The Portal

Round and round, back and forth, it moves in erratic loops. My eyes are drawn to it. It isn’t creepy to me as most insects are. It’s just a tiny bug crawling around on the floor of my therapist’s office no more than a few feet away from me. I hear my own voice in my head, curiously wondering where this tiny bug is trying to go. Then I wonder why I am wondering about the bug. I hear my therapist’s reassuring words that I am safe, reminding me where I am, and asking me questions I don’t know how to answer. I hear more words – they come from inside and feel like a reminder. “The bug is here – in your therapist’s office. You are in your therapist’s office too.” Those words seem to repeat like a mantra as my eyes continue to follow its unpredictable pattern across the floor.

I feel confused and scared. I can’t sit still. Something feels loud inside.

I see the bug. I know it is there. I know it is in this safe room with me. But that’s not what the young one inside of me sees. She sees the blinds in his bedroom. It doesn’t make sense. I look away from the bug to make the blinds go away. It works. I look back at the bug. The blinds come back again. I look away again. I don’t understand. I don’t know how to vocalize what is happening. It’s a bug on the floor in my therapist’s office. Just follow the bug. If you can see the bug then you are in this room with her.

I know I am safe here, but I can’t stop shaking. My body doesn’t feel safe. The young one inside of me doesn’t feel safe. Finally I reveal what she sees. She is confused. She thinks the bug and the blinds are the same – an indication that we must disappear from our body into them because something bad is about to happen. She thinks we’re not safe. She thinks we need to go away now. But I know it’s not the same. I feel my body fidgeting. I can’t stop moving. I can hear my therapist’s voice reminding me where I am – reminding me that I didn’t do anything wrong. I need the young one to hear that too. But she can’t hear it. She’s too afraid. She feels an urge to apologize and an urge to go away – somewhere far away inside of herself. I feel it too. I feel me. I feel her. I feel scared trying to hold both of us in this space. It feels slippery – like I could easily get lost here. I keep looking at the bug as if it’s some sort of portal of connection between me and her. But the portal feels hypnotic. If I look too long I start to believe what she sees too. In and out I move from my thoughts to hers, from my eyes to hers, from my body to hers. It moves faster and holds on longer and makes me dizzy and I feel sick inside. It’s hard to see. It’s hard to remember what is mine and what is hers. It blends. It confuses.

She begins to cry – big heavy tears. I don’t know why we are crying, but she does. She knows exactly why and that is enough for me. I let the tears that she’s been holding in for all these years pour out from me. It feels explosive, and I don’t have any say in what it looks or sounds like. I don’t like it. But in this moment we are as close as we can get. I feel everything she holds overflowing from me – everything she has felt and needed to release but never had a safe place for.

When the shaking and crying finally stops I breathe. Everything slows down. My awareness returns to the room and my sweaty body that sits in bewilderment at what just transpired. I feel embarrassed. I don’t fully understand what or how that just happened. I don’t want to look at my therapist. I’m worried about what she thinks of me. Shame tries to creep in and pollute this healing moment. Shame tries to attach this feeling to what it knows from other times. It tries to tell me that positive feelings of relaxation, release, or relief are gross and wrong. It tries to tell me that it’s the same as all the times pleasure was mixed with pain. It tries to convince me that I did something bad again.

My therapist’s reassuring eyes encourage me to look into hers, and her words remind me that I did nothing wrong. This helps to loosen this shameful feeling that sticks to me like thick tar. The shame doesn’t go away, but it doesn’t drown me either.

I feel something else too. I feel this young one relax just a little bit inside of me. It feels like maybe she’s been given a moment that she has desperately needed. She’s been waiting for this safe place to share what burdens her and shed these tears for a very long time. This makes me feel like maybe I did something right in my therapist’s office this time. And although I get a strong feeling inside that there are more tears to come another day it feels okay in this moment to close my eyes just for an instant and breathe. And that feels okay for the young one too.

A Hero With A Blanket

She is alone. Desperately alone. He left her there unclothed. All curled up, she tries to cover and protect what is left of her. She faces the blue wall, her back to the door. She fears he will come back. She fears he won’t.

She doesn’t remember when her legs start working again and how she gets up from that bed and into his car to be taken home. But she gets there. She survives this day and all of the days that come to continually test her capabilities. This brave young warrior emerges from the pain she routinely faces and carries on. Again and again and again.

She grows up and begins to make a life for herself far away from the hurtful places. Joy finds its way into her heart again as she creates new memories to layer on top of the painful past ones. She begins to believe that she can bury her past deep down far enough that it can no longer touch her – no longer haunt her – no longer hurt her. But it doesn’t seem to work that way.

A simple sight, sound, or smell takes her right back to those buried places. It awakens everything inside of her, intertwining past and present until she can no longer distinguish the two. Unable to untangle this mess on her own she seeks the help of heroes trained to help her. Over time they help her find words to describe all that she has experienced. For a long time these words feel separate from her, as if she is telling someone else’s story.

Then one day her own shaky voice begins to speak. This young girl simply wishing to impress her coach steps forward and begins to tell her story. Her words feel like aching truth clawing out from within. What she sees – what she feels – all that she begins to express are words she has never both spoken out loud and truly felt before. Her fears, confusion, and shame begin to have a place outside of her own imprisoned mind.

She is not asked to change her story. She is not asked to minimize or omit parts that feel too vile to be spoken. She is not pulled from her experiences and from her truth to fabricate a rescue that never occurred. Instead, as she describes each detail that she can still deeply feel, she is offered the kind of comfort that never existed before. She is offered what she needed in the moments after what she has just described – in those moments where her naked body laid curled up on his bed all alone. Here she is offered a blanket and a protective presence to sit beside her and keep a careful watch on the door.

She feels strangely protected by this new image infused into her own painful reality. What happened to her in those moments before as well as the days, months, and years that follow cannot be changed for her. But in this moment, with a hero’s guidance by her side, a profoundly powerful and transformative breath of safety occurs for this young girl in his bedroom. In this brief moment she no longer feels alone.

When the Body Speaks

She shifts her body back into her seat, puts her seatbelt on, and tries to make sense of what has just happened. She is unsure of what to feel as her system is overwhelmed with emotions around the details that replay in her mind. She needs a guide to help her navigate the confusion that swirls from within. But he is all that she has. So she turns her uncertain glance in his direction. Upon noticing a slight smile on his face she thinks she must have done something right. But she wonders why she doesn’t feel right inside.

Moments ago she was scared. Moments ago she was lost in overwhelm. Moments ago she felt sick inside and wanted to get far away from here. She was touched by a man that she calls her coach, and yet moments ago her body responded with pleasure to his sickening touch.

Her first orgasm was experienced in his car in response to what he does to her. Each time his touch results in this response from her body layer upon layer of evidence that she asked for it – that she wanted it – that she is to blame for it piles upon her. How is a child supposed to process this tangled mess of pleasure and pain of sexual abuse?

I have been told that my young body did exactly what it was biologically designed to do in those moments. I have been told that I should carry no burden of responsibility or blame or shame for how my body reacted to what was done to me. This response from my adolescent body was not an indication that I asked for it, was defective in some way, or was complicit in what was repeatedly done to me. The only thing it indicates is that my body did exactly what it was physically designed to do.

This has been an incredibly difficult concept for my adult brain alone to accept. For the young parts of me that remember what it feels like to sit in his car on the drive home after he touched me it is still so confusing. If he was hurting me, why did it feel good sometimes? If I was so scared and wanted to go home, why did I relax and let his hands access everywhere he wished to touch? And why did I let it feel good? Doesn’t that say something about me? Doesn’t that mean there is something inherently wrong with me?

I sit curled up on the floor in my therapist’s office. Our work together is aimed at releasing the stored physical sensations I experience today as a result of childhood trauma. As she guides me through this session I notice that the calming effect I can achieve from the slow deep breaths I am focusing on only goes as far as my tensed and coiled up body position will allow. She gently invites me to uncoil in front of her, reassuring me that I am safe – that she will not hurt me. Immediately I begin to feel my hands, arms, and shoulders begin to tremble. The mere suggestion of letting my guard down in front of her begins to overwhelm my system. I keep trying to breathe, relax my body, and stop the shaking. But she then asks if I can try to stop resisting it – instead allow the shaking to come if it wishes to come. She gently reassures that it is safe to tremble there. And with that comes a wave of trembling, shaking, and eventually a flood of tears as my body releases the enormous wave of energy around this fear of vulnerably relaxing from my protective curled up position.

I do not have a sense how long I was shaking and crying in there, but after some time it slowly began to fade. First the tears stopped. Then the shaking slowly softened. Afterwards I felt a calm and relaxed state restore throughout my body. My therapist gently encouraged me to notice both the physical calm I felt in my body along with the safe and nurturing care I received from her. It was safe to relax there. It was safe to lower my guard and release the stored pain my body carries.

I noticed every bit of this. I felt my shoulders relax. I felt my breathing slow down. I felt my hands unclench. I felt comforted by her words that I let enter my ears and embrace me from within. It felt freeing and calming. It felt incredible. But I felt something else too. In that moment I chalked it up to being freaked out by what had just occurred. After all, it was an incredibly frightening experience to welcome an overwhelm of uncontrollable shaking and crying that took over my body. But there was another feeling – a feeling that has continued to linger unidentified until right now. As I sat on the floor in front of her after my body trembled violently and tears poured from my eyes, I felt exposed. What just happened? That was terrifying. Did I do something wrong? Did I do something right? What does she think of me? Am I ever going to be able to look her in the eye again? I felt an urge to apologize. I couldn’t understand why I felt that way, and I got the sense I wasn’t supposed to feel that way. But I was far too confused and disoriented to say any of it out loud. So I just tried to focus on the calm I physically felt while the other feelings waited in the background for me to acknowledge later.

Away from her office I realized that this experience connected directly to something for a young part inside of me – the young part that remembers putting her seatbelt on after something felt both horribly painful and terrifying and also somehow good. This part whose body betrayed her by responding with pleasure to his touch sat frozen on the floor in my therapist’s office scared that she did it again. Did she just let her body feel good when something bad was happening? Was this feeling of calm the same as what she knows from long ago?

Adult me understands the difference. Adult me understands what we accomplished in the therapy room that day. Adult me understands the importance of this approach to healing the wounds that linger and impact me today. But this young part is left rattled and wondering, “Did I do something bad again?”