An interesting thing happened this week at therapy. My therapist and I were working through a pretty intense exercise called Life Integration. It’s a method to help with PTSD and processing traumatic events. I wrote out a timeline of my life with big events – both good and bad. Then, together with my therapist, we worked through a mini timeline, scene by scene, moment by moment of the event in question. The therapist then read the entire timeline through three times, praying each time at the beginning to invite God unto the healing process. After each read through, the therapist asked, “When you think about the worst part of that trauma, where do you feel it in your body?” Weird, right?
The first time through I felt it everywhere. I never told anyone the details. No one knew how to ask. Hearing someone else tell me what happened held both pain and power. The memory shot ice through my veins and dropped a boulder on my chest. Every muscle tensed under with the gravity of that day. The second time I could breathe a little easier but I still knew what was coming as she continued to read. By the third time reading through, I was still shaking, but the weight in my chest had lifted ever so much. I still dreaded reading over the painful parts, but I looked forward to the joyful parts of my story as well. I knew I would feel safe again.
During the last prayer, my therapist said, “Lord, we know that you work all things for good, and when this healing process is over, Jess will be better than ever, even better than if this abuse never happened.”
I didn’t quite know what to make of that. Was it really better that this happened? This thing I kept hidden for 23 years that continues to influence every relationship I’ve ever had?
Something else happened when I invited someone else into that space I tried to forget. Sure, I allowed myself to feel the pain and fear I spent so long shoving further down and misdirecting at other people, but I also felt anger. The anger was shortly followed by bitterness. I didn’t want to give that man any credit for making me the person that I am, let alone actually making me better.
I left the therapy appointment feeling totally drained and still somehow amped on emotions. Part of me wanted to put the memories and emotions back in the box and throw it in the corner until I came back to therapy next week. I might not heal, but at least I won’t hurt. The other part wanted to be able to move on, make healthy choices, and form lasting relationships. The pain is there whether I acknowledge it or not, and this is a safe place to heal. These two thoughts were at war within me. “Disassociate, compartmentalize, live to fight another day,” clashed with, “Stay in the moment, lean into the truth, surrender your fight to the only One who can fight for you.”
And that’s where I’m at. I know I’ve said this before, but I started this blog to let people into my healing process. It’s messy and incomplete but there is hope. I don’t always make good choices. Afer my therapy session, I spent the day watching Parks & Rec, drinking wine, and not thinking about anything other than Leslie Knope running for city council. But, the next day I did a journaling exercise and tried working through some of the thoughts and feelings that came up during therapy. Not every day is a win, but hopefully, there are more good days than bad days.
I still don’t know what I think about being better off with my trauma than without it. If anything though, I’m beginning to understand it’s not a credit to the man who harmed me; rather a credit to God for having the power to gently heal the brokenness and bring glory to Himself in the process.
He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. He determines the number of the stars; he gives to all of them their names. Great is our Lord, and abundant in power; his understanding is beyond measure. The Lord lifts up the humble; he casts the wicked to the ground. – Psalm 147:3-6
I am reminded of a special kind of Japanese pottery called kintsugi. It is made by using broken pottery and fitting the pieces back together using liquid gold. Each piece is unique, and the end product is truly so much more unique and beautiful than the original. Now, I’m not usually one to end on a heavy-handed metaphor, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything. Therapy is making me such a sap. (Jk, I was already like this).
