Dear therapist, guide, guru, this is my story

Writing down my journey so that I can find my partner in this journey

I’ve been sitting with my shadows for the past couple weeks, and it’s been the hardest part of this journey. Up until now, my protectors jump in to shut things down when it gets uncomfortable.

Feeling a tingle? No, it’s gone.

Little voice trying to say something? Nope, nothing here to see.

A little ache in the heart? Nah, it’s just heartburn, move on.

You see, the ego wants to protect itself. It was it to be the show.

For the better part of a decade, I cycled through therapists. Every time we scratched the surface, and I was instantly healed. I’m done. Great job ser. High five, let’s call it a day.

But all along, my shadow, the parts that I exiled away, kept creeping back.

I’m shopping around for a new guide. I’m not saying therapist because I believe I’m beyond traditional regulated therapy at this point. I’m moving beyond. In my most recent exploration, I jotted some notes down for her.

I think I’m going to do it again, this time with a little more intention. Hang around for the ride.

Hearing my mom from the past

After having an outsized reaction to one of my kid’s meltdown, my therapist suggested I try EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing). It’s essentially using an object that goes back and forth and you keep your eye on it. During the eye movement back and forth, it reprocesses the trauma, turning the volume down on the intensity.

In session, I focused on the sounds of gunfire and bombs going off. I couldn’t tell whether I’m just recalling movies, or if I made it up (that’s my ego speaking). As the intensity of the eye movements increased, the faint noises became louder and I could clearly hear gunfire, explosions, and screaming voices. It was all muffled (because my mom was pregnant with me at the time).

At the climax, I clearly made out a voice, the young voice of my 22-year-old mother.

The reprocessing turned that volume down from 11 to about 2.

Those sounds still hover with me, no longer muffling out the world, but a sweet reminder of the love that my mother had for me, her unborn child.

Experiencing Ego Death

Once the volume had turned down, I became more open to exploring this newfound world. It was foreign because what was once so chaotic was now so peaceful, yet something lingered.

With the help of a guide, I drank a tea concoction of 7g of 🍄, a massive dose in hindsight.

My ego held on, trying to vomit it out, and trying to hold on to control as long as possible. It was a little bit of a rough ride, but the medicine was too much, and eventually, my ego died.

The visual and sensory trip ended, and I crossed over into a disassociative world. I was no longer in my body but part of a cosmic reality where time and space co-existed together.

I didn’t find my ancestors as I was hoping for, but the experience increased my reality exponentially.

My first psychodrama

My therapist friend dragged me along to an intensive workshop on the Pesso Boyden System Psychomotor (PBSP) method. Through “structures,” or the physical acting and placement of people and objectives in space, we reprocess and create new memories.

This was my first experience in doing group work. Up till this point, everything was 1:1. The power of the group is the witness of your trauma with others, to experience their traumas, to assist in the healing of traumas. Eventually, I would learn to call this the creation of the container.

My structure focused on this point in my school year when I came from after a bad day at school. I had mispronounced some words during reading time, the teacher laughed, and the classroom burst out laughing. It was too much for little me.

I spent the day under the coffee table with stomach pains. No one saw this. We’ll come back to this moment later, but in my structure, I was able to have an ideal mother, who would’ve been there for me, who would’ve seen the pain I was in, and who would’ve supported me.

Traveling in time to visit my dad

I visited another therapist to continue my EMDR sessions. This one used buzzers on both hands to create that back-and-forth feeling.

I started with an image of a yellow building with a window. In the building was a man curled up in the corner and there was a larger figure shadowing over him.

As the session continued, there was this magical moment when the feelings intensified. What originally was an image of a painting and strong feelings turned in to reality. The ground turned from office room carpet tiles to cold dry dirt, the room had a musky smell, and it was dark. A ray of light was shining through the small window, and the shadow swept over me.

I was my dad, in re-education camp, after the Vietnam War ended.

When my protector took over

In another EMDR session, I walked into the office and said I’m not sure what we’re gonna work on today. I think I’m good. This is my usual path of avoiding the feels.

We honed on into that moment when I was under the coffee table. For most of my life, Lt. Commander Data from Star Trek The Next Generation was my protector. He was the benevolent android that protected me from feelings.

Instead, as we did the session, I felt the fear and terror as my child self let go of control and handed the keys to Data.

He screamed inwardly, and suddenly, it was silent.

Decades would go by before I realized how important this moment would be.

A container for generational grief

I reluctantly joined another psychodrama workshop hosted by my therapist friend. I had lots of excuses about why I couldn’t make it, but eventually, the calling was too compelling, and I caved.

In the session, I visited the moment when my dad was in re-education camp, which aligned with that moment I gave up control to Data as a kid.

Time isn’t linear.

As the realization of what happened to me, to us, and to the world, the group formed a physical circle around me, giving me room to cry out the cry that was held in for generations. It popped the cap, letting out more than I ever let out.

It was more than me.

It was all the generations before that were not able to grieve their losses.

Finding my limbo

In the movie Inception, dream worlds are created to implant ideas. Each layer of the dream world gets more complex, time gets stretched out, and at the very bottom, you reach limbo, deconstructed space and time.

A recent event in my life triggered a series of traumas which has pushed me down into limbo. I’m dwelling with these deep, dark shadows that have been shoved away for a lifetime.

It’s not bad. It’s not good. It’s not anything.

But it is uncomfortable.

Here in this space lives the unresolved shame and abandonment that was created from my dad’s re-education camp, the moment of my conception created under extraordinary trauma, and the lack of loving attachment at my birth.

It’s not something to be sorry about, it’s not something you wish didn’t happen, it just is. In this portal of deep pain also lives infinite joy, sadness, anger, and fear (along with all the emotions that come with being human).

In this deep inward space is an infinite world of possibilities.

I just have to love it.

And not shut it down.

If you’re this far down, join my Substack chat.