Hagrid comes with me to therapy with me today, and he rushes up the steps to greet Bea when we arrive. As I walk up the stairs, I hear her saying hello to him and telling him how nice it is to have him in therapy today.
“Good morning,” I tell her, walking in and setting my coffee down. I get comfortable on the sofa, and call Hagrid over to me. He happily jumps into my lap.
I update her on Kat, because there is a messy situation going on with the substitute teacher who took over for her regular teacher when she went on maternity leave. Bea needs to know what is going on so that she can help Kat in therapy tomorrow.
Once she is filled in, though, she turns the conversation to me. “And you? How were things yesterday?”
I look down, and go silent. “I baked,” I finally say.
“What did you bake?” She asks.
“Macarons.” I tell her.
“French macarons?” She asks me.
“Yes.” I reach into my bag and pull out a box. “Actually, I brought you some.”
She takes the box. “Mmmmm. Yum. These are beautiful. I can’t believe you made these! I have to try one.”
“You really don’t, not right now. I just….I thought you might like some.” I’m embarrassed now. I don’t know why, exactly, I just am.
I list out the different flavors, and Bea tries two. She declares them perfect and delicious. We talk about macarons, and how they can be difficult to make, and how they are expensive little cookies. She tells me I could open a bakery.
I laugh. “It’s just a distraction. It’s something I can do, something I can focus on.”
“Well, if you have to feel bad and this is your way of coping, you might as well get rich off it.” Bea laughs, too. A second later, she says, “You haven’t talked about sewing lately.”
“It’s not enough of a distraction. It’s sort of mindless.” I shrug. I’m not sure how to explain it.
I take a drink of my coffee, and hug Hagrid. I’m out of words.
“Were you able to write anything down?” She asks.
I nod, and pull my notebook and a stack of notecards from my bag. I hold them in my lap and look at them. “Can I…..can I go to the bathroom?” I ask her in a little girl voice.
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Bea sounds surprised. “What if I had said no?” She asks. She looks curious.
“I….I’m not sure. I don’t…I guess I would have stayed here.” I whisper.
“Okay. Go to the bathroom.”
I hand her my notebook and my cards.
“Should I read these while you go?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Okay. I’ll read the notecards while you are gone so you don’t have to wait for me to read them.” She starts reading, and I head to the bathroom.
I’d written the pieces of memory onto the notecards. Every time I had a flashback, a memory, a bad dream, I tried to write it down. I wrote to in my notebook about this high wire I’m balancing on, and how I feel like I’m going to fall, and how scared I am. I wrote that the last rational part of me is very scared for the rest of me, and of me. I wrote about how I was alone, balancing on this tightrope, and no one was there to catch me. I explained how I used to be under the tightrope, and stuck in the yuck and the crap, but I managed to put myself back together. I wrote that I did a crap job of it, because all I’d been able to do was build a bubble of okayness around myself, and to shove the worst of the yuck into a box. But then Kay came along and pulled me into rhe high wire. She helped me balance, but I still had a bubble. But with therapy, I was able to allow more people onto the high wire, and they helped me balance. It got easier. I was able to allow other people close enough to be under the high wire, to be there to catch me, even if I couldn’t let me help me balance. I wrote that now I feel like I’m all alone and they all just left.
When I get back from the bathroom, I sit back in my place.
Bea looks at me and her look says she cares. “All these memories you’ve written are sensory related. It’s all the things we have been talking about.”
I nod. They really are; hands around my ankles, fingers down my back like bugs creepy crawly, and feelings in places I can’t write about to anyone.
“Do they….can you stop them? Like if there is a feeling that starts, can you control it? Can you stop it by standing or doing something different?” Her voice is clear and kind.
“I….no.” I tell her. “I….nothing….it just quiets it. It….nothing stops it. Noting makes it stop.”
“I want us to try to find a way to get you some relief. You shouldn’t have to keep feeling like this. Can we try, can we see what might help? Can we try some different things?”
I nod my head. “It won’t stop.” I start to cry, and fold over on myself. “It just won’t stop.”
“It sounds like you are being hit from all sides. Are these memories, are they new or old? I mean, have you had memories like this before?”
I shake my head. “Not really. Not like this.” I’ve had body memories before, but never like this, and they usually go away really quick. I can numb them away with self harm, or eating behaviors. And they never happened so often before.
“I think….this seems to be another layer of healing. I think now that you are more aware of your body, more able to feel it, you are also able to feel these sensations. It’s another layer of healing, and it’s all hitting you at once. Flooding, it’s called flooding.”
I don’t say anything, but I nod my head and cry. I let myself break apart in her office because it’s the one place I don’t have to keep trying to balance and not fall.
Bea keeps reading. “This is very eloquent.”
“I highly doubt that,” I mumble.
“It is very eloquent,” she states again. “I can really get how you are feeling. These pictures really help show what is going on.” I had sketched out stick figure drawings, trying to show what had happened, what was in my head.
“If I fall, will you make sure Kat is okay? You won’t let her not be okay, right?”
“Yes, I will make sure she is okay if you fall.”
“Because if I fall, who will take care of her?” I ask Bea. I feel a bit frantic.
“Your hubby. He will take care of her. And I will make sure she is okay.”
“Will you…..if I break apart….if I fall….will you make sure….can you tell him I’m not crazy?” I ask.
“I can….” She says slowly. “You know, this is really common for survivors with kids to plan for not being around in the future, to worry about bad things happening.”
“It’s not….I just…I really need to know they will be okay.”
She is finishing reading my journal. “It’s not safe in the far away, and it’s not safe in the present. Nowhere feels safe,” she repeats the words I’d written. “That is a very scary thing to feel. If you ever feel really unsafe, really not okay, you don’t have to because you can always go to the hospital.”
“No. No. That is not safe. You don’t say that. I would not go. It’s not okay.” I’m fighting not to shut down, and I’m feeling really left. She doesn’t want to deal with my scary feelings, she wants me to go to the hospital. She wants to get rid of me.
“Ideally, we would stop you from falling like that. We would have you come in everyday and try to keep you from falling. We would work together to keep you safe.” Bea’s voice is quiet and gentle and her words penetrate through the feelings of rejection.
I sit crying, hiding my face, but her words– that she would have me come in everyday to try to keep me from falling– stick in my brain. Maybe I’m not so alone. I’m crying, sobbing, freaking out and so scared. “It won’t stop,” I tell her.
And then, Bea starts talking. She tells me she knows I am scared. She says she knows I feel very alone, and that no one understands. She tells me that she knows what the scary detached feeling feels like. She describes the body memories and how terrifying they are and how they can take over your feelings. She describes what it feels like in such detail that a part of me wonders if she really does know.
I nod my head. “Yes. That.” More tears fall.
“When did these memories start? Can you attach them to something specific?”
“The doctor appointment…..” I’m whispering, mumbling.
“Was it something specific about the doctor?”
“The male doctor. When he touched me.”
“You didn’t want him there?”
“I didn’t want him to touch me. I didn’t want him to touch me. I was so scared. I was so scared. I couldn’t breathe, I was so scared.” The words come out in a giant sob.
“Can you say ‘No’ now?” She questions softly. “Say what you didn’t get to say then?”
I shake my head.
“It would allow you to complete the action, or part of the action you didn’t get to complete. That’s what sensorimotor is about.” Bea tells me.
“Can I….can I just tell you what I would have said?” I ask.
“I….I wish I had said…….” I stumble. “I’m…not…..comfortable with a male doctor?”
“I’m not comfortable with a male doctor. That’s very good. Anything else?” I think Bea is smiling, pleased with me.
“I don’t want you to touch me.” I say softly.
“I’m not comfortable with a male doctor and I don’t want you to touch me,” she repeats. “Can you say it all?”
I shake my head. “I feel silly.”
“It does feel silly. I know. I’ve had to do this with the training. It can feel really silly. It’s about trying things, and being playful. Could we say it together?” She asks me slowly, carefully.
“I….okay.” I agree. I have to agree because I’m desperate to stop this and willing to try.
“I’m not comfortable with a male doctor and I don’t want you to touch me.” We say it together, slowly.
“How did that feel?” Bea asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Is there anything your body wants to do? Maybe kick, or stand up, run? Push away with your hands?” She offers up so many suggestions, but the only thing I want to do is curl my legs up to myself and glue my knees together; I want to be curled up and not seen.
I shake my head. “I…I…” I try to tell her, but end up panicking. My breathing speeds up, and I start crying again. I’m having a hard time calming down, so I clench my fists, and dig my nails into palms as hard a I can. I focus on that.
Bea sees my hands go into fists and she asks me to focus on them. She asks things about my hands, my fists, and I can’t answer. The more she questions, the more upset I get. I can’t tell her why my hands are in fists, or what I feel. Because all I feel is pain from nails, sharp, magic, numbing inducing pain. And I can’t tell Bea that, because I’m hurting myself and I can’t admit to that and have her mad at me.
“What do you feel in your hands? Are they loose or tight? Warm, cold? Do they want to do anything?” She asks.
I try to answer, and get more upset. “I…I…just…you’ll be mad.”
“I won’t. I won’t be mad. This is about what works for you. It’s experimenting. That’s all.” She tells me.
We go back and forth, me struggling to be able to get the words out, and Bea reassuring me she won’t be mad.
I relax my hands, set them flat. The words spill out. “I made my hands into a fist.”
“Consciously?” She asks. She is curious.
“Yes. I wanted….you won’t be happy.” My voice is small and scared.
“I’m only curious. This is just about being curious. It’s about working together and seeing what works for you.”
“My nails…..I was digging my nails……into my hands.” I’m ashamed. I don’t want to admit this.
“So….we could say you were hurting yourself. But we could also say that you were using a coping skill. Maybe we want to work to find one that doesn’t hurt you. But I’m not mad. So if you had been able to tell me in the moment, I feel my nails digging in my palm, we would have been able to work with that. We could have seen if something else felt calming, or if something else was okay. But it was a coping skill, it allowed you to calm down.” She tells me.
“Okay.” I whisper, tears streaming.
We end the session with me telling her how to make macarons, the process of making meringue, and creating different flavors, to mixing in the almond flour. I wipe my face, and get back to my far away, balancing, barely functional place. She had tried to tell me she wanted to help get me as grounded as possible, and not far away just balancing and functioning. She said that she knows I am struggling, but in her office it’s okay to fall apart and try to really ground myself. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let myself try again. So, we talked about macarons, and baking. And I got back to that balancing place before I left.