I had another round of EMDR therapy today. This time was very different from the others. In my previous sessions the memories have all stayed in the hospital, with the exception of last week when I “saw” them in the hospital, but don’t think the memory of my parents arguing actually took place in that location. This time, though, none of it was at the hospital.
To begin, I was told to focus on the image of “little me in the great big hospital bed” which is the image that comes up when I think of this memory and the thought “I am defective.” This is how every session starts, so it came as a surprise to me that this time the hospital didn’t stick around. Instead I found my thoughts wandering to many different places and times in my life.
I recalled being out in the front yard with all of the neighborhood kids riding bikes, throwing balls, and chasing one another while I sat to the side, climbed a tree to watch from between the branches, or snuck back to my room to read a book. I felt separate from the rest of the kids. I couldn’t do the things they were doing. And I felt alone.
I remembered being at school and waiting for the elevator, all of my friends telling me I was “lucky” that I didn’t have to use the stairs or take PE.
Then there was the memory of summer camp, trying to keep up with the rest of my group on our hike, but slowing everyone down until a counselor carried me on their back.
There were the doctor’s appointments with breathing treatments and shots and daily medications. Lying to my mom and saying I’d taken my meds when I hadn’t and didn’t intend to.
So many memories of feeling like the outsider. The freak. The defective one.
When the session was over I began to cry. It was overwhelming to think of all the ways I’d felt isolated, even in the midst of large groups of people. And in every memory, it was my health that separated me.
My therapist said that she got chills when she heard me refer over and over again to reading and books and using it as an escape, knowing I later became a librarian. Books and reading were the one place I wasn’t left behind. I didn’t slow people down or need extra attention. I could go and be anything I wanted when I read. It was very natural to want to be surrounded by books as an adult as well.
That is why I feel compelled to write as well. Because when I write, the world gets to be whatever I want it to be. I’m not left out because it’s all me.
Last week I completed the Fun Size Challenge. I finished the story and edited it. It was nerve wracking, but I let a couple of my Social Anxiety Bestie friends read it. They said they liked it, but it was hard not to think they just said that because they didn’t want to hurt my feelings.
The host of the challenge gave us the opportunity to submit our stories for possible live critique and with much trepidation, I sent mine in. I wasn’t even sure if I’d be able to attend the zoom because I had to drop my daughter off at the zoo at the time that it started. I ended up joining on my phone and just listening on the way home. To my surprise, they talked about my story! And most of what they had to say was positive. There were a few suggestions for improvement, but nothing I hadn’t already thought myself. They liked the opening and the pacing. They said they could feel the character’s anxiety and wondered about her even after they finished reading. They said they felt like real people. I’m focusing on these positives. Because there really were more positive notes than negative. And the negative wasn’t all that bad (though I’m still trying to figure out how to change those things).
You’d think that after the high of having my story received so well I’d have continued my writing streak. No such luck. I didn’t write all weekend. In my head I was “too busy” and didn’t have big enough chunks of time to be able to write. But I know those were just excuses. I could have made the time and didn’t.
Yesterday I was determined to write. I put it off all day long, thought I was thinking about it. Finally, while my kids were in their ninja class, I sat with my laptop and wrote. The story was crap and I didn’t even finish it, but at least I wrote something. Today I got another StoryAWeek prompt and knew I needed to write if I was going to break out of my slump. After therapy, instead of going home I chose to go to a restaurant and sit with my ipad to write after I ate. I did not connect to internet, I just wrote in notepad. With no distractions, I got it done. I wrote a cute little mystery story about a boy who didn’t know where all his socks had gone.
It’s not a great story, but it was fun to write and I’m glad I did it. Now I’ve got a strategy to keep me writing. I just need to get rid of the distractions. Maybe I’ll start scheduling time to go and sit at the coffee shop on the corner. I shall see how tomorrow goes and decide from there the best way to proceed. Because the only way to be a writer is to write.
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