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Karen appeared to ignore me as she gathered her file and sat in a nearby chair. Then she asked, “So what was that panic attack all about?”
I sighed. “I was upset about Jim’s murder. Once you add that event on top of all the other crazy that’s been going on in my life, it’s clear why I had anxiety. But I’m fine. It hasn’t happened again.”
“Have you experienced any other symptoms?” she asked.
“No. I mean, I’m a little anxious in general, but that seems normal to me.”
“Have you and Wesley had sex yet?”
I grimaced. “No.”
“Does it make you anxious to think about it?”
I picked at some invisible lint on my blouse. “Maybe a little. I just want to get it over with, but then I feel guilty for feeling that way.”
Karen pointed her finger at me. “That feeling—that guilt—is what we’re going to eradicate with EMDR. That guilt is a negative thought, a consequence of the trauma you experienced. If you relax and try this for me, I promise you won’t be disappointed. And remember, you’re doing this for you and for Wesley.”
“That’s manipulative—you know I’d do anything for Wes.”
She smiled brightly. “I know, but I’m a therapist. I have to work with the skills I’ve got! So, are you ready?”
I swallowed over a sudden lump in my throat.
Karen reached over and grabbed my hand. “It’s not that difficult, I swear. It’s better than living this way.”
“Okay.”
“EMDR can be done several ways. The one I have experience with is using this box,” she tapped the light box, “and it’s proven very effective.”
I scowled at the box, unconvinced.
Karen sat back against her chair. “I want you to go back to that image you shared with me—when you woke up and the guard was standing over you, masturbating.”
I shivered.
“How did that make you feel?”
“I felt vulnerable…helpless. I felt afraid, which really pissed me off.”
“And what thoughts were you having the night you had the panic attack?”
“I was thinking about my friend’s husband who was killed, how sad my friend and her daughters were. And then I kept thinking about Wes, when he got shot and when he was hooked up to all those machines at the hospital.” I shivered. “And my parents, I thought about when I saw my mom after she died…”
“And how did those thoughts make you feel?”
“Panicked, obviously.” I laughed, but it sounded brittle, like I might break. “Hopeless. Helpless. Angry.”
“Good job.” Karen motioned toward the box. “Now take a deep breath and get ready. I want you to watch the lights. Bring that memory back up—the guard standing over you. How did that make you feel?”
I watched the tiny lights blink across the box as I recounted the memory. “I felt powerless—disgusted with myself because I felt so weak.”
The light sequence finished, and I blinked.
“Excellent,” Karen said.
I wrinkled my nose. She had a weird concept of “excellent.”
She leaned forward. “Take a deep breath. Let’s try this again…”
