The Haunting of Immobilization

[Content Note: mention of trauma, specifically sexual and medical]

[Content Note: mention of trauma, specifically sexual and medical]

The first time I remember the feeling of immobilization was when I was four. I had to get a pre-cancerous mole removed from my back. The cosmetic surgeon who did it was not good at his job, which we wouldn’t actually find out until later. I very vividly can see my little four-year-old body being held down, face-first, on an exam table. I can almost see my little face crying. This endeavor left a large pothole-like scar on my back, about the size of a quarter.

Later on, every dermatologist I went to would look at the scar and exclaim, “Oh wow, who was the doctor for this?” They would go look it up in my chart, because clearly I didn’t know (or remembered). Then, in one instance, my dermatologist and a nurse both looked at my records, saw the doctor’s name, looked at each other, and said, “Oooh yeah, of course it was him. Oh my god.”

I never dealt with the trauma of that experience. I never felt like it had affected me. That’s the tricky thing about trauma—your brain may think it didn’t affect you, but your body knows it did. I only connected this specific trauma experience recently when my back, my body was again traumatized. This time at a physical therapy session.

I’ve seen this particularly physical therapist for various ailments off and on for a few years. He’s excellent. But at my last session with him, he had me face-down while he repeatedly pressed on my low back, left of my spine, where my initial bout of sciatica first showed itself this past August. I winced, tensed, made audible sounds of being in pain. He made the comment, “You sound like a cartoon character!” Meanwhile, I was unable to speak because the pain was so bad. I felt, again, immobilized. I froze—a common trauma response—my body’s go-to trauma response. I couldn’t say, “Stop.” I have experienced this during other times in my life as well—primarily during the four sexual assaults I’ve survived. It is terrifying.

I left the session feeling hyper, caffeinated. I needed to discharge the energy. I couldn’t sleep that night and it didn’t occur to me until later that I had just been re-traumatized. I did a psoas release the following evening, which released tears and discharged, at least to some extent, the experience. When I did this, a vision of my little four-year-old body came to me. As I cried and shook, my body integrated both medical traumas. Little me was no longer fragmented.

This is not to say I’m all better now. I’m far from it. I went to another bodyworker this past week to get some relief from what my physical therapist had done. While this was helpful, I now am very sensitive to anyone touching my back. This is new for me. It feels exceptionally heavy. And it all could have been avoided had my physical therapist been trauma-informed. He could have checked in with me. He could have said what he was going to do and walked me through it. He could have given me time to breathe and orient.

Now, I am having to contend with all of these things that poured out of me. I have to rearrange them back inside me. I am afraid to move—as if I could shake another fragment loose.

I am afraid of my back being touched.