The Art of Healing

Part One

You’re 18 years old and you’re holding onto a big secret. But it’s not just you holding onto this secret—it’s your body, too. You’ve been carrying the weight of it practically all of your life, only you just recently remembered that you’ve been clutching this secret in your shaky hands for years. Your body, however, never forgot. I mean, how could it forget? Your body has been experiencing the gravity of this secret since the very day it was given to you to keep. And ever since that day you have been slowly collapsing in on yourself. So, you’re 18 years old and you’re holding onto a big secret...

This is where my life starts. I mean, technically, I’d been ‘alive’ for eighteen years at this point. But this- this is when I woke up. There wasn’t some significant moment in which I suddenly remembered the childhood trauma. One day, I just realized that I remembered it. Then, I realized that there’s still so much I don’t remember. But it wasn’t catastrophic, at least not at first. I was 18 and, suddenly, everything made sense.

All my life I had swung rapidly between sex-repulsed and hyper-sexual. All my life I had been disgusted by touch, by intimacy, by closeness. I had struggled with severe depression, anxiety, and many other disorders, and I had always been confused. How did I end up this way? Am I just defective? Am I just wrong in some way? So I’m eighteen years old and I remember and, suddenly, everything makes sense.

The horror and confusion and hurt of my past only set in after the initial relief had worn off. At first, I was relieved to finally have an explanation for myself. An explanation for this ache in my chest that had been there for as long as I could remember. But after all of that sweet relief had worn off, the burden of my past became much heavier.

My body, the home of my soul, shook like a house on faulty foundation under the weight of it all. There are still claw marks on the backs of my eyelids from every frantic attempt I had made to escape this body and this life. But this trauma, even though horrific, would lead me to some of the best experiences of my life. This is when my life starts.

All of the remembrance occurred during second semester of my senior year of high school, and it crippled me. I couldn’t get out of bed, and when I did, I would just stagger over and collapse onto the floor of my closet. I would lie there for hours. Needless to say, I was not able to graduate high school. I was tearing at the seams, I was losing myself inside myself, and it was terrifying and suffocating and painful. A few months went by and I got used to the memories (as used to them as I could get, anyway,) and I decided to try and heal myself. But this sincere effort to heal was just the first step of a long and frustrating journey to the trailhead of recovery.

At eighteen years old I was a high school drop out, a trauma victim, I struggled with severe mental illness, and I was trying my best. I decided to change up my lifestyle, so I went from lying in bed all day to adopting a vegan diet and mountain biking at least fifteen miles a day. I was in the best shape of my life, I had decided to serve a mission for my church, and I thought I was doing it. I thought I was healing. But my body knew otherwise.

One night in late may as I was sitting in bed, my scalp began to itch. “No big deal,” I thought. I have thick hair so I was no stranger to the occasional itchy scalp. But every day thereafter, the itchiness would return and, eventually, it spread. My entire body would become engulfed in itchy, irritating hives every day. I met with a dermatologist and after months of misdiagnoses, I was finally diagnosed with autoimmune hives. My body was releasing overwhelming amounts of histamine for no reason, and I was suffering for it. In the midst of all of this, I was also struck with debilitating chronic fatigue. I could no longer exercise, I could no longer think clearly. I was existing in an itchy, foggy, tired hell. My doctor’s chalked the chronic fatigue up to depression and they didn’t pursue any treatment for it. I was put on strong antihistamines, for the hives, that caused me to feel even drowsier than I already was, and these medications also increased my appetite to the point where I was ravenous. I was too hungry all the time to continue on in my vegan diet and I could not control my hunger. This ravenous appetite along with the low energy and chronic fatigue caused me to gain weight rapidly. I begged my doctors to help me find a solution, but they shrugged their shoulders every time. I had to put my plans to serve a mission on hold, I couldn’t go anywhere or do anything in this condition.

I. Was. Miserable.

Months go by. I’m constantly itchy and exhausted and I’m having trouble holding down my part time job. I’m 19 now, and, when I’m not working, I’m bedridden. This is not the life that a nineteen year old should be living. This is the pitiful existence of a girl plagued with conditions. Pills for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I am existing in a life of strong medications and doctor visits. I am not living. I’m slowly dying and I can feel it.

One October day, my mother comes to me and tells me that she wants to move to Utah. I decide to move with her and a few siblings. That next February, after months of scrimping and saving, we make our trek from Montana to Utah. I immediately find a new doctor because I have prescriptions that need to be filled. I choose a seemingly random doctor and I make an appointment. Little did I know, this doctor would be a major stepping stone to my real journey in recovery.

I go to see this doctor, Dr. H. He’s a nice man who listens to his patients. He’s no ordinary doctor. He has incredible insights and he’s not like any doctor I’ve ever met before. I tell him that I need new prescriptions for the autoimmune hives and insomnia. I also tell him about the chronic fatigue. Dr. H doesn’t know anything about me. He doesn’t have my records from my doctor back in Montana, he doesn’t know about my history of trauma or mental illness, all I give to Dr. H is a list of my physical problems and the medications I require to deal with them as best I can.

But Dr. H looks at me for a long while. And then he speaks, “Have you ever heard of ‘EMDR therapy’?” he asks. I shake my head and Dr. H begins to explain that he thinks all of my physical problems could be a result of unresolved trauma, and that EMDR therapy could help me work through that trauma. My mind is blown. How did this man know? How did he know that I’d been wrestling with trauma? How did he know that this therapy is what I needed?

He then explains that all I need to do to take care of my autoimmune hives is take two Claritin tablets a day. And just like that, I am free of those strong medications. Medicine in Montana isn’t the most effective, my first doctor visit in Utah and half of my physical problems have already been taken care of. Dr. H refers me to a few different people who do EMDR therapy and he sends me on my way. I feel happy for the first time in too long.

Curiously, I call around to the therapists that Dr. H referred me to and, every time, I’m met with new referrals. Everyone I’ve called is all booked up so they’re each referring me to new people or offering to put me on a six month wait list. But I can’t wait six months. Finally, I am referred to a man called ‘K’. I am only given his phone number. I hesitate to call K because he is a man, and I am uncomfortable with the thought of having a male therapist. Eventually, I realize that there’s no one left for me to call, and so I take a chance on K, and it was one of the best decisions I have ever made.

Voicemail. I leave a timid message, explaining my situation, and I hang up. A few hours later, my phone begins to ring and my heart beats fast when I don’t recognize the number. I answer, and it’s K. His voice is soft and soothing, he is quiet and he sounds kind. I am put at ease by his tone. He tells me that his schedule is also full, but that he would like to work me into his schedule through his weekly cancellations. I decide to accept that offer, and suddenly, I have a therapist. And I am nervous as hell about it, too.

I know now that I had no reason to be nervous. All this time, I had been quietly led here, to this place, in this time. Because K was exactly the person who could help me, and this was just the beginning of a wonderful journey and my continued work to learn the art of healing.

Part One End - Part Two Coming Soon