My EMDR treatments for PTSD  included Cognitive Feedback Therapy, which focuses on the individual’s thought processes and how they affect behavior and beliefs. For example, it did not take much for my mind to swirl with negative thoughts when my husband traveled out of town for music gigs. I imagined him sprawled on the side of the road after being hit by a car. At night, I would wake and watch my husband’s chest for movement. In the dark, it was difficult to see if it was rising and falling, so I’d gently lay my hand on his chest, feeling for life. Or I’d snuggle close to him, waiting for him to exhale. These negative thoughts would lead to other negative thoughts or images: sometimes I’d see myself in a hospital bed struggling to breathe, with doctors hovering over me, sticking needles into my arms.

Like any successful project, cognitive therapy involves homework. My therapist instructed me to keep a log of events that triggered negative thoughts, sensations, and emotions. One day, I felt weak and feverish, as if I had the flu. Even though I did not have a fever, I thought something was wrong: I should go to the hospital, because I might have an infection. What if I need antibiotics? What if I don’t go to the hospital? I might die. As a nurse, it was easy for me to scoot down this irrational path. And since my spleen – an organ that destroys bacteria and is part of the immune system – had ruptured in the farmers’ Market accident, I couldn’t help but be anxious about dying from an overwhelming infection. But an uncountable number of people live productive and healthy lives without a spleen. By categorizing my thoughts into what my therapist labeled “faulty thinking patterns,” such as drawing conclusions or exaggerating the meaning of an event, then forming positive ways of thinking, I learned to halt the unraveling of irrational thoughts. I no longer keep a log, though I’m not completely free of negative thoughts and images. Instead, when they intrude on my sleep, or my daytime routine, I envision a huge stop sign. Sometimes I hold my hand up and say, “Stop!” And just like that, I’m unburdened by blackness, screams, and blood.

While writing the initial drafts of my memoir I engaged in an exercise: I read the start of a chapter I had written about the earlier days of my recovery from the multiple injuries I had suffered after an elderly driver struck me. I focused on each sentence, each word and visual detail, then created a list of elements –objects, emotions, as well as the atmosphere of the piece – I anticipated would continue in the chapter. I then read the remaining pages, realizing the tone of the entire chapter smacked of self-pity in my telling of how I felt about the many bruises I suffered. I had failed to see beyond my own marred body, or ahead of me – that I would eventually heal (perhaps I needed the element of time to create emotional distance). In other words, the prose I had chosen was drowning in self-absorption.

Particular questions surfaced: would I continue to wallow in the bruises I sustained? Or would I be able to see beyond my eclipsed world shadowed by pain and, instead, recall the children I had cared for as a nurse, with the intention of showing how others suffer too?

Reading the chapter again, through the lens of my list, forced me to examine the self-indulging narrative I had crafted from a more objective stance. Even though my body would never be the same as it was before the accident, it would come to function quite well. On the other hand, a child who I had long ago cared for as a burn nurse, who I initially included in the chapter, did not regain even half the function she once enjoyed. Hopefully, in stepping back from the page, we return to it with 20/20 vision. In doing so, we are primed to craft a story that is unique on its own merit, yet universal, for we all encounter suffering at some point in our lives.

How exactly does EMDR work? Francis Shapiro, who discovered the treatment, explains it through the theory of the “Adaptive Information Processing Model.” The theory sounds metaphysical, but it’s not. The assumption is that all individuals have an information processing system, which takes our experiences and stores them in a section of our memories that is easily accessible. These experiences are connected to particular images, emotions, sensations, and beliefs.

Think of a computer. If you’re like me, you might have several folders filled with documents dotting your desktop, because you need the information to be readily available – at the click of the mouse. One of those folders might hold information that reminds you of something that evokes negative feelings. For instance, a folder has photos of your deceased parents. Every time you turn on the computer, you see the folder, and images of your parents fighting in front of you when you were a child return. You hear them screaming at one another, one of them saying, “I wish I never had children.” Each time you drag the folder into another one, so you won’t see it, the folder bounces back onto the desktop. Your computer is malfunctioning, so you need to take it to a computer geek.

Of course, we are not computers; we are human beings. Yet, our brains are very much like computers. In PTSD, the trauma – the negative images, emotions, and thoughts – are stuck in the easily accessible part of the brain. The processing system in our brains is working ineffectively, so each time something triggers memories of the trauma, like a car backfiring, you exhibit PTSD symptoms, such as panic. EMDR helps transfer the trauma and related images from your brain’s desktop into the part of the brain, or folder, that effectively processes the event.

When I speak to others about EMDR, they shirk from me, as if suspicious – maybe I’m looking to recruit them into a cult. But EMDR is not a cult at all, I promise.

There are 8 phases to EMDR: First, the therapist gathers background information about the client and discusses possible targets, or memories, on which the client may focus during treatment. In phase 2, the therapist ensures that the client is prepared to cope with potential distressing feelings. This may involve imagery or other stress reduction techniques. During phases 3 through 6, the EMDR procedure takes place. In phase 7, the client keeps a log noting any thoughts or emotions that arise. Finally, in phase 8, the client and therapist evaluate the progress made.

When I first learned about EMDR, I imagined walking out of the therapist’s office magically cured of all my PTSD symptoms. Maybe that’s what I wanted to hear when my original therapist told me about the treatment. But that’s not how EMDR works. EMDR is not a panacea – it assuages the anxiety related to the trauma, but does not necessarily eliminate PTSD symptoms all together. It wasn’t until I completed my first 90-minute session with the therapist when I learned that she could not give me an answer as to how long it would take before I noticed a reduction in anxiety.

Some people experience reduced symptoms of PTSD after a few sessions, but those who have suffered multiple traumas, or a complex history may require prolonged treatment. Once the therapist explained this to me, it made sense that I did not leave even the fifth or sixth session feeling marked relief. I grew up in a household where I endured both physical and emotional abuse. The emotional abuse continued into my twenties and early thirties when I became involved with men who treated me poorly.

As I shared my history with the therapist, I realized, for the first time, that other traumas I had experienced made my treatment complex: I was in a car accident with my father when I was ten, and another one with my step-mother when I was eleven. I nearly  drowned in the Colorado River when I was fifteen, and rammed into a tree while backcountry skiing when I was thirty. I completed twice-a-month EMDR treatments a year after my first session. Six years later, I returned for what I call a “tune up.”

For more information on EMDR, click on the video below:

https://www.emdr.com/client-session.html

Ten months before I sustained a traumatic brain injury, I started learning how to play the fiddle. Distracted by pain, fatigue and medical appointments during the first months of my recovery I thought I’d never play again. And the few times I tried, the notes sounded either too flat or too sharp. I’d put it back in it’s case, then set it in the corner of the living room, somber and angry at the same time.

Through the persistent support of friends, I eventually practiced again, every day. I started practicing for ten minutes at a time, but quickly increased my sessions to twenty minutes, a half hour, then an hour. I needed the music – immersing myself in the sounds of each note and the melodic phrases of Irish jigs and reels helped me to focus. But I did not know what effect playing the fiddle, or learning any instrument, had on the brains of TBI survivors.

Scientists used to believe that changes in the brain could occur up until only childhood. But modern research has shown that the brain can create new pathways and alter existing damaged ones to form new memories and learn new information. The process, called neuroplasticity (brain remapping) can take months, or even years.

But neuroplasticity can also occur through active learning, called structural plasticity. The brain cannot process all sensory input at once; it selects what it needs from moment to moment. Researchers have found, through music training, areas of the brain involved in cognition such as memory, speech, attention, and language are strengthened. For instance, children who are musically trained have stronger vocabularies and reading skills than those who are not musically trained. Researchers have observed similar patterns in adults.

And so I continue to push the bow across the fiddle’s strings. I call these sessions my brain workout.

http://neurosciencenews.com/neuroscience-music-enchances-learning-neuroplasticity/