Storytelling

When I woke up this morning I didn’t want to get out of bed. I could already feel the all too familiar pit in the bottom of my stomach ascending up my body, making me nauseous. I’ve felt it building for days, and not just because I have upped my intake recently, although I’m sure that’s not helping anything. You see, today I am going to be braver than I believe I can be. At 2 o’clock today I meet with my therapist. The one I’ve only been seeing for a month or so. And I’m telling her my story. My real, authentic, unaltered story. And I am absolutely, utterly, completely, and any other dramatic descriptor there is, terrified about it.

It is exactly 1 hour and 37 minutes before I meet with my therapist. Not that I’m counting or anything, or completely aware of every second as it passes! Last night at group we talked about the emotion fear and how it is our brain’s response to an immediate danger for ourselves or for loved ones. When dread was brought up as a synonym for fear, I distinctly remember challenging this, because surely dread isn’t an immediate fear. But sitting here in this moment, I take back what I said. I am dreading 2 o’clock. I am terrified of 2 o’clock. And you best believe that at now 1 hour and 34 minutes out, it sure seems like an immediate threat!

Sitting at my desk isn’t doing me a whole lot of good right now. I have music playing and work open, but focusing is hard. I’m too consumed by my anxiety and racing thoughts. I am even using all the skills. I mean not every single one, but a lot!! My heat pack is out, I’m sporadically crafting, my space heater is on, I have mints out, and my primary comfort tool (my baby toy, more commonly known as Litsy) is up my sleeve. But my right leg still won’t stop shaking, I am on the verge of tears, the nausea is strong, and I’m scared I’m going to descend into a panic attack. Which is why I decided to write. To just put it out there. To be authentic and real as I struggle through what I hope will only be the next few hours of my life, but in reality may be the next few days of my life. Because the emotional hangover I feel from telling my story, from going back there, isn’t easy to recover from. I know this because I have told my story before. Twice- both times to therapists. And it sucked.

As I was getting towards the back end of treatment this summer, I remember sitting in my case manager’s office frustrated by something she was telling me, getting angrier by the minute. It was at this point, where in some weird moment of madness, or maybe bravery, I still don’t know, I said that it wasn’t fair for her to be saying these things to me, because she’d only known me 2 months and didn’t know my story. I didn’t disclose at that time that there actually wasn’t anyone that had heard my story in full- I was just trying to make a point! Rather than coming to my side and giving in to me based on this comment, as I would have liked (though I have no idea why I thought this was a thing that would happen), she told me that I was right and that maybe it was time for me to practice being vulnerable. That stopped me in my tracks. I froze and after what seemed like hours of uncomfortable therapy silence, which was probably more like seconds, I shared that I had never told anyone my whole story. One thing led to another, and by the end of the session we had planned a day for me to practice vulnerability and a whole lot of bravery to write out a timeline of my story, that I would then share with her.

I’m not going to sugar coat it, though that probably seems obvious from the tone of this post so far. Telling her my story was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I judged myself throughout, continually reiterated that it wasn’t really trauma, and cried. No, I take that back, I didn’t cry- I sobbed. And I shook. And I hated myself. But you know what, I survived. And for the first time in my life, even the bits and pieces of my story I had shared with others previously that had been invalidated, were validated. It was one of the first times that I started to believe that maybe my story did matter. And that the abuse and trauma I had experienced were significant. I truly believe this was a pivotal moment in my recovery, because my story explains so much about who I have become and how I act, not to mention the extreme role it has played on my eating disorder. It sucked for the next couple of weeks as I wallowed and found the flashbacks and panic attacks coming back. But I realized that I had trusted someone else in a way I had not trusted anyone in my adult life. Yesterday as I left group, already panicking about knowing I would be telling my story the next time I was at the Center, I looked at my case manager (who runs my group) and told her I needed to set another goal before leaving- to eat my lunch tomorrow before telling my therapist my story. Yes, I needed the accountability (and I did eat my lunch all ready, although I cheated a little with an exchange filled coffee drink), but I also needed her to look at me and validate that I was doing the right thing. Which, without hesitation, she did.

With 46 minutes until 2 o’clock I’m going to head to the Center. I can’t focus on work anymore. I can’t craft anymore. And I don’t think there’s any more for me left to write given the amount of personal disclosure I’m comfortable with at this point. I guess it’s safe to say that I’m prepared as I can be. My bag is packed with comfort kit pieces, and I have my journal timeline with me. So I’m going to go and sit at the Center with the truths that I am badass Emma and I can do hard things, playing like a broken record in my brain.