Blade in Hand

We started EMDR therapy yesterday, and I anticipate this is going to be difficult for me.

I am having a hard time just getting the memories out. It's not that I can't remember. The thoughts are in my head, but the words cannot come out. I feel that I will open my mouth to speak and nothing will come out.

So I blog.

These memories are seriously scary. Yesterday's memory about my mother's injury made me so sad that I found myself at home in the bathroom, blade in hand, completely surrendered to my desire to self-medicate through self-injury...only to be saved by an "inopportune" phone call (or the hand of God).

Because, in my case, idle hands...want to cut, I occupied myself that afternoon making a good old fashioned home-cooked meal for my family - like my mother did. She was famous for her good cooking (and still is)! Except for the fact that it seemed like everything I touched was sharp (knife, lid of an open can,etc.), I was able to completely lose myself in the preparation of that meal.

This morning I continued to think about my mother, and I wanted to be a child playing volleyball on the beach with her again. I found myself making Cream of Wheat for my children for breakfast. This was one of our favorite breakfast meals as kids growing up. It was always special when she made it. We did not call it Cream of Wheat. In our house it was arinita (ah-ree-nee-tah). This is the Spanish term for that comforting porridge, the word my mother used when she was a child.

When I cooked it this morning, I stirred that pot constantly, never leaving it to so much as wash a spoon. I became lost in the swirl of the creamy mixture and fell, like Alice in Wonderland, into a vortex of time...back into a happy morning with Mom when she made us arinita.

After serving my children, I consumed my portion soaking in its warmth and the warmth of my mother, and for that moment I felt safe and whole again.