Tag Archives: trauma therapy

Guest blogger: How Trauma Taught Me It Can Be Right to Be Wrong

by guest blogger, Shelly Beach
ShellyBeachOnline.com

 

chile - wind.fire.cloud

For most of my childhood and teen years, no matter how loudly I spoke to my dad or how many words I poured out, I felt unheard.

My opinions didn’t matter. Sharing my ideas with my father felt like trying to set up patio furniture in a hurricane. I could barely get a thought out of my mouth when Dad hurled it into oblivion.

 

My father was R.I.G.H.T.

All of the time.

No questions asked.

 

This past year I went for trauma therapy. As my team of therapists evaluated my history, I was certain they’d focus on my two sexual assaults, the deaths I’d witnessed, and other significant traumatic incidents in my life.

Instead, they focused on my relationship with my father. The truth was that even though my dad had provided well for me, protected me, cared for me, and loved me to the best of his ability, his inabilities to communicate safety, love, compassion, and acceptance had a profound impact on my childhood.

I grew up feeling abandoned, isolated, alone. I longed for my father’s approval and became a slave to performance, always with one eye on what other people thought of me. Unfortunately, I became a wife and mom who was driven to be R.I.G.H.T. All of the time. No questions asked. Until I admitted that I, too, needed help.

Trauma treatment, I discovered, isn’t only about sexual abuse or the tragedies of war. It’s about  the deep hurts that stop us in our tracks and keep us stuck in the past.

Getting unstuck takes courage and work. It’s worth every bit of investment we make. And healing IS possible, no matter what form our trauma takes.

I now understand it’s a terrible thing to be right–only (in the words of my pastor). It is far better to admit that we are broken and on a journey to wholeness. My journey began when I admitted my need of treatment for trauma that was rooted in childhood–even though I grew up in a home with two well-intentioned parents who loved me very well in many ways.

Admitting we have been hurt and that we have hurt others is not an admission of failure. It is an admission of our humanity and shared need for grace. And it is often the first step in our healing.

 

Photo Credit: BlueTexas.blogspot.com

Broken Places, Part 2

woman-with-head-in-hands.2

The darkness. The compulsion to die. I couldn’t shake the obsession… no matter what I did.

I prayed.  I read the Bible.  I ate. I ate more.  I got high. And tried to get higher each time I used. I got numb. I zoned out.

For months, my prayers had been short and to the point: 

“HELP!”

Even though I was emotionally numb, I was also in intense emotional pain, and that confused me even more. In order to simply move through my days, I had to “go away.”

 

Moments ran into moments ran into minutes ran into hours ran
into days ran into weeks ran into months ran into years.

 

And no matter what I did, I was drowning under the crushing feeling of hopelessness. I didn’t feel that I had one single reason to be alive. I was loved, I knew that. I had a wonderful family, immediate and extended, and they loved me. But that means nothing when all you feel is a deficit of hope. I felt a bottomless emptiness.

 

At the end, I was constantly battling to simply stay alive. I was battling NOT to swallow a handful of pills. I was battling NOT to blow my brains out. I was battling NOT to drive over a cliff or step off the curb into the path of an oncoming 18-wheeler. 

 

I was exhausted from the never-ending battle. Nightmares were a regular occurrence, so I stopped sleeping.

 

I was nearing fifty, and nothing I was doing was working anymore. All of my coping mechanisms, unhealthy and/or dangerous, were failing me. The darkness pushed me into a corner. I felt like I had to remind myself to merely take a breath.

 

 I was in trouble, and if I was going to live, I needed help.

 

Enter Intensive Trauma Treatment… 

(to be continued)