The Deepest Wound

Hello pressers of words….I really didn’t “want” to write today. But then I remembered I have a little group of friends here. And it would be good for me to write it down, while it’s fresh.While I still feel like a steam roller came and crapped all over me, then wheeled over, again, and again, and again. Then a rainbow appeared.

It is another Microscopic Monday….EMDR therapy day…and I knew. I KNEW before leaving the house it was going to be a rough one. I pressed “snooze” from 7am until 10am. I hate snooze. He is such a bad lover. Yet I keep going back. Why? Why? This means already I was off kilter when I finally did face what lies beyond the bed. Help me, I’m falling. Jump and your wings will appear. Please don’t sleep with snooze anymore. He doesn’t love you.

This was EMDR visit number 4. My ET asked me to please make a list of the items I want to address in our time together. I sat in my car (because I’m always a half hour early wherever I go) and wrote the list. On the left, I wrote a brief word or two about the trauma or event, and on the right, I wrote my age or ages at the time. I felt nothing while writing it. (Except critical, over my hand writing.) And when I handed it to her a few minutes later, she said “Oh you are SO good. You do everything I ask. This is excellent.” She laughed because I titled it “The Bucket List.” And at the bottom I had a section called “Done.” Underneath was “Boys in College” and “Bus Accident.” She made a copy and handed it back to me with a beaming, proud grin. Gold star for you. It felt similar to when I got “A’s” on papers in school. The teacher applauded me for my “work” and I rolled my internal eyes, thinking if they only knew. If they only knew. I did it at the last minute. I didn’t even try…don’t they know I’m a fake?

“Lady, do you even KNOW WHAT IS ON THAT LIST?!?!?!” That was what one side of my brain was saying and the other was pleading, “Please, please take this from me. Take it all away. I don’t want it anymore.”

I told her about the panic attack I had on Friday. I was so happy to make it through without having to take a xanax. (And without drinking or throwing up.) I describe to her the BOAconstrictor in my chest. The Ball Of Angst. I’m hooked up to the machines now, and she asks me to go back, and describe the BOA. She’s so pretty, my ET. She’s so purple and frilly and artsy. It feels foreign, this honesty. I close my eyes.

I wonder secretly which one, from the bucket list, that she’ll choose. Will I be able to handle it today?

She says “Sooooooo….I’m going to detour from your list today and go with my intuition.”

FUCK. Why me? What am I doing here? Oh my god. And I pay for this?? I can’t deal with this. This wasn’t in the plan. What is she talking about? I did the assignment. You HAVE the list. Read from The List!

I feel it. I can hear her talking. It’s marbled, like Charlie Brown speak. Wawh waaawh waawh waaah wawawawaah. “So, I want to talk about…” Waawh Waawh Waaah “something you said when we talked last time” Waawh Waah Waaawh “about going after your dreams” Waaawh Waawh Waaawwah “how allowing yourself to follow your heart” Waaah Waawh “and how that causes you extreme anxiety and fear.” Waawh Waaawh “Let’s go back…” Waawh Waaawh Waawh “in time and see if we can trace the origin of that feeling.” Waaawh oh no tell me she didn’t Wwwawh Waawwh Trace? Back? I don’t want to go back.

I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

Why is this so hard?

Haven’t I been through way worse?

My face, I can feel it. Hot. Contorting. That inhuman guttural freakish crying face people get. They seem to move through worlds unknown and it’s painted on their faces like an exorcism in motion. My best friend and I used to call it “Ugly When Crying.” I am in a sling shot. Rocketing me back in time. My chest is buckled in. I can’t buckle far enough. I am trying to disappear. It hurts to feel.

I’m a girl. Oh my God.

I’m a woman. Oh my God.

You made it.


I’m here. I love you.

But it hurts. And I hate them.

But you made it. You made it.

I made it? Oh my God. I made it.

More tears. Where is this coming from. I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t believe I am HERE. I made it.

“How old are you?”



The Cockroach

Copyright © 2012 Kissing The Cockroach All Rights Reserved.

~ by kissingthecockroach on March 12, 2012.

7 Responses to “The Deepest Wound”

  1. I wish I could give that 11-year-old a hug.

    Dreams are scary. There are so many things I want out of life, but I’m afraid to want them–because what happens to me if I don’t achieve the goals? Will I crumble into nothing? It’s terrifying.

    But I also believe it’s worthwhile.

    It’s sort of a practice thing for me. I start with thinking about a small goal for a short time. Eventually, I move on to bigger dreams and longer times. It’s about creating a holding environment where it’s safe to have wants and needs. For a lot of that, finding an external holding environment isn’t possible, but I think, with practice, it’s possible to create a holding environment within ourselves.

    I hope.

  2. I know it was hell going through it. But, once it’s over, it’s over, you know? That’s the worst part of it – healing. I’m attempting to do that right now. Bringing those things back from the dead is like having to relive it, just when you thought it was in the past. But, the problem with the past is that is has a tendency to bleed into the present, kind of like an undressed wound. If it’s not cared for properly and attended to, then it starts to fester instead of heal.

    That is the worst hell, having to bring it all back. I hope you are doing better with each thing you work out. Emotional purging, you know? For me, it’s like, “What do you do with all of those memories and emotions once they surface?” I can’t answer it yet. I don’t know. But, I know the more I let out, the better I feel.

  3. I know the hell! As we’ve talked! Exposing this is brilliant and a step toward healing! Mucho proudness over here for you 🙂 It’s hard when you hold it all in and you need to get it out some way. It’s sad, and overwhelming and scary and just INSANITY! But, just writing about this and “purging” the words, so to speak, is brave and healing. 🙂 xox

  4. I can’t imagine being able to brave the emotional turmoil that you are able to confront. Despite EMDR being such a confrontational therapy for your memories, it seems like you are becoming more comfortable with your past as the weeks go by.

    Although you won’t agree, I think you’re doing great.

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