There are times of relative ease in my work with my therapist. Almost placid. Moments of rest and regrouping. The months after Mom’s death were not this. And I will simply say that I am grateful for the support of my husband and son, friends, and the wisdom of my therapist. This is not a journey to undertake alone.
The sessions were frequent and intense, with Yoga breathing, cognitive behavioral therapy, and EMDR, a process I’ll talk more about later. Suffice it to say, it is a method to help release and finish processing trauma that was put away raw, alive, and unhealed. An understatement.
And there was painting. Lots of painting. The only journaling I could do was to jot down the things we covered in the sessions, any insights from them, and all the questions that needed answers. Essentially, that unsealed pit of long-hidden emotions was in the driver’s seat, revealing to us what the next work was.
And on this day, the mental wrestling of “Should I? Shouldn’t I?” came to a stop. We dove in, and it unloaded….
Painting by author – Author as an infant on hood of her father’s car
Driven to paint
Before I share below a sampling of the visual elements I am using in my book, I thought I would share the “WHY” I not only used them, but HAD to use them.
Rebuilding my life
The book incorporates the story not only of the abuse I endured, but also of my journey from my parents’ house—the depression and despair—to my rebuilding, and my creating of a meaningful life.
Even after the initial crises of my escape and recovery with the help of good therapists and friends, I would return for rounds of therapy off and on throughout adulthood. Given all of the life lessons I had missed out on during my early phases of life, I looked at it as “preventive maintenance.” Why “wing something” when I wasn’t sure how to handle it and risk messing it up, then have to fix it? Better to learn as I went along.
The traumas of life
This approach worked well, and I thought I had finally put the past to rest…until midlife. Menopause hit. My husband almost died. The dog did die. My son left for college. All at once. But even worse, those new traumas blasted open a well of trapped emotions I never realized were even there. Like opening Pandora’s box, it unleashed a flood of unresolved depression, anxiety, flashbacks, nightmares…severe PTSD. At the time, I had no idea what was going on. Desperate and having major anxiety, I began working with a skilled trauma specialist who was and remains a godsend in my life.
This was fortunate because, in addition to everything that I was dealing with, I also began navigating the last chapters of my parents’ lives and their deaths. It was then that I realized just how much work I still had to do.
The past comes calling to claim its due
Those first decades of adulthood had been about building a life. Now, it was about returning to the past to address the well of unfinished business and unresolved pain that had come forward to claim its due. It had patiently waited a lifetime…my son came first all those years. But now, it was time for me…and that long-suffering child.
However, I had no tools to reach the pain, to know how much was there, or to express it. I only knew its presence through the agony of body memories and nightmares. That was when I made the discovery that art heals.
Soul Mosaic 