thursdays.

I filled up my water bottle, grabbed a blanket, my phone charger, and a box of tissues.

I sat on the floor.

I logged into my therapy session.

And I sank.

Into my body.

From my head to my feet I tuned in.

I whispered,

“I’m here.”

“I’m listening.”

And for the next hour my brain and body worked together to tell the story of my trauma. 

And then to rewrite it to include the reality of today.

“I am grown up.”

“I am safe.”

“I am healing.”

My body remembers things my brain has been able to drown out. 

It’s why eating is hard, and yoga makes me cry. It’s why I love horror movies, and relaxing is scary. It’s why I hate showers, and lotion, and brushing my teeth. It’s why pain feels good and rest feels wrong. It’s why I can’t fall asleep without medication and a TV show playing. It’s why I gaslight myself out of illness and injury because god forbid my body might be speaking.

I would like to unplug my nervous system and then try plugging it back in. 

Would that help?

Healing sounds so soothing, but it’s not. 

Healing is brutal. 

I had three therapy sessions today, two therapeutic groups, and three therapeutically supported meals. 

It’s the end of the day and I am spent.

Depleted. 

Gutted.

Exhausted.

And just another staggering step towards healing. 

My entire life, I thought my body was the problem. 

But it turn out, all along, my body was very very wise.

So I’m going to start there.