From picture to reality, uncovering the past 🧘

How I traveled through time to find my dad

This weekend, I’m attending my second Psychomotor workshop in Santa Cruz, CA with a small group of therapists. This is an invite-only workshop to deep dive into the unknown. TBH, I’m a little nervous, and anxious. I always am. After doing this many times now, I honor and cherish these moments leading up to the event.

I’ll share more about how this strange form of therapy works when I get back.

I see a yellow building

About a year after my EMDR session and hearing my mom’s voice, my body and mind was starting to heal itself. Imagine turning down the volume from 11 to 2 and you’re now sitting silently in your thoughts.

I kept seeing a painting of a yellow building, a figure at the corner on the ground, and a dark shadow standing over this figure. In the background was the bright sun illuminating a field.

This image gave me the feels. Each time I try to get closer, it became really uncomfortable. Almost every time, I shut down and run away from that feeling.

Below is an image I took of the Hot Lo Prison in Hanoi, Vietnam. The American POWs called it the Hanoi Hilton. This is the color. The rest of the story goes on below.

Welcome new frens

I’m honored to have you join me in this journey. I haven’t made an effort yet to promote this newsletter. For now, it’s just the beginning of the story. If you haven’t already, hit the subscribe below.

I just finished Young Pueblo’s book Lighter. It’s different than the last book I read, Inward. This one is a bit of his thoughts, and a lot of his story. I think this is how I will write my book.

Buzz, buzz, buzz, what do you see now?

Just relax, sit back.

Ok, now hold on to these buzzers. You’ll feel a vibration and it’ll alternate between your left hand and your right hand.

I started seeing a new therapist to partake in EMDR again. Instead of focusing on the sounds, this time I wanted to uncover what this painting was.

I described the painting again, said that it felt uncomfortable, an uneasy feeling.

Buzz buzz buzz buzz (the voice in my head says this is BS).

What do you feel now?

In the corner of the room is a figure. He’s frightened. He’s curled up in a ball tucked away. His head is down and he can feel a large darkness over him. I can’t tell but it looks like a person. He’s dark because the light from the window is blinding me. I only see his outline.

Buzz buzz buzz buzz

The room is cold. That man is cold. He’s not wearing much clothes, maybe naked. He’s been tortured. He’s hungry. He’s exhausted.

He’s my dad.

Buzz buzz buzz buzz

It’s not a painting

Suddenly at this point, the two dimensional painting turns to reality. I was no longer sitting on the couch in my therapists’ office. I was the man in the corner, sitting on the dirt floor.

I could feel the coldness of the dirt, how dry it was, and the dust it created when I touched it with my hands.

The room was big, with a straw roof.

I looked at the shadow and could make out that it was a man. This man was torturing me.

I turn my gaze to the window. I could see the warmth of the sun. It was bright, a beautiful yellow. The light cuts into the darkness and the ray hits the ground.

I focus on this light while the darkness hovers over me. It’s my last strand of home.

The room is empty.

I’m alone.

This terrifying feeling envelops me.

I want the man to come back. I’d rather be beat than to be here alone. I don’t want to die alone.

I cry.

Don’t leave me. Come back.

Come back.

Come back, you can come back now.

My therapist whispers my name.

It’s like waking up from a dream. For a moment, I’m not sure where I am. For a moment, I truly believe that I co-existed in two time points. For a moment, I walked in my dad’s shoes.

I pause.

Then I tell her (my therapist) how real it felt. I’ve never experienced that before except with mushrooms. This was real. Not just a dream. The details, the clarity of everything was so real.

How can it be real?

The Story Continues

So this is the second breakthrough, among little ones along the way. At this point, I’ve made a deep connection to my mom, and this one is deep with my dad. My mom was pregnant with me during this boat journey, but it all extends beyond. At the moment of conception, my mom had just experienced the fall of Saigon, and my dad was just let out of re-education camp. This is that yellow building, the room where he was “re-educated.”

Am I making all this up. Am I just creating stories to make sense of something, or is there truly a greater transmission of experiences than what we’re led to believe.

I am inclined to believe that anything is possible, and to open myself up to what could be.

I am 80. I’m doing the deep inner work on myself, to heal myself, so that I can be a presence of love in this world. Thank you for joining me in this journey. My path is not your path, but I hope I can illuminate what is possible.

I will waiting for you on the other side of this cave. I promise you it is beautiful.

I love you.