Through the fear, rejection, and shame feelings.
Through a migraine and a fever. Through class.
I kept eating. At least, when the migraine-induced nausea subsided.
I feel pretty shameful still from Wednesday’s therapy session where the last 15 minutes went downhill fast and I thought I’d recovered but as soon as I stood up to leave tears rushed to my eyes—not the grateful kind. Those were tears of oh FUCK, what just happened? What did I just say? She must think I’m the worst. Gosh, I’m so awful.
I couldn’t look at her on my way out. My therapist moved on to her next client and I left my tears in the lobby bathroom.
Shame filled me. It still fills me.
In that moment I realized just how alone I was in my own trauma work. Fuck this, I said to the mirror. More tears came. Anger began to rise—I could feel my face getting hot—at my therapist for coaxing it out of me. I was grateful before—how did it turn to anger?
Because I was safe in that room with her, and then suddenly I wasn’t safe and didn’t feel safe and couldn’t go back in and so… well that’s some fucked up safety. Let’s talk about these hard things and then you go and try to sit with it all on your own in real life where all of this safe space doesn’t exist.
It’s difficult to put trauma work down. I carry trauma out the door with me after it gets ripped open in therapy. And even though my therapist was supportive and caring and with me, when I leave that space after all the heaviness that bleeds out in it, it’s not hers to deal with.
Which is a bit upsetting. Because we were just experiencing it together, then suddenly we are not. I am alone. Very, very alone.
The loneliness in the midst of trying to process all of this and the debilitating level of shame that exists in my bones renders me immobile, often, lately.
This must be why so many people quit before they make it this far.
Trauma therapy is hard and heartbreaking work. There must be light and peace on the other side, if I can make it through. There must.