GUIDED EXCISION AND CLEANING OF THE HEART MUSCLE Chapter 2
Ah, trauma therapy. It’s warm and cozy in here. Am I doing this wrong? I’m not crying inside of therapy, only outside and that doesn’t even feel gross? There is no “one way of normal” here in trauma therapy I’m told, so I’m ok? Ok.
My most traumatic events have taken root somewhere in me and sprouted and grown into a titanium and chewed-gum skeleton to prop me up it seems… but I have that other, original calcium-based skeleton that came with the DNA that would like to do it’s job without being micromanged by the snake-headed one, so it’s a little crowded in here. Lot’s of neck stiffness. Yoga helps when I remember to do it. There is some numbness to overcome, like I am supposed to attach jumper cables to my circulatory system and restart it. I want my nutritious blood to reach every nation on the map of myself. I want no place inside me to experience neglect anymore. That’s why I’m here in the first place.
I’m finding that my inner sea monter is not one guy, but a collage of creatures, some purely structural like coral, and some pure defense like barnacles. Both are sharp. This week I am supposed to listen to the traumatic story I told my doctor and recorded every day for seven days to see if I can crack the surrounding numbness like a tiny spoon on a creme brulee. Thinking about listening to myself talk all blasé about my most traumatic experiences for 45 minutes a day fills me with a lukewarm numbness so like peeing in a public pool my instict is to quickly, but nonchalantly exit the pool and Houdini. It fills me with an eerie premonition of absolute boredom hypothermia. Because who cares what happened to little girls, right? We are here for consumption. It’s so common it’s beyond cliche. Who is worthy of being helped then if this is really true? It’s not true, but it’s the reining champion “Devil we know” so it’s not challenged enough. It’s time we all did.
I want to respond to every post about this kind of shit that you write, and I can never find good words (plus I'm a big feckin' scaredy cat), but I want to try this time. So here are a bunch of dorky jumbled thoughts: Your posts hurt my heart, in a good way. Like a knife that makes me happy to know it, and to know it can't actually hurt? They make me want to very softly touch your wrist with just a few fingers to let you experience a tiny extra bit of human connection, to say "I hear you, like god damn!" Your words also make *me* feel loved, somehow, and also weepy--on days I can manage it. You help me so much just by being your own honest unflinching kindhearted angry shiny curse-y brilliant generous awe-inspiring self.
I am not as strong as you (...but I am strong. I am still here, aren't I? That's a giant holy cow big deal). Your journey and your willingness to just bare it all here in public are precious to me. It's a vicarious thing, I guess. I know for a fact you are helping a ton of other humans who have been completely ingested by their trauma. Like me. God, writing even that little smidge makes my heart hammer on my collarbones and choke up my vocal chords. It's ridiculous.
I want to come out on the other side, too.
God bless your crooked little heart. I appreciate you so much. You are awesome, and you are gonna kick the shit out of that traumatic BS. Like god damn! ❤️
This work is so fucking hard and so fucking important. It’s only in recent years I have begun to understand how trauma lives physically in us. My body will remember dates and times even if my brain doesn’t right away. What I have learned is light and sound saying shit out loud over and over erodes its grip. I am bored with my own shit too, but you have to keep chipping away. You are not alone. We love you. Keep going.