run another blog. A pretty, shiny, happy food blog. One where'd you never guess the author is a sexually abused, introverted, potty-mouthed, uber-liberal hippy. My audience is Christian soccer mom's and young girls dreaming of getting famous on social media. I love my blog. I love food. I don't love the dog and pony show. The exhausting amount of networking you must do in order to score just one comment on a post. I don't love pretending that life is sunshine and roses all the time. I don't like pretending that the worst thing that comes out of my mouth is "Well, gosh darnit".  And I hate being in the closet about religion. I hate that everyone else gets to write about praising the man in the sky, and thanking Jesus for making them the last person at Starbucks to get a piece of lemon loaf. I mean, really. You think Jesus has time to make sure that no one else got that piece of cake so you could have it? Groan.

Sorry to gripe, but in case you couldn't tell, I just finished working on some social networking for the other blog. Sometimes I'd just like to yell "FUCK IT!" and write about being depressed. Or anxious. Or being so shaky in the morning you are scared to drive your car. Or tell everyone I think they are ridiculous for believing in someone who lets children be sold in sex trafficking, gives cancer to some of the most generous, kind people, and allows someone to walk into a crowded theater and kill 60 people?

Yeah, I wish I could do that. But I won't. And that's why I have this space now.

*********************Trigger Warning******************************

A couple of weeks ago I had my most vivid flashback to date. I wanted to detail the process because it is rather fascinating. Scary and crazy, but also fascinating. With this latest flashback, everything started about a week before I had it. My husband was out of town on business, and I was home alone for the week. I was extremely anxious. I didn't feel like myself. I could not, for the life of me, get the pit in my stomach to go away. I once read a quote that said, "People will do almost anything to alleviate their anxiety". That's a true statement. The first night the hubby was gone, I made a margarita, had a couple of beers, smoked a cigarette, and then smoked more weed than I have in a long time. I felt better (pharmaceutically, at least) for the time being. Till the next morning, when the pit was still there. The whole week the hubby was gone, I drank more than I should have. I smoked more cigarettes than I should have (considering cigarettes should be ZERO since I quit). I found myself leaving dishes in the sink, something I never do. I also did tons of other things I never do, such as not making the bed, leaving laundry in the dryer instead of folding it, and not picking up the dog toys strewn about the house. It was like I was a different person. I could not (no matter how much I thought about it) pin-point the anxiety. I chalked it up to being worried about A. But then the hubby came home. And the pit was still there.

The hubby returned home on a Thursday. On Saturday, still with the pit and no end in site, I decided to do some yoga and mediation. The yoga helped tremendously. At the time. As soon as I was done, and I went to take a shower, the knotty stomach returned. I found myself arguing with myself in the shower. I honestly felt like there was some dark force trying to grab hold.

Just to let y'all know, I'm a huge fan of the show "Dexter". I loved his analogy of his "Dark Passenger". So much so in fact, that I've named the self-destructive part of myself my Dark Passenger. Don't misunderstand, I don't have DID. I've never been diagnosed, because I don't believe I have full-on different people in me. I do believe that there is some part of my brain that is hugely self-destructive. It whispers at me to drink. To smoke cigarettes. To try to get my hands on my mother-in-law's Ativan. To just slide that razor across a little bit of skin to get some relief. Sometimes it's easy to not listen, other times not so much.

So there I am in the shower. I closed my eyes and pictured myself driving a car. There is darkness in the passenger seat. Not a person, just darkness. And it's reaching for the wheel. In my mind, I actually pictured myself saying, "No. You cannot drive." Then I opened my eyes, and kind of shook off the feeling. It was weird.

Just 1-2 minutes later, I was reaching for my face wash. I closed my eyes to splash water on my face, when I heard distinctly, and right in my ear, "I love you". I immediately opened my eyes, confused. 'Where the heck had that come from?' I thought uncomfortably. So I closed my eyes again. And it happened.

I actively felt prickly mustache hairs on my ear, and I heard a voice saying, "I love you" over and over. In my head I saw me, 4 or 5 years old, wearing a satiny purple nightgown that I remember, in bed at my grandma's old house. My uncle was behind me. He had one arm slung over me and he was rubbing me inappropriately over my nightgown. He was rubbing himself against my back. He was hard. I felt good. Warm, and tingly. The human body cannot help what it likes.

This was about all I could take, and my eyes flew open.

I stood there in shock for maybe one second. And then, a flood began. I felt deep shame. Anger. Disgust. I collapsed right there, and began to cry. I cried for that child. How could someone do that to a child? In that second, I realized I'd been conditioned to believe that sex equals love. From him touching me to whispering 'I love you' continuously, what else could a 4-5 year old think? From a very young age, someone actively taught me that. I cried because I realized as a child, I'd never stood a chance of becoming anything other than what I was. Of course I ran after all the boys. Of course I let them touch me however they wanted, even if we'd just met. Although I was not aware of it, my mind was telling my body that this is how you become loved. I thought of all my friends who had been raised normally and who'd looked down on me for being promiscuous, drinking, and in general, an immoral person. And I cried.

When I stood up, everything had changed. The world felt different. I felt different.

The biggest thing of all? The pit in my stomach was gone. How was it that the strongest emotion I felt after all this was relief?

Here's the deal. If this had happened to me even just 3 years ago, I would have drunk a bottle of vodka. And then probably taken some Ambien. And more than likely, I would have self-harmed. Because I would have been filled with so much disgust, shame, and anxiety that the only way to alleviate all those emotions would have been to get fucking drunk.

But today, after being in therapy for 2 1/2 years and 1 year of EMDR, the only thing I felt was relief.

I now realize that this memory must have been getting ready to surface the week before it did. I just didn't know it. I only felt the anxiety, and I felt driven to push it down. I think I was subconsciously scared of what was happening and trying to keep it away. What's positive about this situation is that when the flashback did come, I was in a place where I was able to accept the memory, and not blame myself. Not feel ashamed of what I did. Because I was a young child. So young that I had no say in the matter. My uncle did awful, reprehensible things to a defenseless child. Would I look at any other child in this situation and blame them?

FUCK NO.

So I don't blame myself.

When my therapist and I discussed this later, she did indicate that I am making progress. Progress takes time, a lot more time than some people are willing to give. From reading a lot of other mental health blogs, I realize a lot of people have the roughest time not blaming themselves. It makes me sad, because a lot of these people are in the same boat I am. These things happened to them when they were children. I don't know if their integral "badness" was forced on them harder than it was forced on me, but I've been able to see how what my uncle did was wrong and I had no control.

My hope is that other people someday are able to see what I see.

Innocent children being broken. These innocent, broken children growing up into broken adults. Depression, anxiety, PTSD, DID, addiction, promiscuity, personality disorders, you name it. All because they were conditioned as children to believe they are awful, horrible, evil people.

It. is. so. wrong.

How I Got Here

Time for the first post.

How did I get here? That's such a long story. Sometimes I don't even know where to start, but as for today, I'll try to start at the beginning. Which is basically childhood. I'm going to throw it out right now, there may be triggers in this post. I'm going to be frank and honest, and it won't all be pretty. Please practice good self-care, and if you are in a bad spot right now, you may want to refrain from reading. Here we go-

*************Trigger Warning***************

In some way or fashion, I've always known that I was different. I can remember, very clearly, at a young age (5 or 6) feeling sad. And lonely. And most all, inadequate. I was an extremely shy child, and I had a hard time approaching anyone. The reason for this, in my young mind, was that I thought I was boring, ugly,  and no one would want to talk to me anyway. I mean, most of the time, I couldn't even think of anything to add to a conversation. So I clung to my mom. This vastly annoyed my mother, as she was (and still is) extremely outgoing and vivacious. She will talk to anyone, and I think it bothered her that her daughter was the complete opposite. This led to her pushing me to be more outgoing my entire young life. When we'd be out shopping, and she'd see one of the "popular" girls, she shove me in their direction to go say hi. Or sometimes worse, she'd drag me over and start the conversation herself. She signed me up for multiple sports to encourage me to socialize. During the summers, she'd send me to volleyball camps. Yes, to increase my skill, but also to force me to talk to people. I love my mother, but as a child and teen I hated her for this.

I was an extremely fearful child, haunted by nightmares of ghosts, aliens, and monsters under the bed. I can remember lying in my bed as child, paralyzed by fear, unable to close my eyes. My fear of the dark led to later sleeping problems. When I was 5, I began stealing stuff. I don't mean shoplifting either. I started stealing my cousin's doll and Barbie stuff. The first time my parents found my stolen items, they marched me over to my cousin's house, made me hand over the items, and mumble an apology. I became much more secretive about stealing after that. The stealing escalated until I was in 5th grade, and I'd stolen a hoard of stuff from my friend whose house I was staying the night at. Her parent's found my stash, and confronted me. They also called in my parents. I was mortified, and despite the obvious need for the truth at that point, I denied it. I continued to deny it my entire childhood.

My stealing, shyness, and awkward appearance made me a target with the other kids. After the 5th grade incident, my friends were never the same. Understandably. Nevertheless, they became more like frenemies and kept me on the outside until we graduated high school. Middle school was the hardest, and definitely where I suffered the most bullying, paranoia, and anxiety. Insomnia started at this time. When I was 12, I had my first drink.

My favorite book when I was kid was "Gone with the Wind". I read it constantly, over and over. In the book, whenever Scarlett has a problem or can't sleep, she turns to brandy. One night when it became obvious I wasn't going to sleep at all, I crept upstairs and into my parents liquor cabinet. I pulled out the brandy, and poured myself a glass. That first sip was disgusting. It burned like fire, and I was afraid I was going to throw up. However, about 1 minute after downing the shot, the flavor began to die down. All I was left with was a wonderful warming sensation down my throat and into my stomach. I took another drink. Then I finished the glass. Then I went back to my room, and I fell asleep.

As you can imagine, I began turning to alcohol whenever I couldn't sleep. Which wasn't much, but keep in mind that I was only 12 or 13 years old. When I was 16, I fell in with the wrong crowd. And older crowd that liked to "party". In those days, "partying" was drinking, smoking marijuana, and hooking up. I'd lost my virginity at 13, so by 16 hooking up was old news. I gave myself away freely. At the time, I didn't know why. I'd heard multiple boyfriends' parents call me "fast" or "loose", which I took as a reflection on me. I was bad. I had no self-control. I honestly didn't know why anyone would waste their time on me. It was never a surprise when a relationship ended, I always expected them to end. I always expected them to end with me being left. All of these feelings simply culminated in me wanting to be drunk or high the majority of time. When I was drunk or high, I wasn't shy anymore. I could approach boys and flirt with them. I could talk to girls, and make friends. It made me a different person, and that's exactly what I wanted.

I'll just tell you now, I spent my teenage years and my 20's numbing myself. With alcohol. And one night stands. When I went to collage, I gave up marijuana and just drank. And drank. By the time I graduated collage, I could drink a 5th of vodka in a night. There were multiple sorority functions that I don't even remember. I only know I was there because I saw the pictures. After I graduated, life became drinking a bottle of wine or 12-pack of beer after work. Every night. At the time, I also used food to soothe what I now know was anxiety. Between the alcohol and overeating, I gained 60 lbs after high school.

I could regale you with tons of tales from this time period, but now is not the time. After all, that's why I started this blog. There will be plenty of time for that later. But here's the gist- during this time period I met the man who would become my husband. I continued living in the same fashion up until my husband got laid off from his job. When he was unable to find a job where we lived, we made the decision to move across the United States. From the West Coast where I grew up, to living in the Bible Belt. My husband and I stayed in a pretty run-down rental the first year we moved here, while he was looking for a job. We didn't plan for me to work, so I stayed home. That first year in the South was almost unbearable. The anxiety was overwhelming. I began to have what I thought were fantasies, images of an adult taking advantage of a child. I was disturbed by these thoughts, they only convinced me that I was just as sick as I'd always thought. Only now, I thought I was sicker than I'd ever believed.

After a couple of months, in one vision, I was jolted with the startling revelation that I was the child. And then I saw my uncle's face. My world came crashing down around me, and I was left with a sickening realization that nothing was as it seemed. More and more images came, and along with it, more anxiety. Insomnia that lasted for days. Night terrors and nightmares if I did sleep. Relentless migraines. I continued to put up with it until one day when I had a full-on flashback. I cut myself for the first time in 8 years that night. A month later, I self-harmed again. My husband gave me an ultimatum- I needed to go to a psychiatrist. Or else.

Luckily, I never found out the "or else". I made an appointment with a therapist, and I've been seeing her for 2 1/2 years now. I was able to find relief almost immediately, just having someone to talk to. I was given tools, new ways to think. Encouraged to self-soothe and find new ways to relieve anxiety instead of doing things the same ineffective way I'd been doing my entire life. I quit drinking. I started running. I gave up Vicodin, Xanex, and Ambien, and returned to marijuana. Memories continue to be introduced, but I now feel I have the tools to work through them and process them. Some may say I've gotten nowhere, since I still use marijuana. I vehemently disagree. Medical cannabis has solved many problems for me. It soothes my IBS. It takes care of the insomnia much more safely than Ambien. If I'm having a day where I feel so anxious I don't think I can get out of bed or leave the house, a couple of hits releases the anxiety. I don't think I'd be where I am today without it. I stay in the closet about it, mainly because our drug-obsessed society is so judgmental about it. I'll tell you this though- not a single person I know would ever guess that I use cannabis. Whatever the stereotypes or connotations, they don't apply to everyone. I don't get stoned all day every day. I'm not obese because I have the munchies all the time. I'm not laying on the couch, because it makes me lazy. Sometimes a couple of hits is the only way I can relief the anxiety enough to go on a run. I think most people would agree that medical cannabis is much safer than drinking, taking pain and anxiety pills, and popping Ambien every night to sleep.

I think this is a good start. As I mentioned before, there's so much more. You can't reduce 30+ years to one story. This definitely doesn't paint a full picture of me as a person.

That will come in time.