That Mountain Goats Song

What is EMDR like?

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A few months ago, I wanted to try EMDR again, but, for some forgotten reason, I never did, mainly because my body lost most of the rottenness in it that had gotten too heavy for me. My first EMDR attempt was a success (I think?) even though I’d only participated in a handful of sessions. But now I’m back to feeling a little up-and-down and disinterested but also very EXCITED, possibly destructive, yet fully content, confused, and still rotten to the core. So what gives!

I don’t know, man. I believe it’s worth trying again because I think—hope—that maybe there will be another clue on the other side of it, one that I’m probably ready for, more than I was a few years ago. Somebody needs to help me solve the mystery of me.

Below is an essay I wrote in 2019 about why I went to EMDR and what it was like to deal with it afterward. If I do go back, I’d like to hear from others about their experiences.

For an upcoming issue, please tell me (and the world) about your EMDR experience.

Email me here: ajd@thesmallbow.com SUBJECT: EMDR

This will be extremely anonymous. Thank you for sharing. — AJD

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That Mountain Goats Song

Originally published December 31, 2019

I was 41 when I first suspected I was sexually abused as a young kid. The memory returned to me during an acupuncture session while I was in rehab in 2015. I don’t know what it was exactly, something about the quiet clarity and the technician's voice brought it all back, or not all of it—some of it.

It's a spotty memory but an awful one. It was summer. I was nine and having some terrible sleep anxiety, night sweats, and intense panic, and I'd make my parents let me sleep next to their bed or, at the very least, outside their bedroom door. They took me to a sleep therapist or a child psychiatrist—I'm not sure which, but the office was in a strip mall just down the road from a junior high school where I played travel basketball and church soccer. The sleep expert or child shrink had glasses, maybe his hair was graying, but he wasn't old, probably more about my age right now.

This man laid me out on the couch and presumably hypnotized me. He made me count backward from 20, instructing me to imagine riding a bike up a steep hill, and he reminded me how tired my legs were because this hill was so steep. And I went right to sleep. Every night, I struggled, but this guy put me right out. I figured he was allowed to touch me because he was a doctor. After that, I don't remember much. I have little lightning bug flickers of specific details, but most of the actual big-deal moment is lost. 

But something happened in that room. I know something happened in that room because I had such wickedly vivid, uncomfortable memories when we drove back to that office again for a follow-up visit. From the backseat of the car, I saw my father's stiff toupee peeking over the headrest as he focused on the road. My mother shifted and rummaged through her purse. But the sunset is what I remember most. I've had that sunset on my mind for almost 35 years, the red-orange glow of late suburban summer, the gray clouds crookedly streaking across the sky like diesel exhaust from a crashing plane.

When we got to the office, my parents spoke to the doctor first, leaving me to sit in the waiting area with the tan wall-to-wall carpet and the ugly lamp. While I waited, I threw a howling fit, just hysterical with fear. When they came out to check on me, I begged them to not make me go back into that room again. I don't remember how that was ever resolved the remainder of the summer; the moment just vanished, and we didn't discuss it until I returned from rehab in 2015. They didn't want to discuss it by that point, even though they were the only ones who could help me fill in the blanks. They offered some theories, but they sounded more like alibis and excuses. 

****

Since 2015, I've rewritten a version of this paragraph dozens of times to try and articulate my thoughts and feelings about it: 

Trauma has its teeth sunk into my heart, but I can't confront it.

When it comes I'll try to speak calmly but then there will be this loud CLANG! in my brain and then I'll cough and cough. Sometimes, I cough so loud I fear bats will fly out of my mouth and right into that wall.

I finally did EMDR last January. It had been recommended to me since I got out of rehab, but I stalled. For those who don't know, it stands for Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing—a form of psychotherapy for severe trauma and emotional distress. A deep dive into all the hurts and fears. In fact, they give you either some box to put over your head or buzzers to push while the therapist talks you through it so you don't go crazy. I did the buzzers. We had some breakthroughs, but some of the sessions made me feel nauseated a couple times. Plus, it was expensive.

I also discussed the trauma and abuse with my regular therapist, who's worked with me since I came here to Los Angeles four years ago. In 2019, I was determined to crack into this once and for all. She showed me how to use meditation to help me heal from it. I learned how to recognize the emotions that come up but not to let the unctuous, doomed feeling near my stomach drown me.

She told me to locate the part of my body that feels most activated by those memories (my lower left side, just above the hip; maybe the gallbladder or some other stray organ) and let the feeling pass through. This is the part that I don't think is spoken about enough: the relief and validation I felt once I was convinced I was sexually abused. Because it made so much sense to me and gave some insight into my own strange and abusive behavior, having these emotions contradicted the enormity of the sadness.

But that relief–oh my God. It was more than relief, it was merciful. It worked for a while. Once I started to get some peace about it, I had another fear: what if the sexual abuse never happened and I'm just a big fucking liar?

Both of my therapists assured me they've had other patients say similar things and that it's very common for people who've experienced repressed memories. None of this stuff is entirely accessible; it's just a noisy creek beneath the surface where shame always floats. 

Okay, I guess.

But what if we're all liars?