I Lost My Identity. What I Found was Unexpected.

A story of loss, recovery and finding yourself anew

This story touches on suicidal ideation and sexual abuse and may be triggering.

Part I:

It’s January 2023, perfect time to turn the page on the past and begin anew.

I think to myself—New year. New chapter. New page.

I had a dream in December 2022, well, more like the recurring work nightmares that had been plaguing me for the past year and a half.

In my work nightmares, I kept showing up for work, even though I didn’t work there anymore. My brain couldn’t quite compute it, so it kept placing me back there. The office. The people. They were mostly the same. I loved the people I worked with. I missed them. In the dream, I would always be in the shadows, no longer the CEO, but still wanting to help in some way. But I was invisible to them.

Sometimes in these dreams, the office looked like the office—red and white, clean and fresh, vibrant and alive. Other times it looked completely different. And people were different. In one dream, I went into the office with a baseball bat and smashed every computer, desk and piece of furniture, picture…anything that I could swing at and smash, I did. That didn’t feel so much like a nightmare, it felt good.

Oh boy, was I pissed off. Fighting back. Finally. At least in my dreams.

I brought the organization back from the dead. I found the money, the people, created a functioning workspace and team and built it into an operational entity. Not the mickey mouse club that it was.

My counsellor at the time said I was making progress. He told me it was a good sign. I was getting angry. “You should be angry, what they did to you wasn’t right.” It was a natural response to feel this way. It took me almost a year to feel angry, instead of just dead inside.

But, in this dream, instead of waking up feeling invisible, ashamed, or angry, my dream delivered a message, and I was determined to remember it when I woke up. I should look into getting Employment Insurance (E.I.)

In Canada, when you are laid off, or in my case, terminated without cause, you can apply for EI.

This time, in this dream, I wasn’t invisible. I was being seen, spoken to. But I was clearly getting in the way. I was asking what I could do and how I could help. People were being polite, but not overly eager to have me there. I suggested to someone they could give me something to work on and I would go and do it quietly in a corner where no one would know or could see I was there. Or they could ask me any question and I could advise them.

I needed to work. It’s what I knew. And I was no longer earning any money. I was terrified, so I drifted in and out of my old workplace, looking for something and not ever finding it. I was a ghost. A shadow. A nightmare.

Finally, in frustration, one employee yelled out, “why don’t you just go on E.I.?” Their version of ‘go away’ I’m guessing. But the lightbulb went off in my dream and stayed there until I woke up. What? I can go on EI? How?

The truth was, I wanted to work, but I physically and mentally couldn’t.

Because I had received severance pay until the end of June 2022, and I was on medical leave when I was terminated, it never occurred to me EI was an option.¹ In fact, I had never had to apply for it because I have been working since I was 12 years old. I thought EI was for people that were really in trouble financially. Like welfare.

I was OK. Wasn’t I?

We had downsized our home in the months previously to cut down our expenses in anticipation of the day my severance ended. I was doing everything in my power to get well—yoga, meditation, medication, therapy (until my therapist died that May.) Eventually adding swimming, and keeping myself away from people and stressors.

In my heart, I knew I wasn’t ready to be out in the big, wide world yet, let alone take on a job, but in my head, I was pumping myself up to get myself ready. Because, you know, new year, new page, new, new, new.

C’mon Kim, you can do this.

Yes, I would apply for EI in January. And besides, I told myself, I had paid into it for over 40 years. It was a benefit I was entitled to if I needed it.

Here’s the thing. When you apply for EI you must be ‘available and looking’ for work.

Right. OK. I can do this. Of course I can do this. It’s what I’ve always done.

I tried to convince myself. Determined. Stubborn.

Part II:

In April, I walk through the door of a new counsellor’s office. It was a large space, decorated in white’s and creams. Cozy carpets on top of carpet, so it felt like you were walking on a cloud. Two chairs facing each other. Draped in cozy blankets. And more blankets piled high on a table close by. A small table with Kleenex beside. It was very open and yet warm, inviting and when I sat in one of the chairs, I felt like I was in a gauzy cocoon. It had a very high back and slight wings coming off the side. I was embraced. Like a hug.

“What brings you here?” She says.

“Where do I start?” I say.

Breaking in a new therapist is overwhelming. Likely why I didn’t try very hard after my old therapist died last year. It was exhausting to even think about trying to relay my story.

Coles notes version. I told her: I was diagnosed with complex PTSD in July 2021 after I went on medical leave from my job as the CEO of a national organization. The job just about killed me. Or, more literally, I just about killed myself. No joking matter, but by this time, I was numb to any feelings surrounding the past five years.

I figured enough time had passed. I should look for work. I did.

And then my body began to shut down. Again. Recurring nightmares got worse. I would look at different jobs and the thought of applying would make me physically ill.

At first glance, I would get excited and think, “yes, I could totally do this.” And then at the thought of following through, I would freeze. Go and sit on the couch and not move for hours. Staring into the ocean. Trying to regulate my breathing. My body.

Looking for work was causing me to spiral. I would only start to move again when my husband was about to come home from work. Empty the dishwasher, put away dishes, fill dishwasher, wipe counter. Vacuum. Repeat. Each day.

After a few sessions of getting to know each other and hearing the story of what happened to me during my five-year tenure leading this organization, she suggested I would be a good candidate for Cognitive Process Therapy (CPT).²

CPT is an intensive 12-week program. She gave me a link of a podcast so I could listen to what it would entail. She asked me to think long and hard about whether I wanted to do this. She explained it would get worse before it got better. But she felt certain, it would get better.

I had nothing left to lose. Who I thought I was appeared to be gone. I couldn’t seem to conjure her anymore.

We began CPT at the end of May and were finished in September. It was a long and exhaustive process.

In the therapy, she asked me to choose one traumatic memory to begin the process. She suggested I not choose anything from my workplace, as it was still too raw and close. My body was still too reactive, as was made clear by my attempt to look for a job and go back into the workplace.

She asked me to choose one from my childhood. From my distant past. I had so many to choose from I didn’t know which one to pick. She suggested the earliest one I could remember. So, we started there.

I was five or six. My mother was going out on a date. She would’ve been 25. She left me with a babysitter. He was the son of the man she was going on a date with. He was 16.

I’ll stop there. That story doesn’t.

Part III:

The therapy was rigorous, uncomfortable, wildly unsettling, and extremely helpful. I emerged feeling like a different person. Or maybe this person was always there, just buried under layers of trauma. 

In October, I did an eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR)³ session. I sat in the cozy chair. Not sure what to expect, but curious to see what this was about. My counsellor held a pencil type stick in front of my face. It had a little red fuzzy ball type thing on the top. I was told to follow the ball as she waved the stick from side to side in front of my face. Only move your eyes. Not your head. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

I don’t remember how she started the session, or what she said during. I know it wasn’t much.  

It blew my mind. Literally, my mind was exploding into tiny pieces. I was desperate to stop the session, screaming inside as the fragments went flying by. Like pictures if you were sitting by the window in a speeding train. But here’s the thing. They go by, and then they are gone, and you are onto the next, and they go by, and you are onto the next.

The pictures going by in my head weren’t pretty. My body was curled in a ball, tight, confused, protective, angry. Despite being held in the cozy chair in my therapists office.

My mind was begging me to stop the pictures.

I kept going.

My stubbornness wouldn’t allow me to stop. “You are going to look at this once and for all.”

My curiosity also wouldn’t allow me to stop. “What is this? Where am I? Why are these people here?”

I am little baby Kimmy. In my crib. Crying. Looking out. I see the bars of the crib.

I see the pictures moving by. I see certain people. And I know and understand something I’ve never been able to verbalize or visualize. My body held it. Buried deep in my psyche.

I was sexually abused as a very young child. Younger than my first memories. Too young to be able to conjure picture memories. I had felt it in my bones. I came out of the session knowing. No more wondering.

And then something significant happened. My body relaxed.

Weirdly, this knowledge gave me a sense of peace. Of calmness. I am not crazy. This happened. I survived. I am still here.

The beauty came towards the end of the session. The train kept moving, the pictures became lighter, brighter, happier. My body went through a transformation as each of the pictures flashed past the screen in my head.

By the end of the session, I was a young girl, running through a field of grass. A meadow. Laughing, smiling, happy. The joy radiated from my body. I was free. My body and my mind felt free.

When I came out of the session, I was exhausted, but joyous.

Over the following week, I felt something else. Like I was a different person altogether. I was the grown woman of this young girl running freely through the fields.

She had a name. It wasn’t Kim.

It was a thought I kept to myself for weeks before sharing it with my husband. He went quiet. He said he loved my name. I explained he could keep calling me by my old name if he wanted. But for me, I wanted a new one. He asked what it was. Without missing a beat, I blurted it out.

Ava Olson Van Bruggen

Where did she come from? Was she always there?

Ava – It popped in my head when I saw the little girl in the field. I heard it once a long time ago. It feels gentle. Feminine. Creative. Beautiful.

Olson – My maternal Grandma’s maiden name. She was often overshadowed by my Grandpa, but she was a strong woman in her own right. It’s a nod to my Swedish heritage and to her. I remember you. I see you. 

Van Bruggen – My chosen family. My husband and the beautiful family we created together. The Dutch heritage that permeates through me now. In Dutch it means, ‘of the bridge.’

My given name suddenly doesn’t suit who I am becoming. I feel a disconnect. A before and after.

Kim Van Bruggen. I worked so hard to create this strong, solid, no bullshit, successful woman. The kind who will figure out how to get you to shore in a lifeboat when your ship is sinking. Is she gone? Or is she just not needed as much anymore? Does she need a rest as Ava comes to the fore?

Part IV:

Coincidentally, this fall, I started a writing course at the local university around the same time as the CPT was ending and prior to the EMDR work.

We were supposed to introduce ourselves before we read out our written work. I kept forgetting to say my name.

After class, one of the women I met there told me her story. We were standing outside on the sidewalk. Two strangers. I can’t remember how we got to be there and why she started sharing. She just did.

She had been suffering from complex PTSD for the last several years after being in a toxic and complicated work environment. Post diagnosis, she had gotten divorced, shed friends, moved farther away from the city and changed her name.

I stood there in shock.

Hello universe!

My experience mirrored hers. The symptoms, the changes to my life, everything (minus the divorce part).

She had no idea she was speaking to a mirror image of herself in me.

My curiosity piqued when she spoke of changing her name. How did she choose? What was that like?

In her case she introduced herself with her new name to the new people she met in her life post-diagnosis. Those that know her with her old name, call her by it and she doesn’t correct them. I liked this idea.

I subsequently met a woman who changed her name. Legally, and in her mid-20’s. Another woman shared with me how a mutual friend had also changed her name after a major life event.

In early November,

david roberts

wrote about the myth of the stories we tell ourselves in My Personal Myth. He examines whether his privileged life ultimately created who he is today and if he even had a choice. Following expectations as opposed to choosing.

The article coincided with everything I was wrestling with in regards to identity and the personal stories I wanted to be true versus what was true.

Is who we are pre-destined, or do we have a choice. To alter course.

It’s clearly a ‘thing.’ I’m not alone in feeling this way.

It’s like a shedding. Shedding the old you and emerging as a new you, or perhaps the ‘you’ that was always meant to be. It’s not as odd as I thought.

Rachel Katz

in her post, I’m getting official about this, announces she will be writing under her full name. She is embracing her real name online and went from her pseudonym Rae to Rachel.

“In the last month or so, though, I have had the sudden, surging urge to write once again under my “real” name—the name that connects me to all my former selves, the name that I use in daily life, the one I don’t have to think about because it has always been mine: Rachel Katz. This name strikes me as more serious, less unique, less artsy. A year ago I needed a boost in all those areas: I needed a dose of playfulness and individuality, I needed to boost my sense of being a creative, I needed to feel a little safer, and I was able to do this all with a little nickname.” Rachel Katz

She also ensured we knew the proper pronunciation of her last name. She never bothered correcting people when they pronounced it wrong. But now, she knows who she is and wants you to respect it and say it properly. (It’s Katz like Kates, not Cats.)

I’m listening to Barbra Streisand narrate her book I am Barbra. After changing the spelling of her name by dropping an ‘a’, in order to be unique and different, she too, is focussed on ensuring her name is not only spelled correctly (Barbra, no extra a) and that her last name is pronounced correctly. She even calls Tim Cook at Apple when she discovers Siri is saying it wrong. They fixed it. Hats off to you Ms. Streisand. (pronounced Strie-sand, no Z)

The universe felt like it was conspiring to show me these thoughts I was having weren’t so unusual.

People care about their names.

And sometimes they change them.

Part V:

When I saw that Ava meant “blooming” it was another sign. Sealing the deal.

Or so I thought.

I was running through my field of flowers and blooming into a new person. One who feels free, creative, quiet, thoughtful—none of the words I would’ve used to describe my old self. Kim is still there. She’ll come out when she needs to, I’m certain.

However, I am more than just the solid, strong, dominant person I am known as.

I want a new name to reflect this new person. Who I am blossoming into. I want to choose my name. Honour my Swedish heritage and keep the ties to my family and our Dutch heritage.

I am changing. To whom?  

Ava Olson. I was sure of it.

But…something was niggling at me. Something big.

Was I running away? Trying so hard to put 2023 and all that came before behind me to turn to a new, blank page for 2024, just as I had at the end of 2022 and the start of this year? Determined to put my past behind me? Only to find it isn’t so easy.

Was I leaning into an old habit? To dissociate.

Dissociate – verb – to disconnect or separate (usually in abstract terms)

Similar words – detach, sever, cut off, break away from

I was.

Running away.

From me. Kim.

I couldn’t kill her off like that. Her experiences, her lived life. It may be painful, but she is a survivor and she’s still here. As desperately as I wanted to leave her behind, she wasn’t going to let me.

What I thought I wanted: New year. New chapter. New name.

What I know: it’s not as simple as that.

My unlearning has included recognizing my habit of dissociating. It’s a habit that is no longer serving me.

Its pull is powerful.

But so am I. Kim. Kim Van Bruggen.

As I move into 2024, I’m still me. I’m still searching.

Turning a page doesn’t mean it has to be blank.

I’m going to get to know Ava, this gentle, kind more creative version of myself. I am going to explore how to integrate both. Perhaps there are other versions of me in there.

My identity may not be set in stone, but it’s also not something easily set aside.

I understand I have a choice. For now, I choose Kim.

Keep (un)Learning. KVB xo

Barbra Streisand as Fanny Brice in the movie Funny Girl from 1968.

I’d love to hear from you. What’s your story?

1. What is a habit you’d like to unlearn and leave behind in 2024?

2. Have you changed your name or wanted to?

3. Have you left an identity behind? Or created a new one?

My newsletter will always be free to subscriber’s. If you like what you’re reading, please consider supporting the writing of Life (un)Learned and become a paid subscriber (at an incredibly nominal annual fee.) Thank-you and Happy New Year!

1. Technically, I should’ve gone back on Long Term Disability (LTD) with my insurer, but that is another story that is still unfolding.

2. Cognitive Process Therapy (CPT) is generally delivered over 12 sessions and helps patients learn how to challenge and modify unhelpful beliefs related to the trauma. In so doing, the patient creates a new understanding and conceptualization of the traumatic event so that it reduces its ongoing negative effects on current life. (American Psychological Association)

3. Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) is a structured therapy that encourages the patient to briefly focus on the trauma memory while simultaneously experiencing bilateral stimulation (typically eye movements), which is associated with a reduction in the vividness and emotion associated with the trauma memories. (American Psychological Association)