Chapter 36

Dr. McIrish says, “Your body, your system was primed for a flight or fight response.”

Dr. Moves says, “Your body, your system was primed for a flight or fight response.”

Then the specialized physical therapist, Z, says, “Your body, your system was primed for a flight or fight response.”

I’m annoyed. Yeah. Yeah. Sure. Whatever.

“ Look where you are breathing.  It’s not your diaphragm, it’s your chest.  This is fight or flight breathing,” says Z. It’s my second appointment with her.

“I’ve been breathing this way my whole life,” I respond. Suddenly, I know. Images flash before me. My brain rapidly makes connections. I know. I know why my body was primed. I freeze. I try to fight back the tears. All these months wondering why this happened and I now I know.

“I had a traumatic childhood,” I tell Z. Z listens. “It was scary, it was violent. That’s why I think I’ve been breathing backwards.” I now understand why people always commented on how tense my neck and shoulders were — I was on high alert. Z shares her own personal trauma. In this moment we are bonded.

I know what I need to do next. I can’t wait for whoever this other doctor is that supposed to do my next therapy. I need to find a therapist who does EMDR Therapy (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing). I ask Z her thoughts. She agrees this would be beneficial.

Driving home I begin to process anew. Lidocaine toxicity happened during a routine medical procedure. It was unexpected and unfortunate.  The lidocaine toxicity triggered the flight or fight response.  I was primed for that and that’s why I now have this functional movement disorder. The dots are connecting.

Now that I finally understand, I can begin to take charge and heal. I share my insight with Dr. Moves. He agrees with my assessment but wonders how I will find someone and if insurance will cover it. I spend the next week relentlessly looking a therapist who 1. is seeing patients given covid-19 restrictions 2. is accepting new patients 3. isn’t too far away 4. takes my insurance 5. not be too crunchy or woo-woo. With each dead end, I send a new email.

Many emails later someone responds positively. She is intrigued and admits she needed to do some research on functional movement disorders. It turns out there are studies showing a strong correlation between childhood violence/trauma and functional movement disorders.

The therapist is younger, but not too young. CM is friendly, but not overly enthusiastic. She is not dismissive. This will work. I don’t have a lot of options and I want my life back. After two appointments, it is time to get to do the hard work.

For those unfamiliar with EMDR, you track a light with your eyes back and forth as you relive your worst, most traumatic memories. Every 10 secs or so, the light stops and you examine your feeling and what you see.

I’m eleven years old and it’s the middle of the night. My sister, only 15 months younger) is next to me. Our beds are pushed together. The room is cold (the heater caught on fire and had not yet been replaced). It feels clammy and I can smell the dirty bed sheets.

Stop. “What do you see?,” says CM. A light in the hall. My mom is there. She is trying to get my sister to take her antibiotic, but the pill is too big. “Okay, go with that.”

I’m frustrated. I want to go back to sleep and my sister is crying while my mom pleads. The light is still there. My mom is going to get my dad. I see the laundry basket overflowing with dirty clothes. I hear the heavy steps of my dad moving through the house.

Stop. My heart is racing. I’m stuttering. My face tremors. We stop there for the day. We practice breathing. I haven’t even got to the violence, but I’m reliving the fear, the panic. CM warns me I may have nightmares and asks me to try to remember them for the next week.

She’s not wrong. I have nightmares. I’m agitated for several days after, barely able to handle parenting. To the outside world, I seem to be doing so much better. I just respond, “Thank you. I’ve been exited from physical therapy and now I’m doing the hard work.” I don’t tell them the hard work is reliving my most traumatic moments in painstaking detail.

It takes two more weeks to finish the memory. At this point, I am back at school, preparing to start a new school year. I lock my classroom door and start the virtual meeting.

I’m back in the bedroom. I watch helplessly as my dad beats my sister. His eyes are red and crazed, his dark green bathrobe half open. We cry for him to stop. He doesn’t. The hallway light still shines brightly. I watch helpless as my father pounds my sister relentlessly. He isn’t fully awake, but rage pours from his body. In the morning, my sister is black and blue. We tell no one at school.

As the memory gets darker, scarier, I lose control. I’m unable to speak. My head jerks violently backwards, my eyes squeeze closed, my jaw clenches, my arms flap, my hands shake, my head leans forward.

I’m sobbing as the session ends. I breathe. And breathe. And breathe. I unlock my classroom door and am immediately bombarded with questions regarding the start of school. I can only blink. I rapidly try to switch gears. I find a reason to leave. I pick up my kids, go home, and cuddle up in bed. There will be no more Charlotte today. Charlotte is done.

Despite not living at my family home for about 20 years, my dreams only take place there, never my own home. My father is in every dream. In every dream I am frustrated. I rarely dream of my present — my current home or job, my husband, or children. I’m always back in Tacoma. Stuck. Every dream is stressful.

It takes a few days for the tremors and stutter to calm down. There is a noticeable change. I feel lighter. My husband and kids are in my dreams. I’m not in Tacoma at the Oxford house.

Remote teaching is hard. Hard just isn’t even the right word. It just makes you want to give up teaching altogether. The first week of school is hard, hard for my children, hard for me. In therapy, I dive even deeper.

Strangely, the “antibiotic incident” feels distant. Like if I blew, it would simply go away. I can barely conjure those feelings. That part of me is starting to heal. Unfortunately, it leads to a darker memory.

I’m fifteen. It’s a sunny day and the quad at my high school is empty. I see Allen Hall, the music building. Then I’m home at the Oxford house. It’s cramped and dirty. Layers a dust and grime cover the shelves and counters. Fleas leap from the worn puke brownish/orange shag carpet. Dad is angry. He is always angry. We’ve all learned to anticipate his moods, but the puppy has not. Dad is angry. The puppy catches his eye. The puppy will be his victim. Dad begins to strangle the puppy, grinding his face into the carpet. Dad talks nonsensically with rage as the puppy squirms. My younger sister and brother are home with me. Dad demands we get him a knife. He is going to slit the puppy’s throat.

I am paralyzed with fear. Dad told us to do something. We all silently consider the demand. We are all afraid that one of us will actually listen. I can visualize the blood.

Therapy stops. I’m sobbing. I can’t speak. I can’t control the tremors. I give up and let the tremors consume me. I have work to do, but all I want is to curl up. I don’t even have time to process because I have to take a child to soccer practice.

The stress of the start of the school year, along with the demands of distance learning is becoming too much on top of EMDR. I no longer have my disorder under control. I stutter, I shake, I twitch. By the second Back to School Night I have to let my partner take over certain parts because speaking is too hard.

After revisiting the “puppy and knife” incident we take a break in therapy from EMDR. I am relieved. While my dreams are getting better and my bouts of insomnia are improving, the idea of EMDR is overwhelming. It’s so hard.

Now CM and I talk about setting boundaries, about self care, about managing stress. There will be plenty of time for more EMDR. There’s still plenty to unpack.

I found a quote on Reddit that has become my mantra during this new part of the healing process. It’s given me permission to honest. I shouldn’t have to suffer in silence. I’ve been silent long enough.

“You own everything that’s happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” – Anne Lamott