Post-therapy wrap-up
Therapy (on the phone) was really helpful today. I gained some nice new understanding of:
(1) how badly some of my parts want to reach out to others with authenticity, a touch of vulnerability and needs
(2) the protector part that jumps in the way of the above coming to fruition. the people-pleasing impulsive talking part who betrays all the vulnerability, the emotion, the “true” me in an effort to keep the whole system safe
(3)the reinforcement that the protector part receives each time I welcome into my life the types of people who will replicate the patterns of my youth.
What I’m left with is this: I want to do it differently this time. I want to figure out first how to distinguish those people who are NOT like my family of origin and who are safe to be me around and then how to let those people in a bit. The first part is crucial to remember because I definitely have “good therapy” parts who think that experiencing my emotions and being vulnerable is the end goal of therapy. But what’s the point if I finally get to that place with people who mistreat me again? No, I have to figure out before hand if my parts feel safe. B. says it’s just a process of being aware of what parts are most “in the living room” when I spend time with people. Examining what comes up when I’m with them. Awareness is not something I’ve been cultivating a lot of lately. I’ve been busy and distracted and ungrounded. Kayaking and yoga are top priorities for the week. Maybe listen to a guided meditation. Best of intentions…we’ll see how it works out.
And then it occurred to me
**warning: my space bar is reallyfeeling sticky and not cooperating. apologies.
Iwas putteringalong inthis newlife prettywell with a hefty doseof avoidance ofthe whole “relationship” challengesthatI face.Laughingly callingmyself a “trainwreck in relationships” (self-deprecating humor issuch a thin veilfor self-consciousnessorself-loathing). I wasenjoying my “single time” – afirst forme. I hadn’t joined a monestary and enjoyed eye candy as much asthenext girlbut I’djust put the wholethought ofdating onthe back burner.
Untilthis weekend.When Iwent tothe beachtovisit mychilhood bestfriend, her baby and her husband. She informed me that another girlfriend wouldbethere but I hadno idea untilI approachedherhusband atthebeachupon arrivalto give him a bighug that also joining us would be a guy thatIhave known through mutualfriends foreverandwho I hooked up with last December (J wasin the picture butwe hadn’teven kissedyet).So I almost swallowed my tongue whenC. turned aroundnext to my friend’s husband – shirtlessand holding a fishingpole. Gulp. “oh hey, what’s up?” That soundedcasual, right?
Fast forwardthrough aday of group activiteies and anevening of sexual tension and multiple drinksand finally some extendedalone time and conversationsaboutboth ofus having been engaged- and what thehellhappened last December (Imay have un-friended him on Facebook afterour encounter) (andavoided histexts)(andignoredhisphone call)- and where are you sleeping tonight and suddenly the bedroomdoor is closedandsex.sex happened.multipletimes. and itwas reallyquitegood.granted I’mout of practice and there’s always the initial awkwardnessandthe what do youlike andno, what do youlike and the getting usedto someone’s faces and noises.But Iwasbeaming whenIdrove away the next day afterasweetgoodbye kissandre-exchange ofnumbers (funny,I don’tremember deletinghimfrommy phone).
And the beaminglastedapproximately 3/4 of a mile of my 4 hour drive home. The rest was consumed withcrazy brain:
-would he make a good father
-whatifI got pregnant andwe had to get married
-howlong would Ihave to date him beforehe’d propose
-wouldI move to raleigh for thisguy?
-wouldhe move to charlotte?
-whatdoeshe do for christmas?
-whatwould meetinghisfamily be like?
-would my brother likehim?
-whatsortof house wouldwe live in together?
-whowouldgive me away at the wedding
And so on….soembarrassing toactuallytype those things ontothescreenasthey are indeed a reflection of how insanely obsessive and,well,crazy I get whena man enters mylife (even for 24 hours).
Ihad therapy on the phone withB. againtoday (didthatlast Tuesday as wellbecause I’veyetto find a therapisthere that willwork forme) and whilethe partsthatwe worked with are not theprimary players in this “anchoryourselfto a man asfast asyou can-craziness”, afterwordIhada moment ofrevelation. After spending the bulk of thesession working with a very young, very bruised andhurt andskittish childpartwho wants someonetocomfortherbut is terrified of it,I realizedhow fucking terrified I am of love. Loveisn’t something that canbetrusted.I loved my ownparentsandthey hurtthe fuck out of me.I often wonder now if I would bea happier healthier person if I hadn’t had my father in my life because of the boatload of hurt hegave me for years and years.So afterlookingat this partwhodesperately wants love butfeels that love is what hurther I wondered…
What ifallthe obsessive thoughts and the planning far far into the future and pushing things fasterthan they are ready to go…what if it’s a protective mechanism to avoid actually falling inlove. Love = hurt.Lonliness = hurt. Therefore,find a way to not be lonely while also not feeling real (dangerous, terrifying, powerful) love.
Just a thought. But it resonated.
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…
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.”
My mental health day
Called out sick from work this morning. Got an appointment to see B. for an extra therapy appointment. Tears kept stinging my eyes all morning and I just watched the clock waiting for that 1:30 appointment.
Cried and cried and chest ached and mascara ran and snotted and blotted with a tissue. And B. validated everything – the emotional abuse, the trauma that is reactivated every time he contacts me. She didn’t tell me that I just shouldn’t open the letters and that I should block the emails. She really seemed to understand how unbearably painful this is. This having a father who is incapable of authentically loving me and yet won’t leave me alone. To be stalked and threatened. To be conflicted between wanting to hurt him and wanting to take care of him so that he doesn’t go off the deep end and kill himself. To live in terror of the contents of the next envelope from him.
I explored the unsettling fear I have of his “6th sense” ability to feel – even states away – when I’m vulnerable, most susceptible to his hooks and lures. The terror that if I “go there” in therapy and dredge up this unfathomable pain and grief over my attachment to an inconsistent, unpredictable and emotionally abusive parent that it will elicit a stronger response from him. He knows. If I dream about him, he’ll contact me within a few days. If I talk in therapy about my late (great) Aunt Julie, Dad uses her as ammo in a letter (“I’m sure Julie’s heart would break over this estrangement”). It is as if we are so entwined that even my thoughts and feelings are not my own after a year and a half of not speaking to the man.
Which brought me to the following -
“It makes me want to hurt myself because it’s the only way to really hurt him.”
There it is. There is the eating disorder, the suicidality, the self-loathing – all in a fucked-up little nutshell. The only power I have is to hurt myself.
i’m drunk and punctuation is complicated
the weekend will have to take a back burner tonight it was fun and all nothing momentous but as i dashed out to catchmy ride to the airport the four-year-old part of me grabbed the mail and stashed a small package with familiar scratchy handwritinginto the outside pocket of my carryon backage. return address from “Gost Von Hooten” – googled it tonight but no literary connection as i hypothesized.no just some name he made up to get me to open what i already knew was a package from him. the address, the handwriting gave it away – or perhaps it was the email 10 days ago announcing with fanfare that he was sending me something.
that something was a mix CD and a long typed letter (3 pages with a chickenscratch signature at the end.
“my dear dearest daughter,” blah blah blah i listened to 2 tracks on the mix CD last night but was confused about whether the songs were included because they had the word ‘father’ or ‘cancer’ or because it’s a lovesong. that’s sick but it’s true and i got feeling all swirly weird inside so i switched back to NPR.
and today a little bird delivered an email to my inbox – a ranting, angry, hissing email announcing defeat and depression and desperation and what does he have to lose by showing up on my doorstep and havinghim yell i hate him. and that made me scared.
and then the panick attack and then the wine and call my mom. and talked rationally and calmly out of it. out of the experience and into dissociation. drunken dissociation. “you can control your feelings and your response to this”.
and now the numbness. before it was the i had a daddy who doesn’t love me because he cannot love another human being and the ow in my chest and the regression to a sobbing toddler wanting to suck my thumb and dig my teddy bear out of the attic. but now just the numbing numbness.
The response I cannot send
Today the email didn’t come from Barack Obama.
Hi,
I sent you a very long letter that you should read. It is not the kind of letter that will upset you or rake up anything that will set you back. It is, however, important, even crucial.
Thanks,
Dad
Dear Dad,
How highly you must think of yourself to deem yourself an accurate judge of what will upset me or set me back. You have twenty five years of contrary evidence working against that deluded assumption. I will read your letter, not because of any hope that it contains anything that will benefit me or bring me peace; rather, because I have a pathological desire to hurt myself, physically and emotionally and because reading your correspondence, without fail, reminds me of how fucked up and toxic you are and reinforces my desire to amputate you.
I wept over your email today. I am trapped. You have some sick sixth sense that must stem from our two and a half decades of unhealthy twisted enmeshment that allows you to feel what I’m feeling. You felt it, didn’t you…last Wednesday night when everyone was at G’s reading? No no else noticed my absence. You know when I feel left out and non-existent; and you feed on it. It fuels you. I can fake strength to everyone else in the world but you…you…you know somehow even though I haven’t spoken to you in nearly a year and a half. Only you know me, you sick fuck. It makes me want to hurt me, because I know you’ll feel it. I want to kill me because a part of you will die too. There’s no way out of this. For as long as I live, you will force your way into my thoughts when I’m most vulnerable. You will bring me down. You brought me into this world and you will not stop until you see me out of it.
I absolutely abhor you. You repulse me. I love you and hate you more than anyone else in the world.
-me
stick a fork in me.
I am so very done with today.
Began with individual therapy – first in 3 weeks since B was out of town. It went well, brought some really heavy insights which only hit me in full about 6 hours later. I left really feeling drained, despite the fact that B apologized for “an hour of being analytical and intellectual” rather than doing any direct emotional work with parts. I burst into tears twice – that’s emotional enough for me, lady.
Totally checked out for my meager 5 hours of work. You probably could have thrown things at me and I wouldn’t have noticed.
Group tonight. Yoga was amazing – led by B. But the group session just fell apart for me. During check-in (yep, still hate that word after 3 months of group therapy) there emerged a theme of “how my family members responded when they found out I had an eating disorder” with the two girls before me (one of my personal rules in group is to go as close to last as possible in check-in). When it came my turn, I freaked. “I’m feeling sad and want to pass” I said as my eyes welled up and my voice cracked like a pre-pubescent acolyte. Fuck. I HATE EMOTIONAL VULNERABILITY. I wasn’t even sure why I was feeling so sad at first but then my head got all swirly about my dad and the way he reacted when I told him on the phone about my eating disorder. I can’t even go there in my head because it makes me want to head down the road to seventy-pound-ville. The next hour of group was spent curled up in the tightest ball I could in my chair with my hands picking and fiddling while I experienced rapidly cycling tears and total dissociation to floaty float land where I’m hovering about 3 feet above my body. Finally I pulled out when the conversation shifted topics and I could engage in some intellectual banter.
Which brings me to the first topic on the agenda for my next individual therapy session – why I absolutely positively do not EVER want to talk about my father in group. I can’t do it. I know it’s relevant and that it’s only fair to speak for the parts of me that are really stirred up when others talk about related topics. But I just can’t. It’s like jumping off the high dive. I’m up there and the time to jump is nigh. I just can’t. I balk and I count to three and I pace and I bend my knees and plug my nose and step away from the edge again and again and again. It’s excruciating really.
And I’m just wrecked. I have about 5 hours worth of crying to do, wedged forcefully somewhere in my tight throat. Since those tears aren’t going to come now I’m just calling it a night.
Brrrrr.
Current temperature on my doorstep: 10 below (that’s farenheit, folks!). Yowza. It stings your eyes and burns your cheeks and contracts your lungs into an asthmatic wheeze. Puts a damper on my motivation to leave the house to do anything at all.
I’m coming to the point where I think I’m ready to take the ring off. It’s a vintage ring that’s been in my family for generations so I will keep it and eventually wear it on my right hand. But for awhile I think I need some space from it. I had been postponing it for several reasons: first and foremost my nosy coworker. She has no sense of what’s appropriate or inappropriate to ask or discuss and absolutely cannot receive subtle non-verbal cues that someone is uncomfortable or uninterested in sharing. This is her last week in the office so I kept the ring on so I didn’t have to go down that road with her. Secondly, I just wasn’t emotionally ready yet. It didn’t feel right to do it immediately for some reason. Such a symbolic act of the end of my relationship – almost deserving of a ceremony or a moment of silence. And finally, I just wasn’t ready for all the questions. I work with kids all day and their parents, no doubt, will at some point notice and ask. I still haven’t come up with my 20 second script of what to say:
“Plans have changed, but I know it’s for the best.” (optimistic answer)
“Life throws you curveballs and this is just one of them.” (philosophical answer)
“We had a very difficult fall and it came to a head over Christmas break.” (pretty honest answer)
“Yes, things have changed in my life but I’d rather not talk about it.” (boundary-setting answer)
Why is it that the boundary-setting one seems bitchy or rude. Like it would somehow make the other person feel awkward for commenting on the nakedness of my ring finger. And why should I value their feelings over mine? Let them feel awkward. It’s a pretty awkward thing to ask. Like if someone was going out on maternity leave and suddenly changed that plan. You might want to wait until they bring that up if you’re just a casual acquaintance. Obviously a very personal and likely heartbreaking change in their life has occurred. But unfortunately we read People magazine and US Weekly and feel an entitlement to know everyone else’s personal business. Come to think of it – those are the most boundary-breaking publications around. We shouldn’t know who’s sleeping with who, who entered rehab and who has cellulite on their bum. None of our god-forsaken business!
So I still have to decide how I feel comfortable responding to the inevitable inquiries.
In other news I shadowed the therapist at the hospital yesterday, which proved interesting but didn’t stir a deep desire to do what she does day in and day out. So that solidifies in my mind my decision to move in the future. There aren’t an abundance of jobs up here for me (despite that being the case seemingly everywhere else in the country). And did I mention it’s 10 below zero right now?! I think it’s a huge step for me to make such a huge life decision WITHOUT making it for a man or for school. I’ve moved all over – South Carolina (college), Boston (grad school), Atlanta (internship), North Carolina (internship), Virginia (boyfriend), Vermont (boyfriend). Bringing my own volition and independent will to a life decision is a huge symbolic step on my part. Progress. It also means not staying stuck in one place out of fear or discomfort with uncertainty. I want so badly to settle in one place – my family moved every 1-2 years growing up and I had the joy of living in 10 houses (all in the same town, though. I think I’ve said it before but…my dad is crazy! and this compulsive/impulsive apple didn’t fall far from the tree). But I’m not willing to let the anxiety and restlessness of moving and change and uncertainty pin me down in a spot that doesn’t feel right. Progress also, I think.
No therapy this morning. Feeling surprisingly okay about that. Knowing I have group tonight helps. Also gives me some downtime before my measly short day at work.
Vulnerability to the third power
I think I’m ready to post my creepy daydream of my dad doing surgery on me. It’s scary to put this out there but the blog feels like the only safe place for it. In thinking more about it and talking to Bree about it I have gained awareness that for the first time in my life, I’m seeing my dad as sadistic, cold, calculated. I’ve always made excuses for him “he’s just crazy”, “he has the best intentions”, “at heart he’s a good guy”. And suddenly up from the yuck has bubbled these feelings of rage and disgust. He is creepy and scary and unsafe and manipulative and cruel. And as an editorial sidenote: I’m not just a schlocky melodramatic writer, he actually speaks this way. It’s part of his narcissistic charm or something to call me “my darling”. So, with that as an intro…read on…
I watch from above his rounded upper back as he tenderly smoothes my hair across the stark white sheet, carefully arranging the blonde in a river spilling off the left side of the wooden table on which I lay. The room is dimly lit. Warm. Sparsely decorated but not cold or institutional. It feels like our living room. He leans in and whispers, “My darling daughter, you’re going to make it through this just fine. I’m right here by your side,” sliding his hand into my own relaxed palm and offering a brief firm squeeze. He withdraws in a gentle caress and returns to my side beginning to slice – scalpel slipping effortlessly dividing my upper abdomen and then down to my bellybutton with a ribbon of red. No pain. No messy drips or splatter. No resistance from my flesh, its layers yielding effortlessly as if offering their contents for his examination. My lowered eyelids neither flinch nor flutter and my resting pose looks peaceful and kind. He praises, “You’re doing great, my love. Just great.”
The procedure he so painstakingly and gently conducts look something like a cross between panning for gold and picking ripened delicate fruit. He begins with the organs, shiny and pink. Holds them up to the light and examines them from different angles – marveling at his harvest. With those out of the way, he begins sifting with a pan occasionally gasping at the beauty of what he has discovered within my body cavity. He withdraws these gems with a closed grasp, occasionally breathing comments of gratitude and admiration, “Oh, you are such a sweetheart,” and sets them aside on the table obscured from my view by his hunched shoulders. When he is done, his palms smooth the sides of my belly together with his warm hands, like clay, and the wound disappears. As if my skin and flesh and connective tissues were malleable under his touch, effortlessly obeying his carefully orchestrated commands.
Back at the head of my makeshift bed, my eyes open and I am relieved to meet his eyes and feel his warm kiss on my forehead. “I’m so glad you’re here with me, Dad.”
