I lived in darkness during the first year after I began EMDR. Between memories of my father and grandmother, and nursing a broken heart thanks to my beau’s ultimate betrayal, it was everything I could do to get out of the house some days.
There were the days I just couldn’t move at all, so I curled up on the couch and searched for ways to distract myself from the new reality of my life. My favorite old movies made me cry with their fairy tales of love and happily ever, so I tried to watch funny movies to cheer me up. That didn’t work. Nor did talking to my best friends, reading books, gardening, playing the piano, or searching the internet looking for information on abuse. I worked, but had so much trouble focusing. There was nowhere to hide from the truth.
I knew that the only way out of my pain was straight through it. But it was so huge, so overbearing, so dark – I couldn’t even get my arms around it, much less conquer it. I spent hours with my horses, telling them of my pain, my life, my truth. I’d hug them to me and the pain would ease for a bit. They saved my life with their unconditional love and spiritual gift of healing.
Still, I didn’t think I’d ever recover. Sometimes I wasn’t sure I wanted to; what life did I have if I returned to the light? The love of my life was gone, my whole life was a lie. I lay on the couch for days on end as the darkness deepened. All of my energy, my will to live, was being sucked dry by the emotional memories of my truth.
Some days, I didn’t want to take another breath. The nights were worse. I’ve never had a true life partner before my beau. I’d grown accustomed to having someone to share my life with during my time with him. Now I was all alone again. I was in shock, so unprepared for his betrayal, for my entire life’s betrayal. A few weeks ago I’d been planning our forever-after lives. Now I was abandoned and completely alone.
All the traumas of my life paled in comparison to this pain. Always before I’d reached down deep inside and found the strength to rise up. This time, I couldn’t find the light, the strength or the will to survive, much less thrive.
Yet somewhere deep inside, I knew I had a choice. I could step up and live, or I could curl up and die. The problem was — I didn’t like either choice. If anything I was more drawn to dying than to living.
So I stayed somewhere in the middle for over a year — curled up in a ball, wanting to die yet knowing I would, somehow, survive. Praying life would get better.
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Hi Elizabeth.
For years I was in therapy for all kinds of things – but never touched the deepest spot. I had the image of a perfect childhood – although my dad and I didn’t get along as ‘adults’ (from 14 or so years old I fought back). No one would have ever guessed I had any form of abuse. I was functional, successful, had a great life – other than bad men and a lot of scary voices.
But the truth was that i had days when I didn’t want to get out of bed – and my therapist would tell me to stay in bed, to give myself what I needed. Everyone thought my ‘hide under the covers days” were because I was so high energy. I’d crash on the other side of using too much energy. So we thought I needed the ‘breaks’ to recoup my energy and power up. Yeah right – I know better now. I was hiding from myself and my truth – and the world.
I always had empathy for the abused ones – would reach out and do anything to help someone in that position. I too, felt ‘small’. Felt the need to have people ‘see’ me, even though everyone else thought I was bigger than life. I think the need to be seen comes from the powerless during the abuse – a powerlessness that is so deep and overwhelming and all consuming even to this day as I remember my little girl.
I continue to be amazed at what our subconscious minds will do to protect us. It still blows me away that I so carefully (and perfectly) hid my truth for 45 of my 50 years – even the best therapists didn’t have a hint that I was abused. My dad tried to squelch me all along – but my Mom balanced that out with unconditional and complete love. That balance gave me the power to move forward in my life as a relatively normal human. No one would have guessed the real ugly truth – not even me. Yet as the memories began to surface – I knew they were true.
We are creatures with a will to survive – and thrive. Sometimes we just hide too much truth for our own good. But I do know this – the truth will come out if we allow it to reveal itself. In my case I was in therapy for years but never reached beyond the veil – even though I had so many shocks and painful events meant to trigger the doors to open. I just wasn’t ready – yet.
Your inner self knows when the time is right. Listen to that voice…and follow it. Who knows what that voice will tell you. Perhaps only small things that aren’t as bad as you may expect. Regardless of what that voice shares – the truth is the path to freedom. I always remind myself of that.
Hang in there on your journey my friend. There is LOTS of light at the end of the tunnel, and all around us.
Hugs, love and light
Thriving
This is fascinating to me. Thank you so much for sharing your story.
My story is kind of a mirror-image of yours. I’m smart and well-educated, but have been an underachiever most of my life.
My romantic history is more about accepting crumbs of affection than being betrayed by deep loves. Part of this may be that I never really trust. In this, as in other areas. I always have a “Plan B.”
I don’t do rageful heartbreak, because I gave up long, long ago.
I suspect, but don’t yet know for sure, sexual abuse in my early life. But the abuse I do know about had to do with my parents not “seeing” me, not valuing me, and squelching my literal and emotional voice in every way possible.
I identified strongly with Anne Frank when the movie came out when I was 10, and now I know why.
It’s taken me 4 years of therapy to get to this understanding. Earlier therapy didn’t go deep enough, because at any given moment I appear to be high functioning. No, no madwoman rages for me (yet?). My response is to lie in bed for hours playing solitaire on my iPhone. (Solitaire, get it?)
Anyway, thank you again, and good luck to us in our continuing journey.