Lifespan Integration and EMDR focus on integrating memories as well as changing the felt sense of certain memories in your body.
Today, I processed my childhood sexual abuse by my father for the first time utilizing these techniques with my therapist guiding it all.
In our session, I gave myself freedom to envision a different version of how this story could have unfolded.
The very first time he stepped into the bathroom and tried looking at me, I snatched the curtain back. After he left, I got dressed. I went to my room and packed a bag. My adult self then accompanied me and we called a family meeting minus my brother.
I told my parents I was leaving. I explained what had happened. I told them before I started talking that no matter what they said or what they chose to do after I told them, I was leaving. I didn't know where I was going and I'd call my Mom only when I got there. I didn't know when I'd come home. I didn't know if I ever would.
I was shaking. I was sobbing and enraged. I was terrified. I was resolute.
As I stood up from the table, my Mom screamed and she hit my Dad so hard he fell off his chair. That's the last thing I heard because by then, I was running.
I ran like the wind and realized my face was wet from tears, but I felt free. I was on our track team so I don't even know how long I ran before I finally got tired. I had my pink flower suitcase with me. I ended up near a friend's house I thought I could trust.
I knocked on their door and they let me in. I told them my story and they said of course, yes, you can stay. I remember sleeping on my friend's floor on some blankets and it took a while to sleep. I missed my room, my house, my dog. My mom. I was scared, but I was resolute. I did call my Mom and tell her where I was. I said I didn't know when I'd come home. I told her not to try and come and get me.
Would this have been worse, in the long run, for this to have been my response instead of decades of silence? In writing this, to have done this would have violated all of the rules of our family. I stood up for myself. I was disruptive. I didn't take care of Dad first. I didn't have a plan. I didn't ask permission. I had boundaries.
No, this would have been better, much better. It would have given me space. It would have served notice to Dad. It might have provided another voice to the story about how sick my Dad was. No one believed my Mom.
Instead, I stayed and just endured. I tried to protect everyone and not myself. I sacrificed myself and I still am paying the price.
Not anymore. I'm rewriting how that story goes and can feel the difference of this narrative in my body.
I was always willing to forgive my father but worked far too long on toward that end, not enough on caring for myself. (And beware of people who have hurt you or others, repeatedly, who want to focus on whether you've forgiven your abuser or not. They are dangerous and can seriously fuck off).
So Happy Valentine's Day. To me.
Here I am, at both the end and the beginning of all things.
For dramatic humor: