“You know, Emily, most people wouldn’t have survived.”
One week later, I was back in the EMDR therapist’s office. We had decided to work on “shame.” I put the headphones on and held these little vibrating talismans against my wrists. I thought about shame as the pinging sounds in the headphones bounced back and forth, from one ear to the other. I talked about feeling disgusting, feeling layered in shit, and feeling like a gaping, bleeding wound. And then, it was over, and I went home. I wondered how in the world THAT was going to help anything. But, the fortunate and frenetic pace of life as a working mom with four children distracted me from the session.
The following Monday, I had a doctor’s appointment. Dr. T. was concerned that the high amount of Zoloft was causing weight gain and, more importantly, wasn’t helping. He said, “We’re doing this a bit backwards. Most of the time, we are trying to wean people off the anti-anxiety meds and get them to take the anti-depressants instead. You did the right thing by taking Zoloft first (for four years!) but I suspect you will need a benzodiazepine indefinitely.” I fiddled with the prescription, turning it around and around on the table, and pushing it under some magazines. Finally, I said: I haven’t been totally honest with you. There’s another diagnosis.
He said: what’s that?
I said: PTSD
He said: I assume the way you are acting that it is something from your childhood.
I nodded.
He said: And it was some form of abuse.
I nodded.
He said: And from your reaction, it was child sexual abuse.
I nodded.
He said: Was it a family member?
I nodded.
He said: Was it your father?
I nodded.
He said: How old were you?
I said: “I don’t know. I was sixteen when I remembered.”
I said: “There were lots of perpetrators, he was just one of them.”
I said: “I’m sorry.”
He said: “Don’t be. This can’t be Emily’s dirty little secret. The only way to heal from it is to talk about it.”
He said: “You have to talk about it.”
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