TMS JOURNAL: SESSION ONE
The Attic
Written by Elaine Degro
Disclaimer: This series reflects my personal experiences and opinions. It is not intended as medical advice. Individual experiences with TMS and mental health treatments may vary.
I started my TMS journey years ago.
I had been researching it, circling it, almost choosing it, but I didn’t fully commit until this summer, when I realized the last medication I was on was failing me too. All the pills I had tried had been failing me since 2014, when my life took an unexpected turn and trauma reached new heights. My body started changing. My mind followed.
I started on Zoloft.
Zoloft made me feel colorful.
Zoloft made me creative.
Zoloft made me gain fifty pounds.
Zoloft also made me numb.
I was on Zoloft for a long time, long enough that it allowed me to tolerate abuse, abuse I would never have tolerated otherwise. Every time I tried to escape, the numbness deepened. I couldn’t physically move. I couldn’t leave.
After I finally escaped, I was put on everything else. Prozac, Lexapro, Effexor, Pristiq, Wellbutrin, Latuda, antipsychotics that were inaccurately prescribed for something I did not have. I experienced hallucinations, panic attacks, and came dangerously close to ending my life when the desire to go on a permanent do not disturb returned this year.
That’s when I knew something wasn’t right.
With the little energy I had left, I pushed. I fought. I took a GeneSight test, which confirmed what I already suspected: my body chemistry does not work well with most—well, all—psychiatric medications. I was left with no answers.
So I chose TMS.
It was either that or electroconvulsive therapy. Honestly… I did consider ECT in the hope that it might erase the memories of the things I endured at the hands of people I loved. When I was approved for TMS, it took nearly three months to narrow down a start date. I finally began in December.
I want to share this journey because online, people say TMS is “just tapping.”
It’s not.
No one talks about what you see, what you experience.
Before my first session, they tested my tolerance. True to form, my tolerance was much higher than average. My starting dose was significantly higher than most patients’. The doctor looked at me with curiosity. I asked if it was because I was a mutant. He laughed and said no, but said he’d had men twice my size crying in the chair, unable to tolerate even half of my starting dose.
The goal is 120%.I started at 90%.Most people start at 60%.
I knew this was going to be an interesting ride.
The machine delivers two seconds of consecutive tapping (think: woodpecker)—tap, tap, tap, tap—followed by twenty seconds of silence. This repeats for twenty minutes. The first round, or first ten minutes, is the starting dose, followed by a mild increase in dose. The tapping targets the left dorsolateral prefrontal cortex, or DLPFC if you are fancy, but you feel it travel through your brain. I was fully convinced the machine was moving all around my head. It was not.
My desire is to write what I saw during these sessions. You have the option to watch TV or listen to music. I chose to close my eyes and dissociate.
During the first pulse, I swooshed in and was simply standing in an attic.
This wasn’t unfamiliar. My mind has always been an attic. I lived in one for the first nine years of my life, so I did not find it odd that my brain chose to bring me back “home.”
The attic was long, lit by a weak yellow bulb, filled with boxes. My entire life has been spent moving, my most precious things always boxed away. Through EMDR, I learned to put traumatic memories into boxes too. So… boxes everywhere.
This attic felt like home. Familiar—not necessarily safe—but the warehouse I had been mentally using for thirty-nine years to store all my memories.
The floor was creaky and wooden. The air smelled damp and cold. Some boxes were sturdy. Others were tattered and old.
Twenty seconds was enough for my brain to pick up on what was happening. The second pulse hit, and I felt my jaw clench. I inhaled deeply, loud enough to get the attention of the doctor. I still kept my eyes tightly shut. I squeezed them tighter after the third and fourth pulse. By now, my body was remembering a moment so deeply embedded in my brain that I wanted it to immediately stop.
With each pulse, the clenching of my jaw felt as if it were being squeezed with a pointer finger and thumb. My body decided it was time to remember an old memory, one that had almost broken my molars many times. An abuse episode where I was being “corrected” by the one who vowed never to hurt me.
My eyes watered, and while I did have a “safe word,” so to speak (raise both hands and the session would stop), I decided to push through. As the pulses continued, I remembered that I was in control and that if I stopped now, these memories would overpower me and never really go away.
I relaxed my jaw, and the memory disappeared. It was just that, a shitty memory, but one that did not have control over me. He was not in the room. He could no longer reach me. In that moment, I felt triumphant.
At the second round, ten minutes in, the doctor checked on me, as he had noticed my minor distress. I told him, let’s go, let’s keep going.
The first session, for me, was talking my body through uncomfortable physical feelings that it associated with danger. Once it understood that we were about to unpack a lot of shit, it stepped back.
When the session ended, I spoke to my doctor, who explained that it is natural for triggers and old memories to come up. There really isn’t an explanation other than that it has been known that during TMS treatment, things will 100% come up. He asked me if I wanted to continue.
I told him… let’s book tomorrow’s session.
