I had intended for my next post to be about chapter 1 of Romans Disarmed. That post is still percolating in my brain somewhere, but I’m writing instead about my latest adventure in EMDR, the trauma therapy I’ve recently restarted in earnest, though now I’m doing it remotely. Trauma therapy, perhaps like all therapy, is interesting no doubt for many reasons, but one of them is just how repetitive it seems to be: “Really, we’re talking about this again?” “How is it even possible that I’m still dealing with that, all these years later, and after all the work I thought I’d done?”
Scorekeeping Produces a Loser
My most recent session was informed by how triggered I got this past weekend. It’s an age-old dance in my life and marriage, my struggle to live into my best self as a full and equal partner to my longsuffering spouse regarding how we divvy up our many household responsibilities. We try not to keep score, but I suspect she and I both know if we did I would lose, handily. It’s not that I don’t pitch in (and here’s where I would recite all the things I do do in a mostly conscious effort to balance the ledger, but you probably don’t want to read that, and I don’t want to write it). The fact is I could work from dawn to dusk on innumerable projects that better our life together as a family, and it would matter not a whit for one unavoidable reason- my wife has specifically asked me to share equally in certain household tasks as best I can- and obviously the “right” thing to do is to say yes, mean it, and follow through.
So why can’t I seem to consistently do this, two-and-a-half decades in? Of course, again, it’s not about the work. What often happens is I’ll often avoid those very specific tasks by instead taking on big projects that everyone benefits from, including my wife. Those projects often (but not always) involve more work, at least in the short run. And I’m keenly aware of our patriarchal and chauvinistic society and the ways that I continue to benefit from it; so I certainly don’t want or mean to perpetuate those stereotypes in my home, nor model it for my boys. No, there’s clearly something else going on. The truth is that these again very specific household duties invariably produce in me emotional flashbacks to the trauma of my youth. The mere thought of them can send my heart racing and make me flighty, and those thoughts- those neural pathways- are well-entrenched and hard to avoid.
That is, of course, the work of EMDR- not avoiding per se those entrenched, maladaptive pathways, but feeling what needs to be felt about the original trauma so that the brain scarring might heal, and then building some new pathways, a “workaround” to the damaged tracks that were laid. At least that’s how I understand EMDR these days. I have some vague memory of how my mother related to me over these very same household tasks when I was a kid: demanding that I do them from a young age while never lifting a finger to do any of it herself and then micro-managing, controlling, and second-guessing me every step of the way, eventually resorting to rage and screaming at me when invariably I didn’t get it right.
It’s funny (or not); I just said “right.” I’m right-handed, and here’s what virtual EMDR looks like these days. Instead of sitting in my clinician’s office with paddles in my hands that alternately buzz to stimulate each side of my brain (how EMDR works, and my preferred method for doing it- the paddles, I mean), I hear a “buzz” in my headphones during our virtual session as I sit with my arms crossed over my chest and alternately pat each arm, synced to the audible buzz. Today we were processing the time around my own conception, and I noticed along the way that the pattern with which I was patting my arms just felt wrong. I knew instinctively that I wasn’t doing it right, and ironically the “problem” was that I had starting patting my arm with my left hand and then was alternating from there. I stopped and started over with my right hand first, and it was better. Now, your guess as to what this means is as good as mine, but this was mine: I needed to start with my right hand because part of my entrenched trauma response is a perpetual effort to get everything “right.” It was simply too dangerous in the home of my youth to get something wrong, and I carry that felt sense of potential danger lurking behind every mistake around with me to this day, every minute of every day.
A Tiring Story
That wasn’t even the big revelation for today, though. Today’s big revelation was a feeling: resentment. It used to be that I could tell my story with all of its trauma and all the drama and get some sense of relief from doing so, some validation for my resilience and survival. For a while though, now, that has no longer been the case. Mostly now my story just makes me tired. I’m tired of hearing myself talk about it, tired of looking for external validation from every new person to hear it, tired of having to carry it around. It’s probably no coincidence that I’m tired generally– always tired, bone-crushingly so, but almost never restful. I do suffer from Complex PTSD after all. Take, for example, the graph of my sleep last night from my sleep app:
Now, I will admit that not every night is quite as bad as last night, but a night like this is not unheard of. Sometimes there’s a lot more green indicating restful sleep, but usually with frequent yellow restless interludes showing that rest just doesn’t seem to be very sustainable for me.
So during my most recent EMDR session when I became aware that I was feeling resentful about my own story, the story I was born into, I described myself moving from feeling “clenched” to feeling collapsed. At the time of my conception and ever since, there is a (metaphorical, maybe) sense in which I’ve always been clenched, knowing that pain is coming, and doing my best to endure it, to survive. So apparently I resent being born into trauma, and knowing that my very existence is evidence of the trauma of others. I’ve recounted elsewhere on this blog about my parents marrying very shortly after my dad’s first wife died, and my mother being a trauma survivor in her own right, having endured even worse trauma than she inflicted on me, and how her entrance into my dad’s existing family (in which he had three kids already) utterly devastated that family and sent the lives of my half-siblings on trajectories that they would not have chosen for themselves, certainly. Objectively, of course their lives would have been better had their mom lived, and if she had, I would not exist. I’ve known and wrestled with that for some time. In my most recent EMDR session, though, I realized that (shocker!) I have a feeling about this (aside from longstanding guilt)- I resent it. It probably makes me angry too, but I think the resentment is deeper. Realizing this, I felt a little less clinched, and moved to collapse from all the effort. Fatigue washed over me yet again, and I’m sitting with it today.
Plan to Fail
This being the season of Advent, an Advent unlike any other in my living memory at least, and one in which Circle of Hope is leaning into lament as an alternative to despair, I’m tempted to end on a hopeful note. I realized the other day that lament is a move toward hope, while despair is a move in the other direction. I’m not sure if I can make that move just yet, but I suppose it’s good that (with some therapeutic help) at least I came up with a plan for the next time I’m confronted with the need to engage in common household duties that sustain our life together and make me a good partner in it. In short, I plan to fail. I know with the wisdom of experience that I’m going to get it “wrong.” I’ll feel agitated. I may be tempted to metaphorically if not literally run. That’s okay. Feelings are just…feelings. They’re weather on the mountain. They’ll pass. I’ll try to build in some time to freak out about what I know I need to do, and I’ll try to do it quietly, and once I’m done, I’ll get to work. That’s the plan, anyway.