With the small paddles in my hands, my eyes close, the vibrations starting to jangle against my reason. I wonder what today will show me. am surrounded by darkness that does not abate—even when I turn my head toward the window which is above and to my left hand site. To the left, as I peer with peripheral vision, the grey is varied in intensity and ethereal shape. Below me, from which I have not yet raised my eyes, there is blackness. The black of pitch, of tar. The darkness of India ink and deep sea ravines. The darkness of the inside of a grave. It does not stay beneath my eyes, but rises to cover my right side, my right breast and body enveloped as it wraps over the top of the crest of my head and starts to seep an arm around me, pulling with the clammy warmth of the grave and spreads above my head and in front of me to stop at the edge of my right cheekbone. Tentacles of darkness start to push into the grey in front of me and once again, I know fear. My constant companion, my only friend.
My heart could outpace any metronome on Earth—breathing becomes almost impossible as the weight of this presence presses in, trying to break the very barrier of my flesh. It is evil. I feel a clammy heat start to envelop me as fear and anxiety begin their onslaught.
B.’s voice, (my therapist) cuts through to reach me like a soft and gentle breeze. “Remember, you are here in my office. You are here, you are now and you are safe.”
A pale cerulean blue shimmers and I dare to look to my right, drawn to the colour in the darkness. The colour becomes stronger in both hue and intensity and takes a shape of a very wide, spiky, curved triangle, cutting into the dark of the greyness still swirling and the darkness there begins to lighten.
I find within that I have another friend. One I have always kept secret, used to protect others, swallowed, and fought against. My friend. My secret. My lover when all else failed. My rage. My heart rhythm slows as I begin to feel hope. It is unfamiliar—long forgotten but it feels good. I shift my eyes slowly to my right to the heart of the darkness, set my soul, my rage, courage, and will to fight this time for myself. To outlast the dark.
My breathing and heart beat are slow and steady. Without warning, when I am calm, cerulean shot silver-white lightning begins to flare with the intensity of magnesium fire, erupting from right below my face. My heart? My throat? I know not, and it matters not. The brightness intensifies and cuts into the blackness and the dark is dealt blow after blow-a light show blinding me in a fight for my very heart and soul. My eyes follow it all and my heat turns so as to “look” better at the battle before me.
When the hand buzzers stop, the violent fight of light and dark rendered the pitch black to a lukewarm grey from shoulder to shoulder. My tension is palpable and almost in the visual spectrum of sight. B. asks, and I agree to try the tuning forks she packs as part of her healing kit to draw it from me in the spots that need it most, as our time is growing short.
Amazingly, having gone into the situation with an open mind, ready to follow my senses, grounded, centered as best as possible, she begins with the vibratory tones next to my ears. Mellowing out of my headache, and a drowsy feeling like reclining into a warm waterfall drips over my scalp and hair. When she reaches my trapezium muscles in what I always refer to as my “wings”, I feel a pressure that resembles a flat, hard surface trying to push through my skin, albeit gently. This takes much, much longer than B. thinks it will, and when I leave, pain I have lived with for what seems my entire life has been drawn from my body with gentleness and the freedom of the weight on my shoulders has blown my mind.
I sit here days later, still no pain in my shoulder blades. There is a feeling of soreness as though I had lifted weights and the micro-tearing has begun to heal. I look forward to combating the darkness again. To taking back and literally finding my life and myself. PTSD may be for always, but the nightmares have mostly stopped about this man who violated me, I can no longer picture his face, and although we are still working on the trauma that started when I was 7 and I have 40 additional years of trauma to work through, I can see light. I can feel hope. And I know I will find peace.