Cartoon Faces & Super Heroes

For what has brought her to this place

if not a barrel of shame, misplaced?

Or empty satchels of vain disgrace

No matter

She raises her shield

And stares Him in the face.

This blog is a mash up of current and past experiences. For now, I continue to describe the EMDR and regular therapy sessions I’m having, as it is important (for me) to get this stuff out, and get it written down. Lest I not believe or forget someday that it occurred.

I am sitting on the purple couch. Headphones and finger vibrators are on again. We revisit the scene. Hot tears are tickling my jawline, but I don’t wipe them away. I feel my fingers numbly pressing into the ridged vibrating pieces of plastic and loosen my grip.  Breathe, baby, I’m here.

The ET asks me to go back to the incident in college. I’m having trouble at first, isolating it as one incident. There were so many. And they were all my fault. She asks me to focus on this one night, as if it were in a bubble. I’m familiar with bubbles, so this makes sense to me. I agree. My ET wants to make sure I am not “re-traumatized.” But the thing is, I never allowed myself to be traumatized in the first place. I shoved it away, down into a pocket of myself where all of the other secrets are held. No wonder I threw up. No room at the Inn.

My heart is beating loudly and screaming at me like a dying smoke alarm. BEEP. She asks me how many were there. I say I can only guess. Five…maybe 6? 7? There is one boy who walks in. They yell at him to lock the door. The look on his face is one of the only things I remember. But as I try to picture him now, he is a faceless cartoon. His “face” is a blank circle. He is grasping the doorknob. He turns away and closes the door. I hear only a few blips of sound. Flipping through radio channels. “Hold her down.” “Come on, dude.” “Get her.” And “Who’s next?”

I shouldn’t have been there alone. I shouldn’t have gone out by myself. I took the drink they offered me. I remember taking only one. The rest is a blur. BEEP. I wake up on their couch. It’s morning and I stumble back to my dorm, confused. What did I do?

I am aware of the buzzers and the tones in my ears. They are circling me in a sideways flight pattern. Orbiting my brain. Then they get back into a horizontal figure 8 pattern. ET sees the transition and asks me what I am noticing. I’m a very imaginative person. I say “There is a needle flying back and forth around my body, stitching itself together, with candy cane colored ribbons.” Ahhhhh. She asks me to continue with that. I tell her I’m back in the room, and learn that I am “titrating.” Aware of this term from starting countless psychiatric drugs, I get it. Back and forth, a little more, back and forth, a little further.

We go back to the dorm room. She asks me if I could change anything, what would it be? I’m crying again and feeling like a little girl slumped in a chair. A candy cane. She’s telling me what I already know. “No one has the right to do that to you.” But it’s only one thing, among so many others. I’ll never be done.

My mind screen switches to a little kid’s roller coaster in Seattle. I challenged my boyfriend to ride it with me. We are adults, and look slightly silly in the kindergarten seats. But it’s wild and fast and we are surprised. He has a scared-shitless look on his face. I am snapping pictures of our faces as we ride, laughing to the point of tears. Roller coaster dreams.

My ET has me foster the image and again my tears have stopped and I am smiling. I am practicing the art of being present. Grounding. She asks me to go back (again??) to the dorm room, and imagine how I would have liked things to go differently. I’m annoyed, because all I can think of is the aftermath. The boys crank calling me. “Friends” asking how I liked the gang bang. Whispers in class. The walls closing in. I am pissed and I want them all to die. But I wave like a good girl to the audience and press on. Classes to attend. Grades to achieve. I’m a good girl, damn it.

ET tells me there are NO RULES to what I want to change. The sky is the limit. Just when I think my mind refuses, I am transformed into She-Ra, wearing five inch shit kicker boots. I throw the fuckers off me and kick them to the ground.  Slowly sauntering towards the door, I confront the faceless cartoon. SLAP. His face is still blank. SLAP AGAIN. But I am not mad. I grab him by the skinny little arm and yank him. “Come on, you wimp.” And we’re off. Nowhere to go but up.

When I open my eyes she’s smiling at me. I’m always taken aback when therapists seem pleased with my craziness. Ah but I have heard…if you think you’re crazy, you’re not. That figures.

Kissing,

The Cockroach

Copyright © 2012 Kissing The Cockroach All Rights Reserved.

Advertisements

~ by Kissing The Cockroach™ on February 28, 2012.

8 Responses to “Cartoon Faces & Super Heroes”

  1. When I was doing EMDR, my therapist never told me I could change the scene however I wanted–she just wanted my adult-self to go in and rescue my child-self, and I could never do that. I might’ve taken to it more if I could’ve rewritten it so I got to beat people up.

    • This T made a point of telling me in the beginning, that she didn’t want to re-traumatize. And it’s weird, what sings to us and what doesn’t. I don’t think I would want to imagine going in to save my younger self. Because THIS self is just now starting to figure it out. This self has no right to make any rescues. Not yet! She’s busy rescuing herself. (Sharpening the heels on her shit kicker boots.)
      Thanks for reading..
      xooxoxox
      The Cockroach

      • That makes so much sense: “what sings to us and what doesn’t.” I might steal that phrase.

        I think being able to rescue my child-selves is an important piece of work…I’m just not there yet. I have this resentment/anger toward those child-selves that I need to work out first, but first I have to understand it.

      • Steal away. 😉 I totally hear you about needing to understand it. There are lots of things that I can understand now, as an adult looking back, and it makes it easier to say “Oh, okay. I can see that my parents did the best they could at the time. (for example.) And they were just surviving also.” But…one thing I notice is we have to be mindful that intellectually understanding something doesn’t make it disappear. It’s just one more layer to peel away and discard, in the journey of getting to the heart, and truly feeling, and letting go. I am certain your little selves did the very best they could in order to survive and get you to the point where your fingers can type about it today. ((((((kiss)))))))

      • Yeah, I do tend to live mostly in the intellectual realm, which leaves emotional parts of me and other selves stranded. I have a lot of intellectual insight into my craziness, but my emotional belief in those insights is severely lagging.

      • Me too. Which is why after so many years of trying to understand it, I realized recently…I have to f**king feel it in order to let it go. Darn.

      • It sounds like you have a great T. Your “This self has no right to make any rescues. Not yet! She’s busy rescuing herself” really echoes in me. I could never rescue myself either. But I think I have acquired some small measure of tools for use if I ever ran into those situations again.

        Thank you for being willing to share these with us. Those of us not so brave need this on occasion.

      • It’s a miracle that just by letting this stuff breathe outside of me for once it might actually help others find their voice. Thank you for sharing!!!
        The Cockroach

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

 
%d bloggers like this: