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marysfics · 3 days

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Shifting Glances

Week after week, you see her in the waiting room.

Angst, Trauma, EMDR, Comfort, Fluff

Note: In this story, you'll find references to EMDR therapy. I’ve undergone EMDR therapy myself for several years, and while it has been challenging, it has also brought me relief. It's important to note that EMDR can be a unique experience for everyone. The way it's depicted here reflects my personal journey. If your experience with EMDR is different, that's completely okay. Feel free to share your thoughts, but let's all remember to approach these discussions with kindness and respect for one another's experiences.

The clinic smells of antiseptic and lavender-scented air freshener, a juxtaposition that somehow fails to be comforting. You’ve gotten used to it by now, the muted tones of the waiting room, the low hum of the fluorescent lights, and the way the receptionists’ voices hover just above a whisper. It’s always the same, except for her.

You glance up from your seat near the corner, fingers nervously playing with the hem of your shirt. She’s there again, across the room—her presence nearly impossible to ignore. She’s sitting with her head tilted down, long blonde hair cascading over her shoulder, a face mostly hidden under the bill of a cap. Still, you know. You’ve learned to spot the details by now. She’s always wearing loose sports gear, her left knee often taped in some fashion, crutches sometimes leaning against her seat.

You’re not a sports person, so at first, she was just another face, another person passing through the clinic, but then she became something more—a mystery. You’ve stolen more than a few glances during the weeks you’ve sat waiting for your turn. The routine was nearly identical: you both arrived at the same time each week, a brief flicker of acknowledgment between your eyes before you both looked away, as though there was something too dangerous in holding that gaze for too long.

You steal another glance at her, curiosity buzzing beneath the weight of everything else. She has that same air of exhaustion, though you assume hers comes from something more physical. You don’t know her, not really. Just a face, a woman who happens to sit in the same room as you once a week.

Today is no different, except something feels heavier. There’s a quiet ache in your chest that refuses to leave. EMDR therapy—Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing—it’s exhausting, and today, it feels impossible.

You know you’ll be going through the usual: being asked to relive memories, to feel things you’ve spent years suppressing, and to heal what’s been fractured inside of you. It’s tiring and it leaves you feeling hollow at times, especially when you leave. The vulnerability in those sessions never fails to drain you, and you always wonder if it’s helping or just opening old wounds.

But today, you notice something else. Her fingers fidget more than usual, her eyes flickering between her phone screen and the door. Anxiety. She’s nervous too.

The nurse calls your name, interrupting your thoughts. You stand, giving her one last glance, but this time, you don’t look away as quickly as you usually do. To your surprise, her gaze meets yours for the first time in weeks—really meets it. There’s something in her expression, something you can’t quite name. Maybe recognition. Maybe sympathy.

Your feet feel heavier than usual as you walk to the nurse, but there’s a buzzing under your skin now. Her eyes linger on you even as you turn your back, a weight you feel but don’t dare acknowledge. The conversation between the nurse and your therapist is distant, your mind still locked in that fleeting moment of connection.

Why did she look at you like that?

The door closes softly behind you, and you sit down on the familiar couch in your therapist’s office. The room is softly lit, the same as every week, but today it feels different. Or maybe you feel different. Your mind is already racing, though not about the usual memories that drag you under.

“Ready to start?” your therapist asks, her voice calm, grounding you slightly.

You nod, but your mind keeps tugging back to the waiting room, to her—what’s-her-name—sitting there with those tired eyes that somehow looked straight into you. It’s not like it was the first time you’d stolen a glance. But it is the first time she looked back.

The session moves forward in a blur. The rhythmic back-and-forth of your therapist’s fingers in front of your eyes, the instructions to focus on your memories, to feel them without being overwhelmed by them. But today, it’s harder. Harder to concentrate. Harder to dive into the past when your present is hanging on the thread of something unspoken in that waiting room.

Why did she look at me?

The therapist’s voice blends into the background as your eyes follow her hand back and forth, back and forth—trying to focus, trying to do what you’re supposed to. But the room feels wrong today. Usually, this process grounds you, pulls you deep into the recesses of your mind, where old wounds wait to be confronted. But today, your mind is somewhere else entirely.

More specifically, on her.

You’ve spent weeks perfecting the art of pretending she doesn’t exist. A stolen glance here, a quick look away there. She’s always been on the periphery, a quiet presence you’ve never acknowledged out loud. It’s become part of your routine—pretending not to notice her, letting her fade into the background like the murmur of the clinic around you.

But today, she didn’t stay in the background. Today, she noticed you. She looked at you. Not the polite, disinterested glances you’re used to exchanging with strangers in waiting rooms, but something else. Something charged.

Why did she look at me like that?

The therapist’s voice cuts through your thoughts, soft but firm. “Stay with me. What do you feel right now?”

What do you feel?

You swallow, trying to push the image of her from your mind, but it doesn’t budge. Her eyes—the way they held yours for just a second longer than necessary, how something flickered in them before she quickly looked away. Recognition? Or maybe something else? Sympathy? Sadness?

“Um, I feel… I don’t know,” you admit, shaking your head slightly, trying to focus. You’re supposed to be processing your pain, your own tangled memories, but your brain is stubbornly clinging to the way her fingers fidgeted in her lap, the way her leg bounced with impatience. The way her shoulders seemed to carry an invisible weight, just like yours.

Your therapist doesn’t push, though her eyes study you carefully. She shifts in her seat, slowly moving her hand back and forth again, drawing your focus back.

“Stay present,” she repeats gently, and you try. You really do. You close your eyes for a moment, breathing in slowly, trying to feel something other than the strange energy still buzzing under your skin.

But as soon as you open your eyes again, your mind is back in the waiting room. You can almost see her sitting there now, shoulders hunched, the corner of her lip pulled between her teeth as she stared at her phone, looking anxious—maybe even upset. Was it something on the screen that bothered her? Or was it the reason she’s here at all? The knee she cradled with unconscious care, as though even sitting still caused her discomfort?

You don’t know her story. You barely even know her name. But you can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more under the surface, something that runs deeper than just an injury or a tired glance. Something that mirrors your own pain in a way that feels unsettlingly familiar.

“Can we take a break?” you ask suddenly, your voice sounding too loud in the quiet room.

The therapist pauses, her hand still mid-movement. She lowers it slowly and nods. “Of course. Do you want to talk about what’s on your mind?”

You hesitate. Talking about what’s on your mind usually means revisiting the same memories you’ve been unpacking for months. Trauma that you’ve carried with you like a second skin, the kind that weighs you down and makes you feel like you’re suffocating in your own body. That’s what therapy is supposed to be for—that pain.

But right now, it’s not the past tugging at your mind. It’s the now. The girl sitting across from you every week, the unspoken weight of her presence lingering in your thoughts like a slow burn.

“I… I’m just distracted,” you say, your voice quieter now, unsure.

Your therapist doesn’t press, just nods in understanding. “That’s okay. Sometimes our minds drift when we’re processing a lot. We can pick up whenever you’re ready.”

You nod, grateful for the reprieve, but your mind keeps spinning. The session feels heavier today. Usually, the weight is familiar—the kind of weight you’re used to carrying alone. But now there’s something—or someone—else filling your head, making it hard to sort through your usual patterns.

Why did she look at me like that?

You replay the moment in your mind again, trying to decode it. You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything, that you’re overanalyzing a simple glance. People look at each other all the time. She probably doesn’t even remember it now, back to whatever’s pulling at her in her own life. But still… the way her eyes lingered.

Your thoughts tumble into a messy loop of frustration and curiosity. Did she feel something too? Or was it all in your head? She’s a stranger. Just a face you’ve seen in passing. You don’t know her, not really. But somehow, that one glance has you questioning everything.

The therapist’s voice breaks through again, softer this time. “Do you want to try and continue?”

You nod, even though your mind is still miles away from where it should be. As the therapist raises her hand again, beginning the familiar motions in front of your eyes, you take a deep breath, hoping this time you can focus.

But even as your gaze follows the movement of her hand, your mind drifts back to the waiting room, back to those tired eyes and the way they seemed to see something in you. Something you’re not sure you want to face.

And for the first time in weeks, it’s not your own memories that are haunting you.

As the session drags on, the rhythm of your therapist’s hand becomes background noise to the thoughts that swirl relentlessly in your head. You try to bring yourself back to the task at hand, back to the healing process you’re supposed to be focused on, but you feel adrift, untethered.

Her eyes won’t leave your mind. That flicker of something—connection, maybe—that felt so intense in that brief glance. You can still feel it, like a pulse that’s not entirely your own.

It feels ridiculous, honestly. This isn’t supposed to happen. You’re here to heal, to peel back the layers of yourself and work through the wreckage inside your mind. You’re here to process your trauma, not to get caught up in the orbit of a stranger who happens to sit across from you once a week. A stranger you don’t even know by name.

Still, the thought of her consumes you.

Why did she look at me like that?

The question hammers in your brain, louder now that you’ve allowed yourself to acknowledge it. There’s a strange comfort in the idea that maybe she sees something in you, too. That maybe the weight she carries isn’t so different from your own. You’ve been drowning in your own pain for so long—what would it feel like to share that with someone who understands? To find recognition in someone else’s eyes?

Or is that just you, projecting?

Focus. You need to focus.

You force yourself to sit up a little straighter, your hands gripping the edge of the chair as your therapist’s voice drifts back into your awareness. You know she’s watching you carefully, noting the way you’ve been distant, distracted, ever since you walked into the room. You haven’t been present today, haven’t really felt anything but the odd, lingering sensation of her—the woman with the tired eyes and the worn knee brace.

You wonder what she’s here for, what injury brought her to this clinic. You’ve pieced together the clues over the weeks—her knee, the way she sometimes leans on crutches, the soft wince she tries to hide when she stands up. Maybe she’s an athlete, or used to be. You’ve caught glimpses of logos on her clothing that hint at something sports-related, but it’s not your world. You wouldn’t know.

Yet despite not knowing, you feel it—the heaviness in her, the same way you feel it in yourself. There’s something unspoken, something you’ve both been avoiding in your stolen glances.

The therapist’s hand passes in front of your eyes again, and you try to refocus. You try to reach for the memories she’s guiding you toward, the ones you’re supposed to be reprocessing. But the memories feel hazy today, like they’re distant and out of reach. Usually, they’re so vivid—too vivid. But now, they’re dulled by the present, by the way your mind is pulling you somewhere else entirely.

“Let’s take another pause,” your therapist suggests, her voice patient but concerned.

You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, nodding gratefully. The tension in your body eases just slightly, but your mind is still racing.

“I think…” you begin, your voice hesitant. “I’m just not all here today.”

Your therapist waits, giving you space to elaborate. You know she’s used to this. Distraction is common during these sessions, but you’ve never felt this kind of restlessness before. This kind of… preoccupation.

“There’s… someone,” you admit finally, the words slipping out before you’ve had time to really think them through. “In the waiting room. I keep getting distracted thinking about her.”

Your therapist tilts her head, curious but not judgmental. “Someone in the waiting room?”

You nod, feeling a little foolish now that you’ve said it out loud. “Yeah. I don’t even know her name, but we’re always there at the same time. We’ve never talked, but today… today she looked at me differently.”

Your therapist stays quiet, letting you find your words. Her patience helps, but it also makes you feel exposed, like you’re admitting to something fragile and uncertain.

“And it just—it’s been stuck in my head,” you continue, your voice quieter now, as if saying it louder might make it too real. “I don’t know why it’s affecting me so much. It’s just… I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You’re not sure what you want from this confession. Reassurance, maybe? Validation? Someone to tell you that you’re not losing your mind over a brief glance from a stranger?

Your therapist’s expression softens, but she doesn’t immediately dive into analysis. Instead, she asks, “What do you think it is about her that’s sticking with you? Is there something familiar, something that reminds you of yourself?”

The question lingers in the air between you, and you feel your chest tighten. It’s not something you’ve allowed yourself to fully consider. The way she looks at you. The way she seems just as weighed down by something invisible. The recognition, maybe, of pain.

“I don’t know,” you say, but the words don’t feel entirely true. “Maybe.”

Your therapist nods thoughtfully, but doesn’t press further. “It’s normal to connect with others in ways that might surprise us, especially when we’re going through difficult things ourselves. If she reminds you of something—of yourself, of a feeling—it’s okay to acknowledge that.”

You nod, but your mind is still racing. What is it that you see in her? Is it really just a reflection of your own pain, or is there something more? Something in the way she carries herself, the way her eyes met yours like she was trying to say something she couldn’t put into words.

“Do you want to explore that more?” your therapist asks gently. “Or would you rather focus on something else for now?”

You hesitate, feeling torn. Part of you wants to dig into it, to figure out why this woman has such a hold on your thoughts. But another part of you feels scared—scared of what you might find if you look too closely.

“I’m not sure,” you admit quietly. “I guess… I’m not sure if I’m ready to.”

Your therapist nods again, understanding. “That’s okay. We can take it at your pace. But if you want to talk about it more, we can always come back to it.”

You feel a strange mixture of relief and apprehension. Talking about her—about that glance, that moment—feels like opening a door you’re not sure you want to walk through. But at the same time, you know that you’ll think about it for the rest of the day. Maybe for longer than that.

As the session winds down, your mind is still preoccupied, but there’s a little more clarity now. Maybe it’s not just the glance itself that’s bothering you. Maybe it’s what that glance represents—the possibility that someone else sees you in a way you’re not used to being seen. That someone else might be carrying their own weight, just as heavy as yours.

And as you step out of the therapist’s office, back into the familiar waiting room, your eyes instinctively search for her. For the woman who has somehow taken up so much space in your mind.

But now, her seat is empty.

And suddenly, the room feels a little colder without her presence.

The week drags on in a strange, heavy haze. Every day, your mind keeps drifting back to her—back to that brief, fleeting glance that’s somehow managed to burrow deep under your skin. It’s ridiculous, you tell yourself. You’re overthinking it, turning something meaningless into something monumental. You’ve spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, hiding yourself behind carefully constructed walls, and now, one moment with a stranger has you spiraling into obsession.

You try to shake it off. You try to focus on work, on your routine, on anything but her. But it’s like a splinter in your mind. No matter how much you push it away, it’s always there, just under the surface. You catch yourself replaying the moment over and over again—the way her tired eyes locked with yours, the faintest flicker of recognition passing between you. Did she feel it too? Or are you imagining it?

On Wednesday, you find yourself walking past the clinic—deliberately, even though you don’t have an appointment. You glance through the glass door, half-expecting to see her sitting there, leg bouncing nervously, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her jacket. But the waiting room is empty, and the sight of it leaves you with a strange hollowness in your chest.

What if she doesn’t come back?

The thought gnaws at you. It’s irrational, but the possibility that you might never see her again—that this inexplicable connection could vanish as quickly as it appeared—makes you feel like something important has slipped through your fingers. Something you didn’t even realize you were missing.

Get it together. You need to move on.

But by Friday, the restlessness is back in full force. You find yourself lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling, wondering. Wondering if she’s thinking about you too. Wondering if she felt the same pull, the same strange energy lingering between you.

Maybe you’ll never know. Maybe it’s better not to know.

But as the next week rolls around, you feel a nervous anticipation building in your chest. Your next appointment is coming up, and the thought of seeing her again—of what might happen this time—has your mind racing in a way that feels almost… dangerous.

What if she’s there?

What if she’s not?

The questions twist and turn inside you, and by the time your appointment day arrives, you’re practically buzzing with a nervous energy you can’t quite contain. You tell yourself it’s stupid, that you’re being irrational. You’re supposed to be focusing on your healing, not obsessing over some stranger you’ve never even spoken to. But the truth is, you haven’t felt this alive in a long time.

When you walk into the clinic, your eyes immediately sweep the waiting room. For a moment, the space feels empty, cold. But then, there she is—sitting in the same spot as always, her knee braced, her posture tense. She’s staring at her phone again, her fingers tapping the screen, but you notice the way her leg bounces restlessly. There’s a tension in her shoulders, a tightness in the way she’s holding herself, like the weight she’s carrying is a little heavier today.

You pause just inside the door, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest. You weren’t prepared for this, not really. Seeing her again feels like stepping into a current you can’t control. You want to look away, to keep pretending she’s just another person passing through your life. But instead, you find your gaze lingering on her, the same way it did last week.

And then, just like before, she looks up.

This time, there’s no hesitation in her gaze. Her eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the room falls away. The world outside fades, and all you can feel is the intensity of her stare, the weight of something unspoken passing between you. It’s like you’re both suspended in the same moment, tethered by something invisible and undeniable.

You freeze, unsure of what to do. Should you smile? Look away? Say something? But before you can make a decision, she shifts in her seat, straightening up slightly, her gaze flickering with something you can’t quite read. There’s recognition there, yes, but also something deeper. Something like understanding. Or maybe even… curiosity?

Your throat feels tight, your pulse quickening. You don’t know what to do with this feeling, this connection that seems to be growing stronger with every second you hold her gaze.

And then, she does something you didn’t expect.

She nods.

It’s subtle, just a small dip of her head, but it feels like a monumental shift. Like she’s acknowledging you—not just as a stranger, but as someone… more. Someone she’s noticed, someone she’s maybe been thinking about too.

Your breath catches in your throat, and before you can stop yourself, you find yourself nodding back. It feels awkward, stilted, but it’s the only thing you can think to do in the moment. It’s not much, but it’s something. A bridge, maybe. A connection.

You take a seat across from her, your body tense with nervous energy. You can feel her presence, like a subtle pull in the air between you. Neither of you speaks, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. It’s charged, filled with all the things you’re not saying, all the questions you’re not asking.

The door to your therapist’s office opens, and her familiar voice calls your name. You stand up, feeling a strange reluctance to leave the waiting room, to leave her behind. But as you turn to head toward the office, you steal one last glance at her.

She’s still watching you.

And for the first time in weeks, you don’t look away.

The session that follows is one of the hardest you’ve had in a long time. The therapist guides you through your memories with a gentle persistence, pushing you to confront parts of your past that you’ve been carefully avoiding. Today, it’s not just the weight of your own pain that feels unbearable—it’s the weight of everything you’ve been holding back for so long.

Your memories of childhood are raw, jagged, and unsettling. You find yourself reliving moments of fear and isolation, the sting of harsh words, the bruises you tried to hide. The sessions are usually a mix of distant recollections and present-day reflections, but today, the past crashes into you with a force that makes it hard to breathe. Your mother’s anger, her frustration, her harsh words—they’re all too close, too real. It’s like the boundaries between then and now have dissolved, leaving you exposed and trembling.

When the session ends, you barely manage to pull yourself together. Your eyes are red, streaked with tears, and your face feels hot and heavy with emotion. You nod to your therapist, a wordless acknowledgment of the work you’ve done. You need air—space to breathe and let the turmoil inside you settle.

You stumble out of the office, the hallway seeming longer than usual. You make your way to the clinic’s entrance, your steps unsteady, your mind still tangled in the remnants of painful memories. The cool air hits your face, and you stop just outside the door, letting it wash over you. It feels like a fleeting reprieve from the storm raging inside.

And then, you see her.

She’s standing there, just outside the door, her back to you. You recognize her immediately—Alexia. She’s wrapped in a coat, her arms crossed tightly in front of her. You can see her shoulders trembling slightly, and as you watch, she turns and looks at you. Her eyes are red and swollen, tears still glistening on her cheeks.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence between you is heavy, filled with unspoken understanding. You can see the same rawness in her face that you feel in your own. It’s as if both of you are caught in the aftermath of a storm, trying to find a way to navigate the wreckage.

Alexia takes a step toward you, her gaze meeting yours with a vulnerability that makes your heart ache. “I didn’t expect to see you,” she says softly, her voice wavering. There’s a tremor in her tone, like she’s struggling to keep herself composed.

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come. The sight of her—so open, so unguarded—strikes a chord deep within you. It’s not just about the glance you shared or the way you’ve been obsessing over her. It’s something deeper, something you’ve been grappling with in your own way.

“I…” you start, but the words fail you. Instead, you take a tentative step toward her, the distance between you shrinking as you both stand in the cold air, the weight of your shared pain hanging in the space around you.

Alexia looks down, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been coming here for a while. I didn’t think anyone noticed.” She pauses, her eyes meeting yours again, filled with a mix of sadness and curiosity. “You looked at me today like you understood something. I felt the same way.”

Her words hit you hard, echoing the thoughts that have been circling your mind all week. It’s as if she’s voicing the unspoken connection you both felt—the shared weight, the recognition of each other’s pain.

“I didn’t mean to stare,” you finally say, your voice rough from the emotions you’ve been grappling with. “I just… I saw something in you. I don’t know what it was, but it felt familiar.”

Alexia nods, a tear slipping down her cheek. “It’s strange,” she says, her voice breaking slightly. “I’ve felt like I was carrying this alone. And then you came in, and for some reason, it felt like… like maybe someone else understood.”

The shared understanding between you deepens, and you feel a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, you’re not as alone as you’ve felt. The connection you’ve both sensed, the unspoken recognition—it’s not just in your head. It’s real, and it’s giving you both a moment of connection that you’ve been craving.

Without thinking, you reach out, offering her a small, hesitant smile. “If you want to talk… or if you just need someone to be here,” you offer, your voice steadying despite the tears still lingering in your eyes.

Alexia’s gaze softens, and she nods. “I’d like that,” she says quietly. “I think I’d like that a lot.”

Part 2

#woso x reader #woso #woso community #woso fanfics #woso imagine #alexia putellas one shot #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas

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cat-eye-nebula · 1 year

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Tips & Tools for Releasing Stored Trauma in Your Body

🌻Somatic Experiencing: Developed by Dr. Peter Levine, Somatic Experiencing can release trauma locked in the body. This method is the result of a combination of stress physiology, psychology, neuroscience, medical biophysics and indigenous healing practices. (Videos on youtube)

🌻Mindfulness and Movements: going for a walk, bike ride, Boxing, Martial arts, yoga (or trauma-informed yoga), or dancing. People who get into martial arts or boxing are often those who were traumatized in the past. They’re carrying a lot of anger and fighting is a great release for them. Exercise helps your body burn off adrenaline, release endorphins, calm your nervous system, and relieve stress.

Release Trapped Emotions: 🍀How to release anger from the body - somatic healing tool 🍀Somatic Exercises for ANGER: Release Anger in Under 5 Minutes 🍀Youtube Playlist: Trauma Healing, Somatic Therapy, Self Havening, Nervous system regulation

🌻 Havening Technique is a somatosensory self-comforting therapy to change the brain to de-traumatize the memory and remove its negative effects from our psyche and body. It has a calming effect on the Amygdala and the Limbic system. 🌼Exercise: Havening Technique for Rapid Stress & Anxiety Relief 🌼Exercise: Self-Havening with nature ambience to let go of painful feelings 🌼Video: Using Havening Techniques to rapidly erase a traumatic memory (Certified Practitioner guides them through a healing session)

🌻Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) is a psychotherapy technique often used to treat anxiety and PTSD. It incorporates rhythmic eye movements while recalling traumatic experiences. This combo changes how the memory is stored in the brain and allow you to process the trauma fully.

🌻Sound & Vibrational Healing: Sound healing has become all the rage in the health and wellness world. It involves using the power of vibration – from tuning forks, singing bowls, or gongs – to relax the mind and body.

🌻Breathwork is an intentional method of breathing that helps your body relax by bypassing your conscious mind. Trauma can overstimulate the body’s sympathetic nervous system (aka your body’s ‘fight-or-flight’ response). Breathwork settles it down.

Informative videos & Experts on Attachment style healing: 🌼Dr Kim Sage, licensed psychologist 🌼Dr. Nicole LePera (theholisticpsychologist) 🌼Briana MacWilliam 🌼Candace van Dell 🌼Heidi Priebe

Other informative Videos on Trauma: 🌻Small traumas in a "normal" family and attachment: Gabor Maté - The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness, and Healing in a Toxic Culture 🌻Uncovering Triggers and Pattern for Healing: Dr Gabor Maté 🌻Understanding trapped emotions in the body and footage of how wild animals release trauma

Article: How Trauma Is Stored in the Body (+ How to Release It)

Article: 20 self-care practices for complex trauma survivors

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wishcamper · 3 months

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Squeaked in at the last minute for Day 6 of @gwynweekofficial!

Here's the first chapter of a modern Gwynriel grad student AU. Read below the cut or on ao3!

Dark Matter

CW: referenced sexual assault, language, Nesta smoking weed lol

The effects of lucid dreaming on PTSD-related nightmares (as well as waking symptoms) have been discussed in several studies collecting anecdotal data from amateur practitioners (Gibbons et al, 2016). Further research has been conducted on brain activity during lucid dreaming as well as PTSD-related nightmares. Both phenomena demonstrate brain activity in the amygdala, where the brain stores emotional memory (CITATION), and lucid dreaming introduces activity in the prefrontal cortex often absent during nervous system dysregulation (THAT ARTICLE I CANT FUCKING FIND REMEMBER TO ASK ANAKE).

Traumatic memory reconsolidation through techniques such as eye-movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR) indicate therapeutic value in ‘re-living’ traumatic experiences in formats that promote autonomy and agency for the victimized person (CITATION) (IS THIS LANGUAGE RIGHT?). Preliminary data using the Nightmare Protocol (Rothschild, 2000) in closed lab conditions show a decrease in symptoms of hypervigilance, waking flashbacks, and PTSD-related nightmares (Merrill & Berdara, 2023). This study will explore the possible link and therapeutic benefits of

“Think fast, bitch.”

Gwyn looked up from where she’d been typing feverishly, blinking at her friend who was looming over her on the sofa, waggling a fuzzy blanket and an unlabeled prescription bottle stuffed with weed. Nesta sat down next to her so their thighs were touching and wrapped the blanket around them both without asking, blocking out the chill of the A/C blasting full throttle.

Yet despite the sigh that escaped her, Gwyn knew Nesta didn’t need to ask - this was exactly what she’d come over for, whether she regretted the request or not.

“I texted Cass to see what his plans are, I’ll let you know when I hear from him,” Nesta said. Her voice was sharp, articulate, and it always reminded Gwyn of the ladies from period dramas, though there was nothing demure and blushing about her. Nothing but fierce determination in the woman who lifted the laptop from her hands and scooted it out of reach before grabbing the rolling papers from the coffee table drawer. Nesta rolled a neat joint with the same dedication as she did all her cases, the same way she’d taken Gwyn under her wing all those years ago.

They’d met in a class called Children of Divorce, which turned out to be more boring than depressing, but the two had formed a quick bond bitching about the dumbass professor, the limits of academia in general.

Nesta had been very protective of her from the start, which had confused Gwyn at first, but she’d come to accept the stubbornness of her friend’s care, the deep privilege of having someone so loyal on her side. Along with their friend Emerie, Gwyn had never felt more solid in her relationships, more held and loved by the people in her life.

Which was fortunate giving what a fucking train wreck that life had become in the past year.

Gwyn heard the front door open, a tired grunt and the sound of a heavy bag being dropped on the floor. She felt her shoulders tense reflexively and tried to relax them, picturing the sparkling blue of the bay where she’d vacationed as a child.

“Hi baby,” Nesta called from the couch. “Gwyn’s here.”

She grabbed the laptop and typed something quickly before setting it aside, tilted toward Gwyn, and heading into the kitchen. Gwyn saw the Google search bar on the screen, the words entered there: do you need him to find somewhere else to be?

Her heart swelled at her friend’s kindness, her consideration. Nesta had been so good from the very beginning at helping Gwyn feel comfortable without making a big deal about it. She half-listened to the couple greet each other, unable to help the small smile that rose to her lips.

“How was training?”

“Awful. I’m slow as shit right now.”

If Nesta’s ferocity was clear when she spoke, Cassian’s overall bigness was evident in his voice, the happy boom of it reverberating like the subwoofers they used to dance on top of at house parties in undergrad. They’d gotten a lot closer this summer given how much time she spent at their townhouse, and Gwyn felt lucky to call him a friend even though she was still uneasy around men.

“You should run with Az again. Last time you were so mad he was faster, you got better out of spite.”

“Oh my god, why did you tell me that? That’s exactly what I have to do. You’re so smart.”

Gwyn heard the sound of Cassian kissing his wife’s cheek, her answering noise of disgust.

“And you smell horrible.”

“Yeah I’m gonna go shower, my running rival is coming to pick me up in a bit.”

Nesta appeared back in the living room, pointed her thumb down and then up - a question. Gwyn returned a thumbs up, and Nesta smiled.

“Why don’t you hang out here?” she called back into the kitchen, and Gwyn heard cabinets opening, the rush of water in the sink.

“Is that cool with you guys?”

“I told Gwyn all I wanted to do was get high and eat Thai and watch Love is Blind. So if that’s your pleasure, feel free.”

Cassian appeared around the corner with a big cup of water, the plastic splashed with an image of Nesta’s face twisted in fury, a souvenir of his bachelor party. He grinned at Gwyn, his gym clothes and swept back hair damp with sweat. “I’ll text Az. We were gonna get food I think, but maybe we’ll come back after,” he said before disappearing to the bedroom, and she heard the shower starting, the whoosh of the pipes in the wall.

Nesta was already nestled into the couch when Gywn came back to herself, remote held aloft, drawing long from the joint she’d left smoldering in the ashtray. She held it out across the sofa but Gwyn shook her head, diving back into her literature review instead, for as long as Nesta would allow, anyway.

Not that she was above smoking, but it made her paranoid and jumpy, didn’t give her the mellow feeling she craved. Gwyn had tried everything and anything to help her sleep by this point, though her darkest hours were still plagued with dreams of cramped elevators, wine-stained lips, the cold click of wheels across hospital floor tiles. During the disciplinary hearing, she’d gobbled Xanax like Emerie’s dog devoured any food left unattended. She’d even tried going to church a few times, though the looming figures on the altar felt like they grew bigger and bigger with each breath she dragged into her lungs, her florid prayers condensing into a desperate mantra of Please don’t do this, please don’t, please, please, please..

Those days were behind her, thankfully, though the scars still lingered, both within and without. Gwyn vaguely heard Cassian calling out his goodbyes, waved an idle hand over her shoulder in his general direction.

Things were looking up recently, the slow plod of time eroding the sharp crags of her memory. Since the hearing in May she’d had three blissful months of a deserted campus to get back into a routine, to start scraping together a sense of normalcy. But now the undergrads were back for the semester, as well as her.. well, she didn’t know what to call Him anymore.

Former advisor, erstwhile lover.

Executioner.

His face flashed in her mind, a pastiche of all the times he’d praised her, poured the balm of his attention over her neglected heart. The hard set of his jaw across the conference table, the drunken fury when he’d -

“Oh, what the fuck?” Nesta yelled at the TV, jolting Gwyn from where she’d paused in her typing mid-sentence. “You’re gonna propose and then talk shit about her behind her back? Men are trash.”

The show was garbage, ten thousand percent so, but as her mind slowed down from its frantic rememberings Gwyn could admit to herself that she needed this. Just as she needed Nesta’s arm to reach out then and wrap around her shoulders, encouraging her to sink further into the corner of the threadbare couch, snuggled once more under the giant blanket.

It was a testament to Nesta’s goodness that she hadn’t hesitated to invite Gwyn over when she called her this afternoon mid-panic attack, hadn’t made the slightest fuss when she could only choke out I saw Him before dropping the depositions she’d been reviewing and plunking her friend on the sofa.

“He’s growing out his beard again.”

It felt like a stab wound, knowing he was out there still, carrying on while she was a fucking wreck. Gwyn was despondent as she gave up and finally shut her laptop, setting it on the side table. It felt like every time she got her feet under her something would sweep them away, leaving her bruised once more.

“What an asshole.” Nesta’s scowl could stop a man’s heart. “At least it makes him look like the fucking groomer he is.”

All the breath had left her when Gwyn saw Him across the quad that morning - he’d been talking to a very young student, the tiny cherries on her sundress like drops of blood.

“I should transfer.”

“Fuck that. You deserve to be here. You deserve to finish your education.”

She didn’t protest, knowing arguing with Nesta was useless anyway. Instead she rested her head on Nesta’s shoulder, heard the hum of approval as her friend took another long drag, blowing out a dense cloud of smoke. Gwyn felt her phone vibrate and patted around on the cushions for a second before finding it.

Emerie: love you Winnie, i have my phone on for a client anyway so you’re not allowed to feel guilty for calling me

Catrin: Hey I have time this weekend if you want to facetime!! Noon my time/midnight yours?

Cassian: Gwynnie do you want food? Nes is demanding Thai, but we can drop it off if you need some space

Gwyn: No you’re fine, I don’t want to kick you out of your own house

Cassian: shut up

Cassian: Az said he wants to see you if that changes your mind

Cassian: 😏

Gwyn declined to respond to his last message, unsure what the hell to even say to that. The thought of a guy even looking at her was enough to make her skin crawl these days, but beneath it now there was a tiny thrill, a part of her that came back online. She puzzled over it through the next episode before Cassian burst through the front door once more, his crooning call accompanied by the rustle of plastic bags.

“Oh, love of my life!”

The wedding was a requirement to move in together, given Nesta’s family’s conservative leanings, and everyone looked at each other sideways when the two got married right after undergrad considering their litany of very public breakups and makeups. But Cassian and Nesta were the most solid couple she knew, and they both seemed to delight in collecting waywards souls and stuffing them full of food and aggressive affirmations.

That truth was evidenced by the mountain of sweets Cassian poured out onto the couch from a CVS bag, the mile-long receipt fluttering to the floor. “We didn’t know what you’d want so we got everything,” he said before burying his face in Nesta’s neck. “I missed you.”

“You saw me forty-five minutes ago,” she groused despite her smug expression, and she allowed her husband to deliver her pad thai on one knee, cracking the plastic container open and revealing the noodles with all the flourish he would a diamond ring.

Azriel, for his part, had enough decency to look embarrassed by the whole thing, and Gwyn couldn’t help smiling at the way he rolled his eyes and sloped into the kitchen to grab a beer for himself and Cassian. He gave Gwyn a questioning look and she shook her head, tried to ignore the flush that threatened to stain her cheeks.

It hurt sometimes to see how in love her friends were.

She’d been in love with Him, at least she’d thought so at the time, though now she could only view the memories through the stain of the aftermath. He was married, and thirty years her senior, but he made her feel special, as pathetic as that made her sound in her own head. The world wouldn’t understand, he told her, and she’d believed him even as the guilt ripped at her, the sense that at its base what they were doing was deeply wrong.

She wished she could say her conscience caused her to break it off, but it had taken the threat of his wife discovering them to make her end things for good. She’d been unable to hide her heartbreak, and confessing the relationship to her friends was horrible. Gwyn expected them to blame her, to tell her she was asking for it. That she knew better than getting involved with a married man, that she was a homewrecker, a whore, the thousand slurs she hurled at herself every day.

But once the initial shock wore off, her friends’ sorrow surprised her, as did the rage they felt toward Him. Emerie, in her gentle but no-nonsense way, taught Gwyn a lot about abusive relationship cycles and coercive control, and she began to comb through the illusions he’d weaved through the cracks of her fragile sense of self.

But only after she’d untangled herself from Him did the worst of it happen. Now she could barely think his name without starting to tremble.

Too late she registered the people on TV were no longer making sound, the turn of eyes toward her. Gwyn didn’t even realize she was crying until she felt Nesta’s hand tightening around her own.

“Oh honey. Oh, it’s okay, come here.”

She felt Nesta’s arms wrap around her shoulders, her now-heaving breaths shaking them both.

“I’m sorry.’ The shame lay thickly on top of her, paralyzing. Nesta only squeezed tighter, trying to ground her.

“Shut the hell up, I love you. You’re allowed to feel like this.”

From the corner of her eye she saw Cassian shift slowly, picking up her water bottle and setting it beside her. Gwyn clutched the handle like it was a life raft.

“I just don’t think I can stay here much longer,” she choked through her tears, mortified that the mess was showing on the outside. “I can’t keep getting knocked over every time I see Him.”

Azriel’s fist clenched against the sofa arm but he was otherwise still, an unreadable expression on his face. Then his eyebrows softened and Gwyn heard the rush of her own blood in her ears, the fear pounding.

“I’m so tired,” she blurted out, unable to contain it. Everyone kept silent, letting the tide flow out of her. “I’m on edge all the time, I can’t concentrate. Merrill is breathing down my fucking neck. And it’s clear he isn’t going to leave, so if I want any peace of mind I have to leave myself.”

“You know what’s best for you better than anyone else,” Azriel said quietly. “But I also think you’re trying hard not to take the help that would be happily given to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You say you’re tired. So let the people who love you take some of the weight.”

Nesta made a noise of agreement, and Gwyn turned to her, taken aback.

“You agree with him?”

Nesta shrugged and brushed Gwyn’s hair back from her face, reached around her to pluck a tissue from the box on the end table, a remnant of her last breakdown. “I mean, you always act like the things I do for you are such an inconvenience for me. They’re not. I’d do literally anything for you.”

“Why?”

“Because you deserve it.” Cassian’s stare was even from where he was sprawled on the floor, and even as the guilt twisted in her stomach Gwyn felt the truth of it, of the way they were all holding her up.

“What would it even look like?” They’d been so constant, and she promised herself to consider the help for their sakes, even though she knew she’d never accept.

Cassian shrugged. “However you want. You can move in here if you don’t want to live alone.”

“No, I’m not getting in your way like that.”

“I’ll move in with you, then.”

“Nesta, no.”

“I could escort you on campus if that would help,” Azriel offered.

Gwyn faltered, both from surprise at his willingness and because it actually sounded great. “I’ll be running my sleep study the next few weeks, my hours are too weird.”

“Az is pretty much nocturnal, he’s perfect for the job.” Cassian reached up and ruffled his friend’s hair, leaving Azriel looking like a disheveled crow. He scowled but turned back to Gwyn, his deep voice sincere.

“If it’s because you’re uncomfortable with it, that’s fine.”

“But if you’re saying no because you’re stubborn,” Nesta added. “Then you’re outnumbered here, babe.”

Cassian began a chant of One of us, banging his hands on the coffee table, and Gwyn laughed in spite of herself, tears still leaking. “I don’t want to be handled like I’m something fragile.”

“No, no.” He paused his banging and looked thoughtful, considering. “Think of us like the Secret Service. We got your back so you can focus on saving the world.”

“I think I should talk with Amelia about this.” Her therapist was good at giving it to her straight while still empowering her to trust her instincts.

“Okay, I’m gonna hold you to that,” Nesta said sternly before wrapping Gwyn up again. “Lovingly, tenderly hold you.”

“I don’t know why you’re being so nice to me.”

“Because you do too much for other people to carry this shit alone. Because there are people in the world who want nothing more than to bring you Belgian chocolates,” Nesta said, picking up a box from the pile on the sofa and waving it in front of her face. Azriel’s eyes darted toward the carpet. “Don’t let one fucking horrid asshole man take that from you. Now are you going to help me verbally abuse these trash bags or not?”

Gwyn laughed again, the knot in her throat easing as Nesta unmuted the TV and the others settled back into their places, the bounce of conversation returning once more.

“What’s wrong with this lady? What does she have?”

“I can’t diagnose anybody,” Gwyn said offhandedly, the answer rote as she dug through the chocolates. “Sorry, I’m overwhelmed by choice at the moment.” She puzzled over the map on the inside of the box lid, the whirl of vague descriptors about the chocolates’ depth, the passion of their creation. “I don’t think I can start with one of the ‘intense’ ones, they’re too intimidating. Like, intense compared to what? How do I prepare for that?”

Cassian tipped his head back and laughed. “See, if you were gone, who else would say shit like that? You make the world better, Gwynnie.”

And damn it if Gwyn didn’t feel herself begin to unspool as they watched, the idle commentary warming her through. Eventually a very stoned Nesta started using her experience in divorce settlements to determine which couples were the real deal and which were goners, and apparently the overall odds were grim.

“No, see, they disagree about lifestyle priorities. They’re fucked.”

“How can you tell?” Azriel frowned, and Gwyn couldn’t help watching the shift of his long legs, clad in black jeans despite the August heat.

“Look at the way he’s dismissing her. He’s gonna be like ‘oh I’ll convince her I’m right, she’ll agree with me eventually’.”

The contestant in question appeared in a confessional and said the same thing Nesta predicted, nearly verbatim. Cassian shuddered.

“That’s spooky. You terrify me.”

“Good.”

Gwyn smiled as Nesta grabbed Cassian’s neck playfully from behind, putting him in a headlock. She glanced at the sun setting beyond the balcony, orange streaking the sky. “I feel like we are going to see him eat those words. AND I’m going to check that all the doors are locked because it will make me feel better.”

Weeks ago after a similar meltdown, Gwyn had promised her friends to be more unapologetic about the things she needed to do to feel safe since the assault. Eventually she’d learn to let the security blankets go, but she needed them right now and that was okay.

So it was with a feeling of lightness that she popped up from the sofa, that she heard Cassian say, “Yes queen,” through a mouthful of drunken noodles at the same time Nesta assured her, “Do whatever you need to, babe.”

It wasn’t always simple and it was difficult not to let the hard days win, but her friends had been awesome. Including, surprisingly, the brooding guy settled back into the far corner of the couch.

Azriel.

What the hell was she going to do about him? She’d only known him as Cassian’s friend before her world explored, was shocked a few days after when he visited her in the hospital. He’d brought her socks, saying he knew hospitals could be cold. It was sweet, and she’d held the memory close in those dark days that followed, a small spark in the blackness.

She locked the back door, rotating the handle twice. She did the same to the front door, and was halfway down the basement stairs when Azriel started up, meeting her on the landing in the middle.

“I got the sliding door,” he said.

Gwyn flushed with anxiety, felt her eyes burn with inevitable tears. “I need to check myself.”

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

She brushed past him and checked the door, made sure the bar was down and the pin in place. Rattled it twice. Azriel was hovering at the bottom of the stairs when she turned, hunched like he wanted to make his lanky frame smaller. She swallowed as she started to cry, trying to keep down her shame at her body’s natural reaction.

It was normal. She was okay.

“I’m not crying because I’m upset. I’m crying because you wanted to help me and that’s just really nice of you.”

“Gwyn, I-”

“Thank you. It really means a lot to me.”

His skin was cool when she laid her hand over the tattoo on his forearm, the swirl of geometric shapes wrapped around it. Sacred geometry, he’d told her once, the ‘tree of life’. Before her now he stayed deathly still, as if not wanting to startle her, though his shadowed eyes didn’t stray from her face.

“Look, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But.” He seemed to think hard on his words. “I care. About you.”

He placed a hand over hers, and for the first time in forever Gwyn didn’t feel tired to the center of her bones, didn’t feel like a damaged, fucked up cast-off too weak to survive in the world. She felt like just a girl, standing in front of a boy, trying to remember how to breathe because he was really, really unfortunately good-looking.

“Did you mean to abandon us up here?”

Cassian’s voice resonated from the living room, making Gwyn jump, her gaze snapping toward the stairs before Nesta said, “That’s so rude, you know we both have abandonment issues.”

She heard Cassian’s booming laugh and turned back to Azriel, who looked chagrined and yet nervous somehow, like his face couldn’t decide how much it wanted to show. She wiggled her toes against the concrete, grounding herself with the fuzzy fabric of her socks, the first thing that ever helped.

“I was just saving Azriel from a robber,” she called up the stairs. “Poor thing, I think he needs an escort on campus at night.”

She felt some of her old self resurface as she smiled at him then, at the way he’d half-frozen in surprise before his mouth curled into a lazy smirk.

“Guess I’ll be seeing more of you, Berdara.”

#gwyneth berdara #gwynweekofficial #gwynriel #gwyn x azriel #pro gwynriel #nesta archeron #cassian #modern!gwynriel

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reallypleasanttree · 3 months

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👻🎁 🦋 🧪

What is your wildest headcanon?

I don’t any wild headcanons really.

Gyomei loved gossip and would regularly send his crow to the Hashira’s mansions to spy on them. It’s how he found out about Sanemi and Kanae and then Obanai and Mitsuri.

Have a piece of a WIP you want to share?

Sure! Here’s domestic married Obamitsu fluff

“I don’t know what to say,” Obanai started, glancing around their bedroom. One hand rested over her flat stomach. His other hand started tapping the sheets. “You can’t hear me now, but I want you to have what I didn’t. Security, affection, warmth, friends, safe dreams-Fucking Hell, just a dream.”

“Language!” Mitsuri raised one hand up in mock horror before breaking into a smile. His hand moved from her stomach to her sides in order to tickle her. His wife giggled more and tried to push his hand away.

“Nope, not a chance,” he teased her as he continued tickling her sides. Mitsuri rolled in order to escape. Obanai snaked his other arm in front of her chest to bring her to his chest.

“Obi! I’m pregnant now. You can’t be mean to me,” she rotated her head and stuck her tongue out in defiance. Obanai paused his attack and held her back to his chest. He pressed his lips to the nape of her neck and laid his forehead on her shoulder.

“I hope our kid is as bratty as you are,” he murmured. “I want them to know they can be a kid. Be silly, be bratty, and be ornery. They can just be themselves and know their parents will love them no matter what.”

Which character is your favorite to write?

Tengen Uzui. He’s such a fun character to write for because he’s well intentioned and truly cares for his wives and friends. Though he is flashy, eccentric, and obnoxious.

Do you research for your fics?

Yep! I’ve researched quite a bit about Japanese cooking(recipes, techniques, amezaiku, etc), dream/reincarnation theories from the Buddhist perspective, noh plays, psychology(signs/symptoms, origins, treatments from the different branches, eye movement desensitization and reprocessing therapy), and Japanese history and folklore.

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pussyandpetrichor · 2 months

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If you do not already follow me before responding, I will block you. This is a question I am asking of people who are already here and kind of know me. I am intentionally not tagging this post with relevant tags in an attempt to reduce its visibility and reblogs are off. Please answer in replies or dms.

What do any of you know about EMDR: Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing therapy?

The science I can find seems to ahow mixed results with some legitimate help, some harm, and some no effect. Unfortunately, I am not enough of a scientist to analyze the science myself.

#koko speaks

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wellhealthcounselling · 4 months

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EMDR Therapy: Shedding Light on Its Effectiveness in Treating PTSD

Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) is a transformative approach to psychotherapy that enables people to heal from the symptoms and emotional distress resulting from disturbing life experiences. Unlike traditional therapies, EMDR therapy for PTSD utilizes the patient's rhythmic eye movements to dampen the power of emotionally charged memories of past traumatic events.

Understanding How EMDR Works

EMDR therapy integrates several practical elements of other therapeutic approaches with eye movements or other forms of rhythmic, left-right stimulation, such as sounds or taps. During EMDR eye movement therapy, the patient recalls a traumatic event while the therapist directs their eye movements back and forth across their field of vision. This process is believed to work by "unfreezing" the brain's information processing system, which is interrupted during extreme stress.

The Effectiveness of EMDR

Clinical Success and Studies

Research overwhelmingly supports the effectiveness of EMDR therapy in treating PTSD. Several controlled trials have shown that EMDR eye movement therapy effectively decreases the symptoms of PTSD, including flashbacks, nightmares, and anxiety. Patients often report a decrease in emotional distress and an increased sense of mental stability.

Beyond Trauma

Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) is also versatile, proving beneficial for various issues, including anxiety, depression, and panic disorders. This adaptability makes EMDR an invaluable tool in the mental health toolkit.

Phases of EMDR Therapy

EMDR treatment typically involves eight phases, focusing on memories, present disturbance, and future actions. The goal is to ultimately process the experiences causing problems and include new ones needed for total health. "Processing" does not mean talking about it; it means setting up a learning state that will allow experiences causing problems to be "digested" and stored appropriately.

The Patient's Experience

Initial Consultation

Each EMDR session begins with an initial review of the patient's emotional health, which helps to tailor the therapy to the individual's needs. The therapist prepares the patient by teaching techniques to handle emotional distress.

The Processing

During therapy, focus is placed on specific traumatic events. Patients are guided to recall these events along with the associated images, thoughts, emotions, and physical sensations. The therapist then directs the patient to make eye movements or other bilateral stimulations to help process these memories.

Closure

Sessions conclude with the therapist instructing the patient on how to maintain a log of any related thoughts or emotions that arise between sessions. This log helps patients apply the calming techniques learned in therapy to real-world situations.

Well Health Counselling For Your Needs

At Well Health Counselling, they understand the profound impact that trauma can have on an individual's life. Their EMDR therapy sessions are designed to provide clients with a safe, confidential, and supportive environment. With a team of specialized therapists, Well Health Counselling uses EMDR to facilitate the brain's natural healing processes, helping clients overcome trauma and regain control of their lives. Their commitment to providing accessible and effective treatment makes them a beacon of hope for many suffering from PTSD and other trauma-related issues.

In conclusion, EMDR therapy offers a promising avenue for those seeking to overcome the debilitating effects of PTSD. With its unique approach to processing traumatic memories through eye movement desensitization therapy, EMDR has opened a new frontier in psychotherapy that promises not just to manage symptoms but to heal the underlying psychological distress.

For More: - www.wellhealthcounselling.com/emdr-therapy

#emdr eye movement therapy #eye movement desensitization therapy #emdr therapy for ptsd #eye movement desensitization reprocessing

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theflyindutchwoman · 2 years

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Lucy's healing journey is one that really resonated with me. I know so many felt her trauma has been forgotten by the show... And I get it. The thing is, I'm not sure if the writers forgot about it as much as they lost their way towards the end. Because they actually did a rather good job by having her trauma brought up in every season since Day of Death. They were showing us how she was progressing… And in a way, I feel that's what makes it even more jarring because it ended abruptly. They started a blueprint and left it unfinished.

It all started in 2.12 - this episode really gave us the key elements the writers used in Lucy's recovery. They mentioned straight away all the therapy work she has done since Day of Death : exposure therapy, cognitive therapy and eye movement desensitization and reprocessing. I won't talk about the last two. But exposure therapy is really interesting : to put it simply, she willingly put herself in situations that could trigger her trauma, under the supervision of a therapist. In her case, I would assume being in tight/dark spaces would be on top of her list. Speaking from personal experience : cars, underground structures and elevators are some of the worst because you deal with them on a daily basis. And for Lucy who spends 12hours/day in a car and has an unpredictable job, claustrophobia had to be dealt with right away. Interestingly enough, we actually (almost) never saw her have a panic attack in an enclosed space. The show instead chose to focus on her issues regarding the human interaction/touch and trusting her instincts. Which, considering her job, are equally as important. Just less obvious.

In 2.14 + 2.17, we see a bit more of her progress. Lucy directly mentioned being buried alive as a way to remind people not to underestimate her. By that stage, she's no longer seeing herself as a victim, but as a survivor (thank you Tim). She is healing progressively and trying to find healthy ways to cope and if not, face the issue at hand, like Nyla advised her. We even get a conversation with Tim, giving us a glimpse of his guilt (and part of his trauma as well). And by 2.19, Lucy seems to be fine with dating and being touched. It closes one part of the arc opened in 2.12… However, it's worth noting that the show didn't stop referencing her trauma there.

In 3.01, we finally get a confrontation with Rosalind who manages to get the drop on Lucy by singing THE song. And yet, by the end, she seems confident, both of herself and of Tim's presence in her life. She knows that if she falls, Tim will catch her… And that is a huge thing. For both of them, because as much as Tim tries to deflect, her faith in him is absolutely important in regards to his guilt.

3.02 / 3.03 follow-up on this progress. We find out that her car was the only place she felt safe after her ordeal (which is really interesting considering she was forced in the trunk of a car - again no sign of claustrophobia)… It says a lot about where she is now that she feels confident enough to give away what was essentially her safe space to someone she just met. Even after Tamara sold the car, she is still able to let it go.

In 3.13, we have a major moment for Lucy. Nyla is essentially trying to trigger Lucy by abducted her just so they can see how she'll react. I say "they" because this moment is for both Nyla and Lucy. It drives the point home on how far Lucy has come in such a short time.

That's why I don't find it that shocking when Lucy dares Tim to do an escape room with her in 4.07. Don't get me wrong, I absolutely understand the reactions here. Considering what she went through, an escape room would not be my first choice either. But even if it's an enclosed space, it's still a controlled environment, of her choosing, with a person she fully trusts. And again, up until that point, we never saw her react negatively to tight/dark spaces. I mean, if she was able to deal with a fake abduction, being in a suit in a closed lab, seeing her murdered best friend stuffed in the truck of a car, adventuring inside the walls of her building or being in the back of a van (similar to the one Nyla abducted her in) without panicking, going to an escape room is really not that out of character. The writer may have completely forgotten about her trauma here but at least, it doesn't necessarily negate what we've seen either.

Now here comes 4.17... And all its triggers! Seriously, take your pick. We got : puppies' videos from Tamara ; the surprise of finding out her boyfriend watched the video of her being buried alive (and dying) without asking for her consent (or warning her in advance) ; THE song ; watching by herself the videos of her dying ; telling Tamara to go on a date with a stranger ; and going in an elevator without second thought… And in case that wasn't enough, Lucy was already panicking when she arrived at the DA's office. Now I can't believe that all these direct callbacks to Caleb and her traumas were pure coincidence. So I'm guessing they tried to make it an empowering moment for Lucy. And in a way, I can see it : by not testifying, she is beating Rosalind a second time. She is taking back her own narrative. It's her story, not something to replay for Rosalind's amusement and mind games. The problem is it fell… flat. I don't know exactly what went wrong. I'd venture too many triggering moments with no real impact or reaction. The puppies videos or Tamara's going on a date should have made Lucy hesitate at least for a second. Instead she barely reacted. Chris humming the song and the realisation that he watched the video should also have warranted a longer reaction. The look of horror and terror on Melissa's face was perfection but it barely had time to sink in before all was forgiven. She bounced back to her cheerful self all too quickly. I feel we needed some breathing room... To really see Lucy work through her decision to not testify to make it empowering.

And that would have made Rosalind's escape and Lucy's spiralling in 5.01 even more horrifying. Because just when she thought she was free, she was reeled back into Rosalind's mind games. Now this episode introduced some really good elements of claustrophobia. Like how Lucy found out about the escape while she was back in a tight space (airplane)… I will forever cherish Melissa for her acting choice in the bathroom, when Lucy's hands are shaking. But the fact that in this situation, she has to go in an even tighter space (bathroom) to get some small amount of comfort makes it even worse. Another moment is when they're in the car on their way to the casino… A car with tinted windows, at night, surrounded by people she doesn't know/trust… The first thing she does is rolling down the window so she can feel the light breeze and see lights… And then, she turns to make eye contact with Tim. At this point, she is barely holding it together (although she's doing a great job hiding it) and he is the only place of comfort she has. Tim watching over her during this whole episode is so sexy of him. He tries to give her as much control as he can while supporting her.

In 5.02 / 5.03, that's when her trauma starts to seriously be overlooked. Which at this point could still make sense : she's too focused on Chris and feeling too guilty to be introspective. And we see her reluctance in dealing with anything related to Rosalind's case (which was consistent with her previous decision). But Chris' trauma is too fresh for him to realise what he's doing and what he's truly asking of her (and I doubt he'd have the ability to read the room anyway). And she can't turn to Tim for help…

And that's when we arrive to 5.04… One thing that I liked was having Lucy not bothering with Rosalind and focusing instead on saving Bailey. It's on par with her decision in 4.17 : she's letting Rosalind be an afterthought, which was exactly what our sociopath didn't want. And by bringing back Bailey from the dead, she beats Rosalind a third (and final) time. We come full circle with Day of Death : this time, it's her turn to help someone by using her experience and she gets to save someone. It opens the door for a new healing arc…

And that's where it got completely brushed away. There was no acknowledgement whatsoever that Lucy's wounds were brutally reopened and that she was further victimised by Rosalind. We didn't see her process what she went through. We had a glimpse of something when Lucy said it didn't feel real but that's it. Tim and Grey felt almost too cold towards her. Even in 5.08 when Tim acknowledged Rosalind's actions, it's about Chris, not Lucy. That's why I'm not sure they forgot - it almost feels like the writers didn't even realise that Lucy went through her own trauma this time around. And what makes it even more disappointing and unsatisfying is that they did a lot of groundwork, it just needed a couple more scenes. I'm not holding up much hope for further acknowledgement but it could still be salvaged a bit. Have the true crime episode dedicated to Rosalind and have Lucy work through everything she experienced… Or have Lucy interact with a victim where she help them get through their trauma and at the same time acknowledge her own ordeal… Or have Lucy and Angela bond over what it feels like to be abducted, to live in fear of having your loved ones or yourself being killed by a psycho (since Angela's trauma has been completely ignored up until 5.12, having a real conversation about it could be nice)… Or have Lucy wake up from a nightmare and Tim hoping her process things... Anything.

Although I will end this whole thing by saying it still beats what we got from Bailey… Because I'll never get over the fact that they joked about her death. Literally. They basically said her dying this time around didn't matter because she already died previously so what's one more. Listen, I can have a dark sense of humour but show, there is such a thing as timing and that was not it.

Little added note - This isn't about screentime or anything. I am aware of the challenges of having a huge cast of characters. And while this whole post may not sound like it, I am actually happy that we got such a storyline to begin with because I'm used to shows ignoring traumas altogether. So this felt new and refreshing. Hence the frustration that they fumbled the last part.

#Sorry for the length #Got a bit carried away here #The rookie #Chenford #Lucy Chen #Character Study #Meta Analysis

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