what alone feels like
when by choice it feels like wind in my hair on a long bike-ride. sun on my face on a run with The Avett Brothers screaming from my iPod. enveloped in a comfy chair at Starbucks with a good book and cup of tea on my lap. when by choice it’s an adventure, a journey, an accomplishment, a point of pride.
so why, right now sitting alone at work does it feel more like imminent doom? in front of a computer at work. not another soul in the building. so quiet i can hear the heating ducts rattling above my desk. and it feels like in the movies when a wall of rushing flood water is careening through a tunnel and it’s about to round the curve and overtake the protagonists. any moment i will be suffocated by the silence and the stillness and the space. why can’t i relish this peacefully with a meditative mind? why does it make me restless and panicked?
I never thought…
I’d lose touch with my blog. I never thought I would so seamlessly transition from “bad girl for not posting every day” to “when was the last time I posted???”.
I’ve asked myself a few times recently if I’m avoiding anything by not posting. I claim I’m so busy but really I’m parusing westelm.com and drinking wine. So why have I felt the disconnect?
the logistical updates include that I landed a job I wanted (or at least think I want at this point in time – you never know based on a 1 hour interview and tour, do you?) and I start Friday May 1 (god bless health insurance companies – it is for their sake that I start work on a Friday). I move either Sunday or Monday april 26/27th. I have 10 days of work left and 17 days left in Vermont. I have a list of things to do before the move, things to do after the move, who to notify of my address change and what things to sell at my moving sale. My manager parts have done their part.
I think, honestly, that so much is going on that a post feels daunting – where to even begin?
What I’ve been dealing with in therapy today and in group tonight is the internal battle between some young, exiled parts who want very badly to weep and feel all the sadness right now and the protector parts who don’t want to. It’s awfully new and a mark of therapeutic process that I have parts voicing the need to express sadness. They are mightily pissed off that they’re finally speaking that need but the protectors won’t let them jump into the pain headfirst. I started shaking in group tonight – like full-blown tremors – because I was talking about my Aunt Julie and my fucking protectors weren’t letting me feel sad or cry about it. I felt like my head was going to explode.
I’m also feeling a really really strong attachment to my dog right now. I mean, I always do but right now it feels heightened. We talked in therapy about “transitional objects” today and also about the role that animals played in my childhood (including Yoda the turtle). In all the change and closure and transition occurring at home and work right now my daily mantra is “Sam is moving with you”. I’ve imagined where I’ll put his bed. I’ve imagined him sleeping in the bed with me in the hotel on the way to NC. He is my comfort right now. And as the staff has dwindled at work he is my protector when I’m there all alone (the clinic was broken into the night before last and I am NOT happy about having to be there alone so much in the next two weeks). I felt so needed when he sought me out the other night when he had a tummyache (from eating my co-worker’s going-away cake!). He came to the head of the bed, sat upright and put a paw on my shoulder, panting heavily in my face. I’m rambling, but ultimately I feel pretty unanchored and alone right now and Sam is “my buddy” through it all.
Sunday is Easter – my Aunt Julie holiday. don’t know how much I’ve discussed my Aunt Julie on this blog but she was my dad’s little sister. She lived 2 hours from us and was unable to have kids of her own. She was THE nurturing figure in my life – warm and cuddly affectionate. A fourth-grade teacher who “got” the way kids work. So every year I do something for Aunt Julie on Easter and this year I’m stumped. My younger parts are pissed that my protectors are working overtime and protecting me from the one day that I actually allow myself to feel sad and miss her. Been dealing with that and talked about it in group.
I’m feeling pretty checked out at the moment. Some wine in my belly. Ready to walk Sam and head towards the bed.
the work ahead
“This is the work to do. Let’s do it,” B replied today in therapy when I outlined all the parts that are overbearing right now. When I wished that my managers could relax for a few days until I need them again. When I pined for an evening not monopolized by my wine-drinking-in-order-to-numb part. When a younger part cried at the mere mention of how upset it makes me to see the boxes and chaos associated with a move.
There is so much to write – a week’s worth of thoughts and then some. Disjointed and lengthy, this post will hopefully feel like a therapeutic release in my writing.
I hate moving. This move will be #18 excluding the moves between each year of college (technically not a relocation as it was still on campus and I didn’t own furniture). The first 11 were during my childhood, the first 6 were before I turned 9. Most were a symptom of my dad’s mania and my parents’ unhappy marriage. I teared up today when I said that the boxes for me symbolize being dragged along with no choice in the matter. Chaos. Uncertainty. Helplessness.
So as my clinic winds down operations, out come the boxes. Down come the pictures on the walls. Away go the books on bookshelves. Welcome in the trashbags cluttering the hallways, the piles of things sorted into “sell” or “donate”. I come home at the end of the day and feel too overwhelmed by it to even begin packing my own belongings. Which for now is fine as I do not officially have a move date other than “sometime before May 1″. But it hit me today how much it impacts me, churns me up, upsets me to see all of it. I’m angry. I’m frustrated. Things are feeling unfair and disorganized at work and no one seems to be leading anymore. I have this hope that THIS time, I’ll allow myself to feel some emotions around transitions and endings, the culmination of all this therapy. I expected to feel sad and sappy but what I feel is pissed off and bitter. “Great. That’s what’s there!” Bree exclaimed. Oh, right, angry is an emotion too.
Last week was too stressful to even express. I had 7 job interviews in 4 days and in between each was busy calling people about apartments, viewing properties and returning missed phone calls related to either jobs or apartments. Yack. My only reward was that I stayed with friends and when the sun went down I had copious amounts of wine in good company. No yoga. No walks. No reading. No mediation. No journaling. No blogging. Just wine wine and more wine. Certain parts (namely managers and winos) wouldn’t step aside and let any Self-nurturing parts come to surface. Oh well. Can’t say I blame my system. I think I overstressed it.
I know I overstressed it. I have consumed my weight in alcohol in the past week and just tonight I fantasized about purging. I didn’t do it. I just had the slightest twinge of an urge. Just my system giving me a little “fuck you” for putting to much on my plate and not exactly taking good care of me over the past week.
So much more to write. The more I write, the more wine I pour. Better slow down. More to come…
A date with my dog
I have this amazing positive energy today. I want to bottle it up and stick a cork in it so that it’s dispensable on another day.
I bought bright white and orange new running shoes and laced up for a leisurely jog with my pup this afternoon. My ponytail flapping on my upper back, my sunglasses bouncing on my nose. Sam trotting along at my side, glancing up periodically with a panting grin.
I took a shower this evening and danced. I did a little striptease in the mirror to the sultry voice of Fiona Apple. I harmonized in the shower (and sounded damn good). I blowdried my hair all pretty and cranked up the music. Sung into my hairbrush. Sidestepped and sashayed in my slippers and a damp towel while Sam the dog looked on curiously.
I cleaned my house while Sam fished in his toy basket and dragged out every single item. He squeaked his squeakerball over and over and over. And for once, I wasn’t irritated. I patted him on the head and stole the ball, enticing him to chase me around the house.
I talked to him while I mixed up his special food mix (brown rice + pumpkin puree + kibble +herbal medicine for his tummy). I realized that being single means I can lavish my puppy with affection and praise. I can snuggle with him, spend as much money and time as I want on him and have Friday afternoon dates with him.
I’m not alone afterall.
Listening to my body
or perhaps I should’ve titled this post “Shame on me for not listening to my body”. My wrist, my right very important and frequently used wrist, is painful. This has been a nagging injury that consumed my life February through June of last year, which does not bode well for my level of optimism that this is just a “brief” injury. MRI’s, X-rays, casting, splinting, bracing and a second opinion were all in agreement: diagnosis unknown. Well fuck you, medical profession (which I sheepishly admit to being part of)! Fuck you healthcare diagnostic technology! And a double fuck you to my insurance deductible!
The wrist has been sore now for perhaps six weeks – nothing major – just an occasional reminder that I have a dainty (translation: weak ass) wrist. But yesterday there was the vegetable chopping that went on and on for about forty minutes – whose idea was it to make soup, anyway? The turnip and the sweet potatoes, butternut squash, celery, onion, tomatoes all sliced and diced with an increasing amount of discomfort in a certain joint. I knew I was overdoing it and the excruciatingly dull knife wasn’t helping my cause. But this voice (which sounded exactly like my mother) said, “You can’t stop mid-soup! Suck it up!” So I pressed onward.
If there was a purple heart of soup making, I earned it. I also earned it for papercrafting several years ago when I gave myself a nerve compression injury to my thumb from cutting for about 4 hours during a paper flower craft activity. Oh no, I can’t injure myself in any athletic endeavor or rescuing a puppy from a burning building. Apparently I’m hard-core, X-games worthy domestic. Martha Stewart + Mountain Dew.
So yoga tonight was pathetic. Every posture I had to think about and figure out a not too awkward accommodation. Transitions into and out of postures were wobbly and I’m sure my sighs of annoyance were, well…annoying to others. I cried in Shavasana. Initially because the frustration over my wrist spilled over into hatred of my whole body right now (did I mention I gained weight and am now wearing a fat suit? yes, my thighs touch each other just south of my groin and it is repulsive.). But a few minutes later I was crying because I was staring up at the ceiling with nothing but blank walls in my peripheral vision and I began to feel trapped and alone. The world suddenly felt huge and I felt tiny and unanchored and the vulnerability dripped in hot salty tracks from the corners of my eyes and puddled in my ears.
Friends
What does a Saturday spent with female friends mean to me? It means that Sunday can be spent sewing, cooking, working out, cleaning all without even for one second feeling lonely. I’m not so needy that I can’t bear to be alone for an hour. In fact, my mom reportedly gets confused because I send mixed messages of enjoying alone-time but hating to be alone. It’s true. I guess this does sound confusing.
I guess I need solid friendships in which I really feel known and valued in order for alone time to feel tolerable – even enjoyable. So rather than feeling like today was a sad pathetic exercise in tolerating excruciating emptiness and solitude – it was more like a treat. I got to spend the day doing whatever I wanted and relax my social muscles after a big day yesterday. Quality time with good women friends is so nourishing to me. I’m still figuring out why friendships are hard for me and romantic relationships jump in the way so frequently.
So much to write. So little time.
Just a speedy post before therapy. Last night was monumental. I don’t even really know how to describe it because I am admittedly a little floored and overwhelmed right now.
I totally veg’ed last night – parked in front of a DVD with a steady stream of peanut butter intake. Went to sleep uneventfully but awoke around 3 flopping around uncomfortable. My back just couldn’t find a happy position. I had my third Network Chiropractic appointment yesterday and this need to move and adjust and mild discomfort is to be expected. So I actually laid on the hardwood floor for a moment because I felt that might make it feel better. To no avail. My stomach started to feel funny – no pain, just movement and sensation. So I had some tea and a snack. Nothing. I went back to bed and as I lay there in the dark a letter to my dad started pouring out of my head. I decided I probably wouldn’t be able to sleep until I got the words out so my laptop joined me under the covers and I typed. and typed and typed. Honest. Raw. Words that I’ve needed to say but only know fully understand. Our story. Why I parted ways with my father. How he hurt me. The confusing intoxication I had with him as a child – both drawn to his emotional energy and abandoned by him. And it ended with closure. A final request for him to leave me alone. For him to seek therapy. I spelled out the boundary and stated that if he couldn’t respect it I would go to any length to protect myself.
I finished the letter. Re-read it and a very clear voice in my head said, “When you send this, you need to say goodbye. You won’t open any more letters from him. You will block his emails. And it will be over.” And I wept. And wept. The grief washing over me. “I don’t know if I’m ready for it” a little voice cried. “Okay, you don’t have to send it now. You don’t ever have to. But if you ever feel ready, here it is.”
A different sort of yoga practice
Many of my posts seem to have a yoga slant lately. I guess that just reflects where I am – which isn’t such a bad place to be.
Last night there were only 2 of us at group and it was the yoga-only session but led by B. She offered us a different sort of practice and we took her up on it. We held different “gentle” postures for longer and spoke for different parts that came up so that she could help walk us through unblending with those parts and see what was underneath if those dominant ones could step aside. It was really good and fit perfectly with my desire to deepen my practice. Here are a few of parts that came up:
- comparison to my own high standards part: came up when I assumed a posture I used to be able to do “right” and now can only do about “halfway”. this same part jumps in sometimes related to weight, body image, athleticism. this part is concerned a bit with what other people think but this can be rationalized out of me (i.e. you wear a size 2 jeans – no one in this room would think you are fat; no one else in group can do this posture even as well as you so they aren’t thinking you suck). What my rationalizing part cannot negotiate is my own internalized high standards. This high standards part says things like “I know you’re doing it better than everyone else but that’s not enough – you have to do it PERFECTLY” or “if you did it once (or looked like that once) then it’s possible and imperative that you do it again. if not, you’re a failure”.
-scared parts: these were really a cluster of young exiled parts who were fearful of intense sensations in my body. A protector part would jump in and do a body scan to “fix” everything fixable about the posture to distract from the intense physical sensations (not pain, just intensity). The scared parts were terrified that the sensations were a precursor to some huge emotional release of parts I’ve never even met yet – the deep dark yuck parts.
-intellectual parts: these parts were frustrated that my neck wouldn’t relax and somehow felt that THINKING about it more and WILLING my neck to relax would make it happen (somehow I doubt “RELAX, damn it!!” would make anyone relax). This part was closely related to a frustrated part that doesn’t understand what it means to “breath into a body part” or “breath into the sensation”. Because I am so frequently detached from my body, I can’t even internally find my neck in order to “breath into it” (whatever that means). B. reassured me that “breathing into it” merely means bringing your attention gently to a sensation.
All in all it was a really interesting and gratifying exercise. I love how B. explains that the yoga mat is a microcosm that mirrors our daily lives. These same parts arise in difficult situations – the high standards “do it right” part, the terrified of intense emotions part, the distract from intense emotions part, the intellectual part that thinks I can think my way into control of situations and myself.
I’m not sure that I got all the way separated from all these parts to see what was underneath. But I was separate enough to observe and name them. To ask them why they’re there. And when working with the young terrified parts I felt my Self tell them, “I’m not scared of these feelings. I can handle them. But I’m not going to let you see them until you’re ready. I’ll keep you safe and protected even when I do let you see them.” It didn’t go much further than that – felt a little like a cliffhanger. But I definitely heard that strong voice comforting them, which is huge. My whole system was surprised – “who said that?!” my parts asked in unison.
Attention. Intention.
This week is pretty intense. I have my regular group therapy twice (includes 2 yoga practices in addition to the one yesterday in Boston), individual once, two network chiropractic appointments and craniosacral on Friday. Seems I’m giving my body some much needed positive attention.
I had planned on cancelling my next network chiropractic appt. because I just wasn’t feeling it. The dude who did my initial evaluation didn’t thrill me and I didn’t feel much different. It didn’t feel worth my money. But I felt I had to go to today’s appointment because the weekend prohibited the requested 24 hour cancellation notice. Well, this time it was the dude’s wife doing my actual adjustment and she.was.amazing. Scratch all plans – I’m keeping this up for a bit to see where it could go. I purposely didn’t put any detailed emotional history on my intake, nor any mention of an ED. I didn’t disclose anything to the dude – just that I wanted to open up some emotional flow and gain flexibility in my upper middle back, which always feels stiff. Within 2 minutes of me laying down, the wife puts her hands gently on my middle back and says, “hmmmm. interesting. do you have a history of abuse? we are alone in the office and this is in complete confidence.”
“yeah”
“this area of your back is where those stories are held.” What is she, Miss Cleo’s psychic hotline? It was crazy. And she was so gentle and reassuring and I felt a very very good vibe. So after being fairly warned by her that the work she does on my body is likely going to open up some very raw and painful places emotionally (yes, that is indeed the point, as scared as I am to admit it), I committed to my next appt.
As I get more committed to the idea of relocating back to NC and the timeline gets shorter and shorter, I begin to think of things about Vermont I will miss and things I will celebrate leaving and never look back.
I will miss the abundance of naturopathic medicine, bodyworkers and fabulously tuned in yogis.
I will NEVER miss slipping and falling on the ice (for the 5th time this winter – and I went down HARD tonight!)
Breathing into it.
Boston road-trip: successful
Visited my cousin and two friends (plus all three’s significant others) and it felt really great to be social and catch up. I felt.very.single. But that’s okay. I’ve got a lot in my life I’m working on right now and I’m on the brink of moving – FOR ME. Making a major decision without the influence of a male partner. That is huge. Monumental. Put a plaque up somewhere, people.
I didn’t make it to a museum today but I did take in a yoga class before scooting out of Boston. It was a free class taught by students in a teacher training program. Basically a pretty strenuous vinyasa class. Because no one knew me and I wouldn’t ever see these people again, I really tried to set the intention of setting aside my “worried about what other people are thinking”, “perfectionist” and “competitve” parts aside. It wasn’t easy, especially since the teacher:student ration was about 1:3. There were lots of adjustments and assists and cues/tips/suggestions. Every 4 minutes it seemed someone was whispering in my ear to move my feet back or lift through my middle back, lower my chin, raise my chin, relax my neck, and on and on. Ack. But it was a really good exercise each time in asking my self-critical part to relax and step aside. That I didn’t have to make the adjustments just because they were suggested. That these folks’ job for the day was to adjust people. I just breathed through each whispered suggestion and decided what was best for my body today. I felt a little surge of pride when I responded to “you could sit up on a bolster and be more comfortable” with “oh, thanks, but I’d rather use the block”. High fives to myself for getting what I needed from the practice.
I’ve recently felt this pull toward yoga teacher training but I’ve simultaneously realized how much room for growth there is in my own practice. Why should I start wanting to give away to others and help them? Right now, this may be the one thing that is truly mine (okay, maybe other than ED and Sam the dog). I want to indulge in my own practice as much as I want and keep yoga a personal endeavor for awhile. So teacher training takes a back burner. Maybe it always will.
