EMDR, a Whale Named Timmy, and Why I Refuse to “Get Better Properly”

So apparently, I’m in therapy now.

Not the casual “I read one Instagram quote and felt seen” kind. No. The full subscription model. EMDR.

The kind where you poke at your brain like it’s a suspicious bruise and hope it doesn’t explode.

The goal?

Process trauma, childhood, young adult life, cancer etc.

The reality?

Session one: we talk about my dead dog, Lemon.

Because of course we do.

The Trauma Plot Twist Nobody Asked For

My therapist went in thinking: let’s unpack childhood, open the dusty emotional storage unit, deal with the demons.

My brain went:

“No thanks. Here’s Lemon.”

And there it was. Not my childhood. Not the years of neatly boxed-up dysfunction. No.

The moment my dog died decided to kick the door down like it owns the place.

And here’s the inconvenient truth:

Lemon’s death hit me harder than cancer.

Yes. That’s insane.

Yes. I am aware.

No. I will not be taking feedback at this time.

“We Want to Reduce the Pain to Zero”

That’s the goal of EMDR.

Zero.

As in: neutral. processed. peaceful. emotionally well-adjusted. probably drinks herbal tea.

Hard pass.

I don’t want Lemon to be a zero.

If losing her ever feels like nothing, then what exactly was she?

A subscription I canceled?

No.

That pain stays. It’s the receipt. It proves she mattered.

Therapist Notes: The Professional Version of My Chaos

Let me translate the therapist report for you:

I don’t have nightmares.

I don’t get intrusive flashbacks.

I can now look at photos without immediately dissolving into a puddle.

So technically? Progress.

Also:

I moved her big photo to the hallway.

Not gone. Just… relocated. Like grief with better interior design.

The worst memory isn’t the diagnosis.

It’s the moment her heart stopped in my hands.

That’s the one. That’s the emotional boss fight.

And the core feeling?

Powerlessness.

Meanwhile, In the Baltic Sea…

Enter Timmy: The Whale I Can’t Save

The whale is dying.

Not metaphorically. Not in a poetic, “circle of life” kind of way.

Actually dying. Stranded, exhausted, tangled in human garbage, in the wrong sea, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

And I hate humans for it.

Not in a vague, philosophical way. In a very specific, very tired, very look at what we’ve done again way.

This animal did nothing wrong.

And somehow it ends like this.

And it breaks me.

Completely disproportionate reaction, right?

It’s “just” a whale.

A news story.

Another tragic thing in a world that’s apparently built on them.

Except it’s not.

Because I’m not crying just for the whale.

So What Does the Whale Symbolise?

Here’s the part therapy would politely circle around with soft words and tissues:

The whale is powerlessness.

It’s watching something innocent suffer

and knowing you can’t fix it.

It’s being confronted with the brutal reality that

love, effort, and wanting something to survive… are not enough.

Sound familiar?

Lemon → couldn’t save her

The whale → can’t save him

Different species. Same feeling.

That sharp, helpless, gut-punch moment of:

“There is nothing I can do.”

And my brain, being the overachieving problem-solver that it is, absolutely hates that.

Because my entire identity is built on fixing things.

And the Ugly Truth Beneath That

I am not just grieving the whale.

I am reliving:

the moment Lemon’s heart stopped

the moment control disappeared

the moment “doing everything right” still wasn’t enough.

The whale is just… triggering the same file.

Different cover.

Same contents.

Why It Hits This Hard

Because this isn’t about sadness.

It’s about moral injury.

Seeing something that shouldn’t happen… happen anyway.

And knowing humans had a hand in it.

That kind of grief doesn’t sit quietly.

It burns.

I don’t cry because I am weak.

I cry because I care past the point of convenience.

Most people scroll past Timmy in 3 seconds.

I don’t.

And that hurts more.

I couldn’t save Lemon.

I can’t save the whale.

And my brain is screaming, because it wants a solution.

There isn’t one.

There’s just this:

I cared.

I showed up.

I felt it.

And somehow, that still counts.

Even if it feels completely useless.

My coping strategy has always been:

Detach. Function. Move on.

Very efficient.

Also apparently burns through your entire energy supply like a toddler with a flamethrower.

Energy Levels: A Daily Comedy

I now have homework.

Because adulthood is just school, but with worse snacks.

Track energy. Three times a day.

Here’s the summary:

Morning: 2/10 (barely alive, questionable existence)

After walking the dogs: 5/10 (nature, dogs, mild will to live)

Afternoon: back to existential soup

Sleep? Broken.

Focus? Missing.

Creativity? On strike.

This from someone who used to be laser-focused and annoyingly productive.

Now I get distracted by… breathing.

The Body Joins the Party

Because why stop at emotional chaos.

Hormones: doing interpretive dance

Menopause: starring role

Possible anemia: guest appearance

Chronic fatigue: permanent co-host

My body is basically running multiple storylines without consulting me.

Relationships: The “I’ll Do It Myself” Era

I don’t ask for help.

Not during cancer. Not during grief. Not during anything.

Apparently this is not considered “healthy.” Who knew.

Even comfort annoys me.

Physical affection? No thanks. Personal space is my love language.

This isn’t new. It’s just… now it costs more energy than I have.

The Father Situation (Because Why Not Add One More Layer)

After 22 years, my biological father decided to try being a father.

Bold strategy.

Unfortunately, I prefer reality over late-stage guilt management.

So I told him:

Too late.

No expectations.

No contact.

Closure, but make it blunt.

So What Is EMDR Actually Doing?

Here’s the annoying part:

It’s working.

Not in a magical “I am healed and glowing” way.

But in a quiet, uncomfortable, undeniable way:

The pain went from a 10 to a 4

I can breathe around it now

I’m not drowning in it every second

And still:

I refuse to let it become zero.

The Whale, The Dog, and Me

Timmy is lost.

Lemon is gone.

And I’m somewhere in between, trying to function, trying to feel, trying to not completely shut down or fall apart.

If EMDR teaches me anything, it’s this:

You don’t fix grief.

You make space for it.

You don’t erase love.

You carry it.

Even if it hurts.

Especially if it hurts.