Becoming Whole with EMDR

About eight years ago, I met a little girl.  One that had desperately needed me for a long, long time.  When I first saw her, she was hiding behind a tree.  Covered in dirt and dead leaves.  Holding a little stuffed bunny.  I could feel how incredibly sad and lonely she was and it completely broke my heart.  Who could have done such a thing to this beautiful, sweet little girl?  As I slowly approached her, I quickly realized that person, the one who left her alone, and stranded, was me.  I had done this.  Because that little girl was me.  A very traumatized version of myself that lingered in the shadows of my mind.  One that affected me daily.  One that I didn’t know how to meet or understand until I tried EMDR, or Eye Movement Desensitization Reprocessing.  A therapy that is particularly powerful for healing trauma.

Trauma.  Whether we are aware of it or not, it’s something we all have.  Every single one of us.  It’s not a fun topic to talk about, and certainly not fun when dealing with our own, but it is imperative we do.  No matter how good we are at avoiding the pains from our past, they will always be with us.  And they don’t appreciate being ignored.  In fact, the longer we go on, pretending not to hear them, the louder and stronger they become.  Affecting every aspect of our lives.  Until we are ready and willing to listen.   

Now, I admit, healing your trauma is no easy task.  But it is so incredibly freeing.  Trauma affects us in more ways than most of us realize, including how we react, communicate, and even love.  It not only affects how we relate to one another, but also how we relate to ourselves.  How we treat ourselves.  And I would imagine if you’re anything like me, that’s not always the kindest.

Therapy is a valuable tool for everyone, but in my own healing journey, I found one type to be the most crucial in regards to trauma.  EMDR.  It opened me up in a way that traditional therapy did not.  It allowed me to discover some events from my past that my brain, in its effort to protect me, was withholding.  It also brought to light the true effects of some events I did remember.  Things I didn’t realize (or fully accept) how detrimental they really were.  And our brains are very good at that.  We survive.  But what our brains don’t seem to understand is that we need to face these aspects of ourselves.  The ones that get stuck after trauma.  Because they don’t deserve that kind of treatment any more than we did when we experienced it.  And keeping those parts of ourselves locked away in a dark dreary tower only keeps us from becoming the whole, empowered, magnificent being we are truly meant to be.

Isn’t that what we genuinely want?  To be whole?  When we integrate those versions of ourselves that are lonely, isolated, and traumatized, a very powerful shift takes place.  For me, seeing that timid, sad, lonely little girl filled me with compassion.  More than I had ever felt for myself.  I had a better understanding of what she (I) had been through at such a young age.  The horror she experienced.  And how I had been ignoring her despite her desperate cries for help.  I also came to understand how I, as my adult self, could be there for her when others couldn’t be in the past.  I could help her heal.  And in doing so, a part of myself that had long been lost, came back to me.  One that brings tears to my eyes as I write this because I know how happy she is to be home.

EMDR is not something to enter into lightly, and it is imperative to find an experienced therapist to work with.  It takes time to build trust with that person before you even try this work.  And it’s not always pleasant.  At times, it felt like parts of my brain were scattered about and I had to put them back together.  But I am so grateful I took the time to do it.  I’ve become more present.  More whole.  And it is easier for me to recognize negative thought patterns and behaviors for what they are.  Which makes me less reactive, set better boundaries, and be more compassionate.

Trauma is an inevitable part of life.  What you do about it is a choice.  And I truly hope you take the time to bring those lost parts of you home.  To be loved.  Because you deserve nothing less.  

 Lynn F Forney is an actor, dancer, filmmaker, and author of Choosing Survival: How I Endured a Brutal Attack and a Lifetime of Trauma Through the Power of Action, Choice and Self-Expression

Release the Idea of Getting Published and Focus on Your Craft

Ruby, my dog, has an internal clock that chimes at exactly four o’clock every afternoon alerting her that it’s time for a walk.

“Let’s see if we can get past Bob,” I say as I struggle to slip the leash over her head because she is dancing with pre-walk glee. Bob is my neighbor and has an international best seller brewing in his brain. He is forever pressing me for the secret to getting published or suggesting that I ghost-write his novel.

“You ready to get started on my book yet?” Bob calls out when he catches sight of Ruby tugging me past his yard. Dried leaves crunch as he walks towards the street.

“It’s hard enough getting my own words on paper, much less yours,” I retort. “You need to write that book yourself.” 

Bob lobs his rake from hand to hand so that it passes before his face like a windshield wiper. 

“Exactly how hard is it to find an agent?” he asks for the third time this month. I can’t decide if he is teasing me or not, so I ignore the question.

“Have you started writing yet?” I ask.

“No. It’s still in the idea stage, and work has been crazy.” He pushes the rim of his glasses up his nose. 

“What’s the plot?” I ask. Ruby roots around, sniffing at the grass at the base of his mailbox.

“How do I know you won’t steal my idea?” He pulls the rake to his shoulder and steps back. 

“It’s hard for me to write your book if I don’t know the characters or plot points.” I chuckle, then repeat the advice I’ve given him ten times prior. “Start working on an outline, then a first draft.” Ruby and I begin walking away.

“How long will that take?” He asks.

“A few months,” I shrug. “A year?” How many times do we need to rehash the same conversation?

“I don’t have that long,” he calls after me.

“See you later.” I wave.

“I don’t have time to write his book for him,” I mumble to Ruby, who pants back at me.

Reading taught me how to write. By the time I was forty I’d read approximately three books a month for thirty years. Through literary osmosis I learned story structure, pacing, and characterization. Once I discovered that I loved to write I took classes and attended conferences where I signed up for critiques and pitch sessions. I joined a critique group and bravely read my work aloud every week, only to have my fellow writers tell me to cut out unnecessary descriptions and dialogue. Quickly, I learned to edit and rewrite. Once I got my first draft complete, my critique partner congratulated me then told me to start the second draft from scratch. The discoveries I made about myself while working on my novel were innumerable. I became more observant. When it rained, I ran outside and held my face to the sky taking note of how the raindrops splattered against my cheeks and ran over my jaw in rivulets down my neck. I began to listen, rather than speak. The universe placed fascinating people and hurdles in my way, leading me in new directions. At some point, at a writer’s conference, an editor suggested to the audience that we focus on our craft, and publication would follow. That simple advice rang true for me. Once I released the idea of getting published and made the craft of writing my priority, my writing leveled up. The more I write, the better I get. 

K. E. Bonner, author of Witching Moon, was always the first kid to sit down during a spelling bee. It wasn’t until she was an adult that she was diagnosed with dyslexia, which explained why she always had to study three times harder than her peers. Being dyslexic taught her perseverance and kindness, her two favorite attributes. She lives in Georgia with her husband, two sons, and two dogs. When not writing, she loves to read, swim, explore new places, and meet fascinating people. If you have a dog, she would love to scratch behind its ears and tell it what a good pup it is.

Writing Holiday Romances

I sort of fell into writing holiday romances through a love of reading them. Each Christmas my mum and I would buy a holiday romance each, read them, swap, and then discuss, like a book club for two. I hadn’t tried writing romance before I wrote The Twelve Dates of Christmas – unless you count a cringing attempt I made when I was fifteen, after secretly reading Lace by Shirley Conran - if anything, I leaned towards gothic/sci-fi as a writing genre. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to write romance, it was simply that I didn’t know if I could.  

I wrote Twelve Dates ostensibly for me and my mum. I wanted to write the joy that I felt when reading holiday fiction. It was my love letter to Christmas. I had no idea that writing about a subject I loved would be the thing which finally enabled me to become a published author. I adore Christmas. Everything about it. The colours, smells, music, cosiness and let’s not forget the food! It is my favourite time of year, not even so much the day itself but the build-up; it’s cold, you can drink hot chocolate with cream and sprinkles at 10am with no judgment and people are nicer to each other. It feels like a hopeful juncture, a small window of time in which we are granted the power to change and become better people if we want it. And it needn’t be limited to Christmas; Jean Meltzer’s The Matzah Ball is a Hanukkah romance which beautifully captures all those holiday feels.  

I have a confession to make; I don’t much like summer. There I said it. I prefer the cooler seasons. Spring is exciting, the light it brings after the winter darkness is wonderous and welcome, but for me it is Autumn and Winter that makes my heart sing. Perhaps it is because I am a November baby, born, so I’m told, when the ground was covered in thick white ice. Or maybe it is because of the winters I remember from my childhood; coming home from school on snowy days to hot soup bubbling on the stove and Christmas eve’s which felt so charged with magic that sometimes if I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still feel the tingle of it. 

I think to write any genre, you’ve got to love it and that is especially true for a holiday romance. You must evoke all the cosy, physical things about the holidays, and invoke the spirit of the season too. A better writer than me could probably conjure a brilliant holiday romance even if they hated Christmas, but I draw heavily on my unquenchable love of the holidays when I write. 

One of the best things about the holidays, from a writer’s perspective, is how contentious they can be. For all the candy-canes and fairy-lights, they can be an emotionally charged time. Alongside the sense of hope that I touched upon earlier, comes a stripping back of our protective layers; if we are to change our futures, we must first come to terms with our pasts, and goodness knows that can be difficult. The ache for those we have loved and lost becomes more acute during the holidays. And let’s not forget the obligatory family get-togethers; all those little niggles, so easily tamped down from a distance, suddenly become sharp and prickly when you are locked in a room together. For me as a writer this juxtaposition of yearning for the elusive most wonderful time of the year set against the myriad of our complex human emotions trying to scupper the whole thing is a gift. It means I can pour all my adoration for the holidays into a story but also root it in truth so that it is not only relatable but the happily ever after – the happily ever after is essential in my mind – feels attainable. After-all, shouldn’t we all be allowed to have a crack at a supremely magical moment?

And therein lies, I think, the reason why holiday romance is such a popular genre; it allows us to dream. The holidays are a wildly busy, often stressful time for most of us and we not only need but deserve a few blissful moments of escapism. Where better to find it than in a book. Like millions of others, I wear many hats in my life; wife, mother, daughter, working woman, chef, cleaner, general fixer of all crises, and sole provider of my families ‘perfect’ Christmas. It is a wonderful life, but it is also bloody exhausting. We turn to holiday books and movies to help get us in the mood and hold us there as we strive to juggle more baubles than a circus performer. Holiday books keep the love light gleaming, as we shop and cook and peace-keep our way through the season. They are the voice that assures us that it will all come good in the end. 

In the last few years, between the global pandemic and the world generally feeling as though it is going to hell in a hand basket, I think we are turning more and more to books which make us feel cosy. And why not? We need it! It’s tough out there and if holiday books can bring us some much-needed respite, I say bring it on. I don’t think the recent explosion of holiday novels into the book market is a coincidence. During the first lockdowns I started reading holiday books in September and I didn’t stop until March. Those hopeful romantic novels helped me deal with my anxiety for the outside world. And I don’t think I am alone in that. Whatever your opinions on the holiday romance genre, they are books which sing loud and proud about hope, joy, forgiveness, redemption, and above all love; all the things we need in our emotional toolbox to help change the world for the better.             

A former professional cake baker, Jenny Bayliss lives in a small seaside town in the UK with her husband, their children having left home for big adventures. She is also the author of The Twelve Dates of Christmas and A Season for Second Chances.