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.

A humpback whale. Lost. Wrong sea. Fishing net stuck in his mouth. Stranded on a sandbank. Again. And again. And again.

This whale is basically the physical embodiment of “I have no idea what I’m doing but I’m trying.”

And I cannot stop thinking about him.

I cry over this whale like he personally owes me money.

Why?

Because I can’t help him.

And that feeling?

Feels suspiciously familiar.

The Pattern (Unfortunately, There Is One)

Lemon → I couldn’t save her

Timmy → I can’t help him

Childhood → solved by emotional avoidance and sheer stubborn functionality

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.

And if somewhere out there a confused whale finds his way back north,

I’ll take that as a sign that maybe… eventually… so will I.