{"id":32865,"date":"2016-09-14T06:00:40","date_gmt":"2016-09-14T13:00:40","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.goodtherapy.org\/blog\/?p=32865"},"modified":"2016-09-14T08:17:30","modified_gmt":"2016-09-14T15:17:30","slug":"snapshot-of-a-memory-emdr-in-practice","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.goodtherapy.org\/blog\/snapshot-of-memory-emdr-in-practice-0914167","title":{"rendered":"Snapshot of a Memory: EMDR in Practice"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"TheEditor\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s Note:<\/strong> This article contains description of childhood abuse, which may be triggering for some readers.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I have an image in my mind I can\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t seem to get rid of,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d I tell Dr. Erickson. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153A snapshot of a memory that\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s always there, and I can\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t stop looking at it.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

His office is dimly lit. On the wall facing me are two pictures of shamans<\/a>, medicine men who heal spiritually. I had thought a psychiatrist might decorate with pictures from the masters\u00e2\u20ac\u201dVan Gogh, Monet, or maybe a classical artist like Michelangelo. Below the shamans, on an end table, is a Kokopelli statue set in a dish of smooth stones. Next to that are two huge bookcases filled with copies of publications from the American Psychiatric Association. At least he seems well-read.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Are you sure it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s a memory<\/a>?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d He sits near the opposite wall, filing my evaluation form into a folder. Today he\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s wearing a shirt and tie. If it weren\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t for his long hair and ponytail he would seem every bit a doctor.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Yes. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s something the attorneys brought up during the deposition. Something I haven\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t thought about in a long time.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

He stares at me and says nothing. I realize he isn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t going to prod. It seems a strange way to communicate, not asking questions.<\/p>\n

[fat_widget_right]\u00e2\u20ac\u0153When I was nine I told kids at school that I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d seen my father\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s penis,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d I tell him, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153that I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d touched it. Only I didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know to call it that. They stared at me in shock. That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s when I realized there was something wrong with what I was doing. You only know what you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re told when you\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re a child. I didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know that other kids weren\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t touching their fathers that way.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d I pause. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153They stopped playing with me after that.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

He\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s quiet for a moment. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s the image in your mind?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Yes, swinging on the playground, laughing. I remember the looks on their faces when I admitted what I was doing. It was all so \u00e2\u20ac\u00a6 innocent.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153How does that make you feel?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

How does it make me feel? The memory is so old, almost thirty years have gone by, but it still seems like yesterday. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s the kind of memory I store in one of those chests at the bottom of my mind, but now I can\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t seem to put it back.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Ashamed, sad, like I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve done something wrong.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Do you feel that in your body?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

Another strange question. The memory is in my head. My emotions<\/a> are in my head, glued to that image of swinging happily, chattering with my friends and having no idea of the impact of my words. My emotions are not imprinted in my body. But I think about the question anyway because I have so much anxiety<\/a> these days, a tightness in my stomach that feels like a descending roller coaster. Even my nightly dose of Seroquel isn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t alleviating it.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153In my stomach,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d I say.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Images come forward in your mind to help you get what you want. Your subconscious wants to heal. This is its way of communicating that to you.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153There\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s something for me to learn from this memory?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

[EMDR] is very effective for trauma and posttraumatic stress. Once you process the memory, the picture goes away, along with the emotions associated with it.<\/span><\/p>\n

He nods. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153There\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s something called EMDR\u00e2\u20ac\u201deye movement desensitization and reprocessing<\/a>. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s a therapy like hypnosis that can help speed the processing of memories. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s very effective for trauma and posttraumatic stress<\/a>. Once you process the memory, the picture goes away, along with the emotions associated with it.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d like to get rid of the snapshot memory, and the sadness<\/a> and shame it brings with it. It was different before; it was a private memory I could easily tuck away. I could convince myself it was a single incident barely worth my energy to consider. But I had admitted it during the deposition; I had exposed my shame to a team of attorneys who simply stared at me, stoic and apathetic. I had mirrored their apathy, determined not to allow them to see my pain. I can still see their unimpressed expressions.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153How do I do that?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d I ask Dr. Erickson.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I move my hand in front of you and you follow it with your eyes as you think about the memory. Emotions will come to the surface. As you process the emotions, they will be released. The memory will lose its emotional charge.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Will the image go away then?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153It should.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

Is that what the memory wants\u00e2\u20ac\u201dto be felt? Have I tucked away so much of my life that it stubbornly refuses to be hidden any longer? Or is this just a byproduct of the deposition, the aftermath of stress<\/a>?<\/p>\n

What I know is that the memory bothers me. I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t like looking at those faces of my schoolmates staring in shock, and the memory of realizing I did something wrong. I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t like being made to feel bad when the onus should be on someone else. Maybe that\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s been the problem; the guilt<\/a> belongs to someone else and not me.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Okay,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d I say.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Okay what?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Okay, I want to try that. I want the image to go away.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

He moves our chairs closer together, so his left arm will be next to my left arm. We\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re sitting side by side, but facing in opposite directions. He lets me sit close to the door so I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t feel boxed in. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153An escape route,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d he says. Then he stands back from the chairs like an artist appreciating his work.<\/p>\n

I know his deliberate manner is meant to make me feel more comfortable, but his ceremonial style has the opposite effect. I hesitate and glance at the door. Am I going to need an escape route? Do his patients routinely flee the room and he\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s learned to anticipate it? Or is this merely a psychological strategy?<\/p>\n

I take my seat, knowing that I would rather feel part of the scene than an observer.<\/span><\/p>\n

Nothing will happen with me standing in place, and if it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s all been set up by design then I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m failing and the image will remain. Unwilling to leave and uncertain of how to move forward, I take my seat, knowing that I would rather feel part of the scene than an observer.<\/p>\n

He gives me a moment before taking the seat next to mine. We\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re too close for my comfort. I have pretty strict boundaries; I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve never been able to allow people to get very close to me physically. It always feels like they\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re suffocating me with their proximity, as if they\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve wrapped their arms around me in a crushing embrace.<\/p>\n

I can see the ring he wears and the tiny hairs on his arms, and it makes my body tense. He\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s sitting only a few inches from me; I can feel his gaze studying me, and I become self-conscious and begin to fidget in the chair.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Think about the image,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d he instructs. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Think about being on the playground with your friends. Hear their laughter. Think about how you feel as you talk to them. You feel ashamed, sad.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

I hate this already. What kind of therapy begins like this?<\/p>\n

He moves his left hand horizontally in front of me. I follow it with my eyes, but I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t see his hand.<\/p>\n

The playground is noisy. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m swinging with my friends. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s a Catholic school, and we\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re all in uniforms: replicas of one another.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve never seen a boy\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s wiener before,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Kathy says. Her voice is filled with laughter.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve seen my father\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d I say. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153It looks like a bratwurst.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You have not!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Yes. I touched it.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153That\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s right,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Dr. Erickson says in a soothing voice. He\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s reading the emotions that play across my face. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Stay with it. Let the emotions build and then let them go.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know how to let go. I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know what I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m supposed to learn from this. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s all old news, pain long past. It doesn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t belong with me. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m an adult now, a grown woman who\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s made her own way in the world and crafted her own successes. I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m a million years from that little girl on the playground, but the pain is so fresh.<\/p>\n

The transformation is rapid. The expressions on the girls\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 faces morph from playful amusement to confusion, settling on prudence. They\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re judging me. They know something I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know. For the first time in my memory, I feel like an outsider, a pariah.<\/em><\/p>\n

Dr. Erickson stops EMDR. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t look at him. I stare, without seeing, at the carpet.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I have a question,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d he says gently. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Whose shame<\/a> is it?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d He moves his hand in front of me, and the image switches.<\/p>\n

I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m touching one of my sisters, kissing her on the neck. On Wednesday nights we played a game my father made up, where we had to select small pieces of paper from a hat. On each piece of paper was written something we were supposed to do: kiss a butt, lick a breast, touch a crotch. Each of us would then choose one of our siblings and go into a room with them.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Where are you?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Dr. Erickson asks. He\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s stopped his hand movement and is studying me.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153With one of my sisters.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153On the playground?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153No.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Pause. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Every Wednesday my mother would go away and my father would have us sit in a circle, naked. He made up this game.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d When I finished explaining the bizarre game, I said, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m with one of my sisters in a room \u00e2\u20ac\u00a6 kissing her.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Go with that,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d he instructs, and begins EMDR again.<\/p>\n

It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s all giggles and little-girl fun. It doesn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t feel sexual, just playful. We\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re both naked because that\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s the way our father wanted it.<\/em><\/p>\n

I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t like touch. It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s a mantra<\/a> I say to myself and it has defined my life. I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t have relationships and I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t let people near. But some part of my brain is wondering why I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m not afraid with my sister, why I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t feel apprehension. I say as much to Dr. Erickson.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You\u00e2\u20ac\u2122re judging her as an adult with rights and wrongs. She\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s feeling the comfort of her sister.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I liked when we were touching.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s the only time I can recall liking touch<\/a>, when caressing was comforting and nurturing. What happened to that feeling? Darkness falls on me as tears well in my eyes. An enormous sadness overwhelms me.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I like touching my sister, but I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t like touching other people. Men. What kind of a person does that make me?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Human.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

What I hear is \u00e2\u20ac\u0153different.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

The memories fade, but they don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t disappear. <\/span><\/p>\n

I like the softness of my sister\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s skin and the sense of freedom, and I like the closeness as if nothing were going to separate us. Sitting in a psychiatrist\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s office, trying to come to terms with my life, liking to touch my sister seems wrong.<\/p>\n

I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve never had a sexual relationship with anyone, male or female. I stopped dating a decade ago; I long since gave up trying to let someone get close. And yet there I was at the tender age of nine, exploring my sister\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s body. Was that what was wrong with me?<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I want you to think about the healing white light,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d Dr. Erickson says softly. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s coming from high above and surrounding you. A brilliant white light taking away all the pain.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

The light bathes me with a warm glow. It calms my breathing, eases my tension and, like a drug, dulls the pain the memory created.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Let those images go. You don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t need them anymore.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

The memories fade, but they don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t disappear. I like the light surrounding me. It takes me far away from my feelings of guilt and shame.<\/p>\n

\"LaureenLaureen Peltier is the author of <\/em>Hungry For Touch: A Journey from Fear to Desire. She focuses on educating others on the possibility of making a full recovery from PTSD, as well as the benefits of healing past trauma. A passionate speaker for RAINN and other organizations, Laureen is sought-after\u00c2\u00a0for medical and nursing schools, and has participated in several online and DVD documentaries focusing on PTSD recovery.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR) therapy can help neutralize painful memories. Here’s how it worked for one woman’s childhood trauma.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2673,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_crdt_document":"","_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[542,537],"tags":[252,31,255,544,25,27,240],"class_list":["post-32865","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-featured-articles","category-share-your-story","tag-abuse-neglect-survivors","tag-psychotherapy-practice","tag-eye-movement-desensitization-reprocessing","tag-guilt","tag-psychotherapy-issues","tag-psychotherapy-models","tag-shame-guilt"],"acf":{"author_show":false,"author_name":"","author_role":"","author_avatar":null,"author_profile_url":""},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.goodtherapy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/32865","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.goodtherapy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.goodtherapy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.goodtherapy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2673"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.goodtherapy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=32865"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.goodtherapy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/32865\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.goodtherapy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=32865"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.goodtherapy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=32865"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.goodtherapy.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=32865"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}