Two metaphors for healing

I was trying to explain to my therapist where I stand now in relationship to the recent traumatic years, and I was struggling. Then, in a comment on someone else’s blog, the right metaphor came to me.

The bad years are a mountain range I was driving through. When I was in them they were my whole reality, and a lot of the time I couldn’t even tell that I was in an abnormal terrain. Then I started coming out of them. There was a time when I could see level ground and knew it was where I wanted to be. There was a time when I was definitely headed toward it, even though the mountains were still all around me.

There was a time when I was finally on level ground. I had made it out. And adjusting to a wide, smooth road, without sudden turns and sharp bends that demanded hypervigilance, was a project in itself.

And now I’ve been driving level for a little while, it’s starting to feel normal, I’m starting to relax. But the thing is, when I look in my rearview, all I really see is mountains. Everything that came before it is blotted out, and everything that came afterward is tiny in comparison.

I’m well out of the mountains, and driving toward whatever comes next. But it’s taking them a long time to get any smaller in the rearview mirror.


I have a patch of skin that’s recovering from a bad allergic reaction. There are patches of new pink skin interspersed with dry scabby areas. I’m eager for it all to be new and smooth, but I recognize that the dry, rough bits have their purpose. They aren’t pretty or nice to touch, but they’re needed, to protect what’s still tender and re-forming. They aren’t for always.

To accept that I need these rough spots, these dry and insensitive protective pieces, isn’t to accept that I will always be this way. I am still healing: in some places the healing is mostly finished, in others there’s a lot of work still to be done. If I try to rip off the scabs before it’s done, I just risk re-infection and further damage. So if I am a little prickly, a little insular, a little unforgiving, those are my scabs. Those are the defenses that help keep my heart safe while it heals. They aren’t for always, but they’re needed for now.

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