“I don’t want to write my blog anymore,” I told by boyfriend. “Why?” he asked. “Because I’m out of things to write except for the hard stuff…the stuff I don’t want to write about.” “So write about that,” he said.

So, here I am, writing about how I don’t want to write, for the exact reason I told my boyfriend: because I’m getting into some difficult territory with my EMDR therapy. That’s all that has been on my mind to write about, but I really don’t want to and don’t know how to write about it.

I should correct myself here: I’ve tried. I’ve tried to write a draft much like I wrote about my last story of abuse: one that’s removed, elusive, shrouded under a third person perspective, and it’s just not working. I want to write a story that wraps up neatly, with a beginning, middle, and some sort of moral triumph at the end, but it’s just not coming together the way I want it to.

And I know why it’s not coming together: because I’m still in the middle of it. I’m still in the murky territory of figuring out how I feel about the whole situation I’m trying to work through right now. I still feel a lot of feelings. I still feel anger. I feel resistance to the work that I’m trying to do in therapy because of that anger, and I don’t know what to do with it all.

Before I go any further, I should clarify that the event that I’m trying to work through in therapy right now is another story of abuse. It’s more painful, and it involves people that I am still close to. I don’t feel ready to write about it, and I’m not sure if I should. I don’t want share my story at the expense of other people’s feelings. It’s tricky territory to navigate.

But, back to therapy. I have this shitty feeling about my therapy right now…I don’t want to do it because I’m afraid — in a twisted way — that healing will mean that my abuser won. I’m afraid that me being okay means that the whole situation was okay. In a way, I want to never be okay, so that my abuser won’t be left off the hook. My trauma feels like a banner I’m carrying that says, “See what this person did! Never forget!” And I don’t feel ready to put away that banner. I don’t feel ready to let go of anger, and I’m not sure if I’m supposed to or not.

Pros: Letting go of anger might be another weight off of my shoulders. I might be able to put to rest some of the hurt and pain I’ve felt for so long. It might lead to a path of reconciliation both with myself and with the people involved.

Cons: It doesn’t seem fair. It doesn’t seem fair that the onus is on me to heal when everyone else seems like the broken ones. (Dammit. I know how terrible that sounds.)

That’s what is keeping me stuck: the unfairness of it all. I still have dreams for justice, but I know the ship has sailed on that. I will never get justice. I will never get the fairness I seek. It really feels shitty that the only thing I can control is my own perspective on the situation, and my own process of healing. The onus is on me. It always has been, as much as I’ve tried to deny it. And that really sucks.

But, I’m learning. I’m learning that healing is not a linear, smooth process. Perhaps, it never is. It’s a process of wading through muck and mire — through all of the darkest shit — to find some semblance of peace. It reminds me of the song, “Hallelujah” by Jeff Buckley. There’s a line that goes, “love is not a victory march, it’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah.” And that’s how I feel right now. The path to healing — much like this love that Buckley sings about — involves making contact with all of the coldness and brokenness and pain. Only then, once we have faced it, can we finally sing, “Hallelujah.” Only then can we wrap up our stories neatly and proclaim triumph.