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.
Chronicles of the Digestively Challenged
It has been a trying week for me. A sudden and severe onset of Strep Throat had me bed ridden Wednesday and Thursday and then I developed a stomach ulcer of still undetermined severity as a result of excessive ibuprofen (ab)use. Neither the strep nor the stomach pain kept me from travelling to the beach for a friend’s wedding. Where I continued my suffering in a more public venue and wound up in the Urgent Care. Travelling is always difficult because of my gluten-free diet, social gatherings can be emotional because of the emphasis on food and to top it all off, my body was staging a revolt of epic proportions. The stomach pains came in scorching waves which increased in intensity with hunger. Combining the lack of available gluten-free foods with the fact that a near empty belly was excruciating with the fact that I feel like a pig when I have to eat every 1.5 hours left me absolutely depressed. It doesn’t take much these days to stir up the pity party about how I fucking despise food. I hate everyone talking about it and eating it and enjoying it and I can’t eat anything but dry lettuce because I’ll have explosive diarrhea in the shared hotel bathroom if I so much as look at a french fry or marinated piece of chicken. “My body hates me.” ” It doesn’t work right. ” “I’m just allergic to food.” “I never want to eat again as long as I live.” And then it starts crossing the lines from frustrated Celiac thoughts to eating disordered thoughts. The hopelessness, the frustration, the grief that I’ll never be able to have a normal life. And for some that may sound like an exaggeration because lots of people have food allergies and what’s the big deal about not eating bread? But at this point I feel like I will never again be able to eat food prepared by anyone but me. I will undoubtedly have explosive diarrhea the morning after I spend the night with any new love interest (which leads to anxiety which means I am unbelievably anxious for approximately the first 6 months of all relationships that my stomachwill make some other worldly noise or I will stink up a bathroom). I will never be able to travel without a grocery bag of food (which totally fucks with my eating disordered voices). I will never be able to be spontaneous. I will never be able to eat Thanksgiving dinner prepared by others.
I am sorry. I am just really downtrodden about the whole thing and I’m not totally sure why it’s coming to a head lately.
Powers of dissociation
I dissociate. It’s what I do. My view of the world suddenly telescopes out to a vantage point 300 yards away, where all the pain is small and blurry. Where I can be uninvolved, an intellectual and analytical observer. Or sometimes something else attracts my attention and the scene is overlooked.
I’ve likened it to a lightswitch – flipped on and off. My brain is full of lightswitches. The one that controls my food intake. The one that erases my feelings of missing my father. The one that remembers friends I left in Vermont. But after my work in IFS therapy, perhaps it’s parts and not lightswitches. Perhaps there’s more complexity than a polarized on and off. If I looked closer, that is. I have somehow blocked or banished the parts of me that hold memories and feelings about Vermont and the past year and a half of my life. And swept up in those is my blog. Overnight its valence erased to naught. My interest, attention and connection with it wiped off the slate.
Dissociation, while superficially easy apparently requires a team of parts to maintain. The wine-drinking part, the always busy part, the pot-smoking part, the food grazing part. My brain has been bustling with so many parts whose job it is to keep the past at a distance. To distract. To avoid.
I haven’t initiated therapy here. I haven’t requested phone sessions with B. I haven’t journaled or blogged. I haven’t communicated or attended to any of my parts. And now I’m starting to fear that all the progress will be lost if I don’t get back in gear soon.
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…
Technology restriction
Today I’d like to do a little experiment in technology restriction. I have about 3 things that I absolutely HAVE to get done today, the not-doing of which will bring out some serious self-loathing that will keep me up tonight. So, seeing as how my computer has consumed about 83% of my waking hours lately, I’m going to restrict a bit. After this post, I will actually power down my laptop – that’s right – not just put it to sleep with it’s little head down. I don’t have any new DVD’s from Netflix so that’s out of the question. That leaves me with reading, sewing, playing banjo, walking the dog and actually doing what I need to get done today (oh how I loathe laundry). Wish me luck!
In other news I leave Tuesday at the crack of dawn (4:30 am) for my travels to NC for job interviews and househunting. I’m anxious but also really excited. It will be a high energy week of zooming here to there with my googlemaps directions and my snack bars in the rental car. Lots of cell phone calls and chaos. I’ve looked up the schedule at a reputable yoga studio and added it to the Microsoft Word document containing all the pertinent details of my trip (current document is currently 5 pages long). I’ll download some good podcasts to encourage me to take walks between interviews. And I’ll bring a journal. I’m basically trying to prepare for the stress and anxiety that will wind me up TIGHT all week and the pressure of decision-making on my own with no boyfriend-sounding-board to rely on. I’m going to try not to call my family either. I don’t want to be influenced on these decisions – I want them to be my own. I’m bringing my computer so perhaps I’ll blog about it to keep me a bit grounded. That’s the plan anyway…we’ll see how it goes.
I think I finally did some un-burdening in my IFS work the session before last. I’m not even sure I understand what happened but it seemed to help. The parts we were working with were ones that protected me ferociously from feeling intense emotions because of the ongoing threat from an early age (both spoken and implied) of impending bad things that happen as a result of feeling too much. The most obvious one being that my dad would kill himself if anyone let him see how much he hurt others. But there was a much more subtle insinuation that if you allow yourself to get really sad, your life will permanently fall apart. Even now my mom will say things like, “What does your therapist want you to do..lay in bed crying all day and not go to work and lose your job and have to be institutionalized?!” (okay so maybe the insinuations weren’t so subtle afterall…) The implication being that taking one day off (or even 3) to cry when you call of your engagement will lead your life into a rapid downward spiral to homelessness and straightjackets. There it is…the idea that even the smallest bit of sadness, anger, depression, hopelessness will suck you into a vortex of unending yuck. Others in my family are black-and-white thinkers, too, but mom I think was my greatest pedagogical influence in the ways of emotional restriction and detachment. And on the cusp of my big move and all the changes, I realize that she also has sent the message that if something is change for the better, then there’s no reason to feel sad about it. Relationships ending are a perfect example – I’m not sure she even grieved over her 16 year marriage to my father ending. Granted, it was on some levels a huge relief and I can imagine parts of her wanted to do a touchdown dance of freedom. But certainly some parts were really sad. So I haven’t really grieved my losses of the recent months. I’m leaving a place that holds many complicated and wonderful memories. I’m leaving a really awesome group of co-workers. The clinic that I worked for and invested so much of my heart in, is closing. I’m leaving behind a bunch of kids who I spend hours working with each week – some of whom I’ve grown to adore. I’m leaving the chance of bumping into J at the grocery store and I’m introducing the distinct possibility that I’ll never see him again. So much is there and I think it’s time to let it out. Most recently I’m grieving the few friendships I have here that are still young but could have potentially grown into something great. And certainly I’m grieving the loss of the most influential and amazing therapist I’ve had and my wonderful group. This is hard. This part doesn’t feel like it’s for the better. I am scared to move on.
So much is going on for so many of my parts right now. My managers are working diligently around the clock to coordinate the logistics of my move and all the transitions (enter “Things to Do Before I move” word document including such highlights as “oil change” and “sell used snow tires”). I need to take some time for the grief to swell. So power-down, dear computer. Take the day off, I’ve got some other plans.
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.
Avett Brothers Dream
I sleep in blackness. Eyes close, world is black and quiet, eyes open in the morning. No dreams. No flying or swimming in chocolate or Patrick Dempsey with dripping candlewax. Empty silence – cold and predictable is my nightly fate. But every now and then, when Jupiter is aligned with the seventh moon of Pluto I wake up with a foggy quickly fading memory of a storyline from my sleeping subconcious. The occasion feels so unusual, waking up with photographic visual memories of the night before, that I’d like to share:
I was in a nice hotel or B&B with a lot of people who maybe felt like extended family but I didn’t know them. And the Avett Brothers (sans Bob – not intentional, I would’ve wanted Bob to be there!) had a room down the hall. At first I was too shy to approach or initiate any sappy “you guys are my favorite band” gush, but I decided the best approach was to act like they were just dudes and sort of omit the fact from my awarenss that they dominate my iPod. I wandered into their room post shower and asked to borrow a comb (interesting because I don’t use combs in my tangly mop) from Scott. Flash forward to the three of us sitting by the window and me combing Scotts long curls. Now I must clarify that this dream didn’t have any elements of wild passionate lust (although I would welcome such a dream in the future). It was more warmth, less fire, more talk, less touch, more hug, less hump. Perhaps my crush(es) on them were beneath the surface of our interactions but even my subconscious self seems to respect their marriages and hold in highest esteem the fact that they must be the best husbands in the world. Then Seth showed me the juicer they had in their room – squeezing an apple into oblivion and producing a delicious cup of fresh sweetness.
The brothers performed that night at what must have been the “main event” of the family gathering where I knew no one. And no one knew THEM. The dancefloor was totally empty. So I laced up my tall moccasin boots, cast my self-consciousness aside and danced my heart out.
Interpret if you will. I know that I felt connection in a dream where there otherwise wasn’t any. The Avett Brothers are welcome back in my dreams whenever they choose.
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.
