The Narrative

There are many life and cultural events that shape us individually and as a society.  One of the first events I clearly remember is the first Gulf War and joking with my Elementary aged friends about Saddam “Insane.”  We thought we were so clever.

Another more personal memory I have from around this time (or earlier, 5? 6?) is an afternoon where Mom is making snow peas in the kitchen.  Dad comes in from the backyard and he says something about not liking peas or not liking what we were having for dinner.  Somehow, I am old enough to know this and other things.  All of a sudden Mom is knocking the near boiling pot of water off of the stove.  The peas are flying.  She’s mad.  I hear her slam the front door.  I run to my room to grab my shoes.  In passing the kitchen I see Dad trying to pick up the spilt peas and I say something along the lines of “now see what you’ve done.”  I’m terrified she’ll leave.  I run out to the car and get in.  I don’t know whether she invites me in or whether I just open the door.  I ask her where she is going.  She says, “away.”  I ask if I can come.  Meanwhile, she is struggling to get the car started.  She’s too upset.  In a moment she gives up and we get out of the car.  This is the first time I can clearly remember this happening, taking responsibility for someone else’s emotions (needing to keep Mom happy), being terrified of Mom being mad and yet being aware that this has happened before, and that there are consequences to be afraid of to making Mom mad.  At the time, as a kid, I didn’t have the ability to make sense of this.

The next cultural event I really remember being impacted by was the Columbine High School shootings.  I remember feeling empathy for the shooters as much as the victims.  I remember this as the year my high school had so many bomb threats that we started speculating on what period of the day we’d be forced out of the building.  I remember the bomb threats all but stopping after Columbine.

I see Columbine as my first awakening.  It was my first, though not my last, experience of collective confusion, shock, empathy, sympathy, then righteous anger.  I think it was my first real encounter with curiosity about the mental health of others.

Of course I was aware of the Oklahoma City bombing, how could I not be?  But I was 10 at the time; the perpetrator, an adult, a bad man.  Columbine was committed by teenagers, on teenagers, the same as I was.

My true loss of innocence came on 9/11.  I was 18.  I was in Western Pennsylvania for school, my first year of college.  I was home for the day.  It was Tuesday and I only had classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.  I was half watching The Today Show, wrapped in a red and blue quilt my grandmother made me.  I saw the planes hit.  I saw the news as the day unfolded.  And when we heard the news of the plane crashing in a field just across the county from us, I saw my Uncle put his revolver on the dining room table.  This, and the following days, weeks, and months, were my second experience with collective confusion, shock, empathy, sympathy, and righteous anger.  This was a period of time I feel truly altered my consciousness forever.

As a country we didn’t know how to react.  We were united in our anger.  We were united in our care and concern for our fellow countrymen and women, those who were like us anyway.  On order to regain some sense of control and feelings of safety we lashed out at those different from ourselves, especially if you were Middle Eastern.

Eventually a new normal returned and I’d like to think many of us were more inclusive, more neighborly, less aggressively anti-other.  I think of the shooting at the Pittsburgh synagogue not too long ago…and the violence against mosques.  I have seen members of different faiths stand guard so that others can worship in peace. This is as it should be.

Now we face a new kind of threat and I worry about the narrative that is being created as we are in the middle of all of this.  There are those that are clamoring for the economy to reopen.  There are those desperate for jobs.  If only the economic systems put in place after The Great Depression still worked efficiently…but no.  We’ve gotten too complacent to worry overmuch about the least of us.  Programs intended for the greater good have been defunded and labeled as “wasteful spending.”  I worry about what this is doing to us as a society.  I worry that we will revert back to suspicion, isolation, and every man for himself policies.

I worry that concentrating on the negative will inure us from the good, positive, and altruistic parts of ourselves.  Will we become hyper-vigilant to threats to our security?  Will we be less likely to extend ourselves?  Will stocking and hoarding and isolating become our new normal?  Will our essential social connections become wired in our collective unconscious as a threat?  Is the an entirely new kind of loss of innocence?

You see 9/11 was an immediate and drastic event.  This pandemic and the narrative created by the media and those visible representations of mores and memes, is ongoing and more unpredictable in many ways, and certainly much more elusive.  It is something we are fighting on multiple fronts and we are not even all that sure we are fighting well. It is as if we are shadow boxing with ghosts.

There is nothing decisive or even anything much that gives the illusion of decisiveness;  That is where the long term effects of change come in.  There is nothing yet to allow us to build consistent meaning around because meaning changes from day to day, week to week, with many of us just trying to get by, to survive.  So my question is, what will all of this mean in the end and how do we go about finding the answer?

hearts have all things

On my way to the gym this morning “Angel” by Sarah McLachlan was first up on my playlist and I thought of my step-mother.  I thought of the abruptness of her illness and death.  I thought of all the lives she impacted.  I thought of Dad struggling to be a single parent.  My heart hurts for them…

I think my PMS is making me more emotional this weekend…

The next song on my playlist was “One Sweet Day” by Mariah Carey.  It not only made me think of my step-mother but about the conversation I had with my Supervisor during Supervision yesterday. (22 hours to go!)  I told my Supervisor that I always compare myself to “K” and “M” and how intense they are.  My Supervisor said that my personality is different from theirs and what they offer might not always be what a client needs.  The same goes for me.  It is just an idea I’ve always found strange to get used to.  Personal and professional identities don’t have to be the same.  For a long time I have felt that if I wasn’t just like “K” I wasn’t a “real” therapist; I wasn’t a real Art Therapist.  I do wish I was more strongly and assertively psycho-analytic with the art though.  It, as usual, leaves me wondering what I have to offer.  What is my identity, personally and professionally?

There is still a part of me that is fearful.  But there is also a part of me that feels more personally and professionally developed since joining my current company almost two years ago.  I am happier.  And, at times, I feel I have the space to consider, “who am I?”  And it scares me, now that I have the time and the space to consider wonder, “who I really am?”  I’m 36 years old and really still wonder who I am as a person.  What do I like?  What am I good at?  Will I ever stop seeing myself as some mediocre forgettable?  How do I fill my time?  What makes me a person?  What do I value in myself and my time?  And, How do others see me?  I know they say it is not something we should consider, but observing those who attended my step-mother’s memorial service, I can’t help but wonder, “did she know how big a part of her community she was?”  I can now understand Tom Sawyer’s need to spy on his own premature funeral.

I can’t help but think how nearsighted we are- how nearsighted I am- when we lose sight of how much we are a part of others.  This is why, I think, I feel kinda sad when I feel disconnected from others, when it is not my office my coworkers chose to hang out in.

I really wish I knew my step-mother better.  I wish I had been more comfortable in her presence, and she in mine.  I wish I had made more of an effort to be a part of her community too.  It was hard, considering my sister and I were practically adults when my Dad remarried.

And so, what is my identity in my eyes and in the eyes of others?

To live free

I keep thinking about my performance review meeting.  It was on Wednesday and it went well.  Lots of praise.  But there were moments I felt awkward, less than, strange, not quite as socially in step.  When my boss made mention of the fact that or her observation that I can take criticism and “have the hard conversations” and that she noticed me “breathing through” a couple of these hard conversations, I felt uncomfortable, as if such an observable use of coping was weak or shameful.  She praised my becoming more conscious of my body language too, which when she first criticized it, months and months ago, irritated me to no end.

It really was a positive performance evaluation and I left work on Wednesday feeling really good until my mind had to pick out and nit pick any little thing it could turn into a negative.  Sometimes it’s like my mind really will not let me feel good about things.  It has to find something negative because if I feel happy, safe, and relaxed something bad will happen.  I’ll miss something; make a mistake that is or becomes a problem I’ll be value judged by either by myself or others.

Old patterns die hard.

But it was very true when at the end of my evaluation I told my boss I was very grateful for being at the facility and for everything I’ve learned.

Be Present

I went to my mother’s for Christmas.  My sister, brother-in-law, and nieces live not far from her.  I looked forward to the visit and time off from work for weeks.  While I am glad I went – it is good to get away for a while and I enjoy the intellectual conversations Mom and I have – I always have a sense of disconnection.  It’s like I’m there but I’m not.  I don’t really know how to describe it let alone what to call it.  It is like feeling, emotional connection, is muted, more often than not.  Sometimes it is like there is a glass pane between me and everyone else.  For example, I was present on Christmas eve with everyone eating and drinking and playing with the girls but was I really there?  Not really.  It is like I am stuck in the state of the observer, outside looking in.  I was able to appreciate how cute my younger niece is.  I was able to express appreciation for the various toys my nieces attempted to show me.  But did I really care?  Not really. (Except for how cute my niece is; she’s adorable.) And when she chose to sit on my lap…I was excited and happy.

I am nostalgic at times for the most mundane things.  I went on a couple of walks while at Mom’s, something I used to do quite frequently.  Where I walk there are a lot of pine trees and the pine trees always call to mind many memories, impressions, and feelings.  Strange things.  Remembering holidays and every days with Grandma.  Catching a whiff of the cold air brought to mind the occasional visits to hospitals towards the end of her life and walking out of the hospital catching the same cold air.  Memories of the pottery show Mom and I went to once.  Seaford maybe?  Memories of a cultural, history, exhibit at a local park one year on my birthday not too long before I moved to PA.  Trips to Carboro and Hillsboro.  Hot days at the timeshare in Florida.  Days when Mom was more active, healthier… The day after I got back to PA I was driving back from the gym and passed a Walgreens.  I had a nostalgic longing memory of Mom and I wandering the aisles of one, God knows how many years ago.  I can feel these things but in the moment?  It’s like I’m concentrating too hard.

And I always find it hard to really enjoy myself with Mom when she’s clearly not feeling well.  I know her health, her body, her discomfort, her responsibility to manage.  But I am hyperaware of every grimace, twitch, breathing irregularity.  Every outing it is like there is a timer set before Mom’s energy runs out, before her pain, nausea, visual disturbances, are just too much to bare and we have to go home.  I was the same way when I lived with her.  Every time she was up in the middle of the night, though she does her best not to disturb anyone, I was, I am aware and cannot relax.

Years ago when we would get together with my sister and her then boyfriend, now husband, we would spend hours upon hours upon hours with them during the holidays.  I would be ready to leave far far far before Mom would be.  My introversion meter would be dangerously low many times.  Now I am grateful for the fact that Mom’s ability to spend time doing pretty much anything is lower.  She used to spend hours upon hours upon hours doing yard work too and I hated being corralled into “helping.”  Then being made to feel ashamed for not being more willing.  Now it is easier to help knowing she won’t last as long as she used to.  Our energy levels are more equal which leads me to conclude or perhaps wonder whether Mom’s body is rebelling precisely because she never cut herself a break when she was younger.  She never allowed herself to rest and now her body is forcing her to.

But, my original problem…I was observing my sister, her husband, and her in-laws.  I was blown away by, baffled by, her connection to them, as if she has always been part of their family.  To see my sister and her husband work in harmony and discuss the mundanity of raising a family, I have trouble fathoming the connection, the emotional, physical, connection between them.  To seemingly trust and feel that trust and emotional connection, vulnerability with someone seems so foreign to me.  I do not know what it is like to be purely myself with another person without some part of me worrying about saying or doing the wrong thing, of being misunderstood.  And it is this I think that leads, at least in part, to my feelings of disconnection from people and events.  It is very rare that I ever really feel like I am a part of things, that I belong without question, that flaws and quirks aside I belong…Maybe there is some…thing about me that has never really allowed myself to be a part of things…Some part of me is the observer, constantly on alert.

And so, my goals for the new year are to be more present, more in the moment, to try and give up being on alert, to devote more time and energy to social relationships (I may not ever be as close to someone as I wish to be.), and to create a better sense of identity and worth outside of work.

In a world alone

So yesterday I was walking into a local chain restaurant and I ran into my neighbor from across the hall.  I said, “Hey! If I knew you were coming to the same place I would have given you a ride!”  He had walked.  I drove.  Obviously.  He thanked me and we chit chatted for a little bit.  His girlfriend is sick and I asked after her…anyway.  After a while he let me know that one of our other neighbors “has the hots for you.”  Nice?  I guess.  But I was seized with anxiety.  I kinda muttered, “well with work and supervision and everything…”  (There was once, years ago, some guy asked me out and I said, “I don’t know.  I’ll have to ask my Mom.  I was a grown adult…)  I don’t even know who this guy is, other than what his car looks like.  Leaving my apartment and coming home I simply don’t pay attention to that kind of thing.  I don’t notice who else is coming and going unless they are in my way or I am in theirs.  I might exchange pleasantries if I pass someone.  I behave the same way when I am in public as well.  Unless it is obvious, I am usually in my own little world.  This has made it difficult to make friends or establish relationships with people.  Yesterday, I was stuck wondering why my first reaction was to pull away as if I had encountered something dangerous.  I was anxious just contemplating interacting with this guy and I don’t even know who he is!

Wondering who this neighbor is that supposedly likes me, I think about my lack of closeness with anyone.  The amount of discomfort I feel fluctuates, but it makes it difficult to get close to anyone.  I think frequently of my therapist as I drive to work each morning.  Her office is not too far from my workplace.  I miss her.  I miss her because she is the person I’ve been the most honest with and even with her, there have been things I’ve been afraid to talk about.  Like my fear that I am really not cut out to be a therapist because I am stuck in my head (I don’t even know how to develop appropriate social relationships for goodness sake).  And somehow she or I would think less of myself because of it.

I overthink encounters with “friends.”  I even overthink my supervision meetings.  Living alone, with Piper, my cat, I at least don’t have to analyze every little thing.  At home I can do my own thing without constantly worrying about someone else.  Living with someone has a lot of emotional feedback for me.  (This actually makes a lot of sense.  When coworkers are upset at work and being toxic, I feel ill and have to leave the area.  When I lived at home my Mom’s emotions would frequently cause me to leave the house.  Library, bookstore, a walk…)  Living with someone is exhausting.  Even thinking about a friendship or a romantic relationship with this mysterious guy is anxiety producing….And I understand even better our residents’ (at work) default state of “I don’t know what I am supposed to do.”  I don’t know how to friend.

My head understands that in relationships there is no “supposed to” (besides human decency) and that there are two people being individuals together.  My heart is full of fear of being rejected, of my most essential fears, hopes, dreams, silliness, pettiness, flaws, being rejected and, worst of all, invalidated.  Heck, I’ve never really been in a “relationship” or had ongoing ebbing and flowing friendships.  I have people I am friendly with.  I have acquaintances.  There is no one I am really intimate…or perhaps vulnerable is a better word, with.  The last peer friendship I had, that I was closest to, was when I was a kid, a young teenager.

I am amazed at the level of objectivity I am able to maintain at work and yet I still feel others do it so much better…Every encounter is a mixture of analytical decision making and “I shouldna’ said/ did that. (To be read in Hagrid’s voice.)”  As a result I am not as smoothly intuitive as I’d like to be.  And after a day at work or a few hours with people, I am tired.

TL:DR  I don’t know how to make friends.  I miss my therapist.


There but for the Grace of God

I feel as though sometimes I come off as a complainer.  When I talk about feelings of being “less than” it comes from a place of being fearful that I don’t know enough, I don’t know the right things to say or do to help my clients.  That I am not worthy enough to help them.  I am unbelievably humbled by them every day, and grateful.  I am grateful for the chance to learn about the complexities of the human condition.  I am humbled to even presume to be a part of their journey.  It gets frustrating when you I want to help them so badly but I simply cannot travel their journey for them.  Then I think it sounds insufferably arrogant to talk about journeys when they are in the middle of the muck of drug addiction, self-harm, emotional disregulation, schizophrenia, BPD…

“Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.”  Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

“The worst thing is watching someone drown and not being able to convince them that they can save themselves by standing up.”  Anon

It comes down to not knowing enough, not understanding enough, and not having lived the experiences they have.  And yet…I kind of see us like…

“This guy is walking down the street and he falls in a hole.  The walls are so steep he cannot get out.

A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, ‘Hey you.  Can you help me out?’  The doctor writes a prescription and throws it down the hole and moves on.

Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, ‘Father I’m don in this hole.  Can you help me out?’  The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down the hole, and moves on.

Then a friend walks by, ‘Hey, Joe, it’s me, can you help me out?’  And the friend jumps in the hole.  Our guy says, ‘Are you stupid?  Now we are both down here.’  The friend says, “Yeah but I’ve been down here before and I know the way out.”–  The West Wing, IMG_6957 I remember when I was still in school someone gave a presentation on hospice care and how to work with families in the middle of the grieving process.  The woman made reference to “mud sitting,” sitting in the mud with a client.  Sometimes the company of another person while sitting in the mud is what is needed to transform the suffering.  Or as Thich Nhat Hanh says, “No mud, no lotus.”

This post has been kind of unfocused.  Long story, short:  Knowing how to mud sit while knowing the way out.  Be humble because, there but for the grace of God go we.

Can I get a witness?

My Art Therapy supervisor and I had a brief conversation yesterday about “witnessing” another person’s story.  As therapists that’s part of what our role is, to witness.  In truth that is a large part of any social interaction.  “I am here to witness and share your story and you are here to witness and share in mine.”  This lead to me musing on my lack of friends.  I have acquaintances.  I have a few people I hang out with on the average of something like once a month.  I have family I regularly associate with.  But there is no one I am close to.  Most of this comes from the fact that I am an introvert and after a long day at work interacting with a lot of people, I am tired and all I look forward to is going home.  Alone.  Some of this also comes from the amount of time and effort it takes to cultivate a close friendship.  In some cases this can take years. Then again much of the time I am happy being alone, doing things alone, until I think, “I really should have a friend.  I really wish I had someone to share stories with.  I really wish I had someone I could relate to….I really wish I had a witness.”  I really wish I had someone I interacted with regularly where a mutual exchange of interests, energy, and enjoyment in each others company could take place.  And at times, I really wish I wanted it bad enough to make a coordinated effort to achieve such a relationship.

I once told my therapist that the thing I looked forward to the most each week were our sessions.  Our sessions, at that time, were pretty much the only “social” thing I did each week.  Her reply was, “That’s sad.”  I giggled over that for quiet a while.  (No lie.  I still giggle about it.)  I found it extremely funny.  She didn’t mean, of course, that it was sad that my primary interaction with someone was with my therapist.  She meant, she said, that it was sad that I did not share myself with anyone.  She saw the value in me as a person, qualities she thought meaningful, and that I had no one to share those with, she found sad.

I guess I am musing on this now because in the next couple of weeks we will be having what might be our last session, unless of course I need something or face some kind of crisis.  It has been a long road and I have spent a lot of time in her office over the last 6+ years.  I spent a lot of tortured time, a lot of growing time, and a lot of time simply enjoying the presence of a person I also found valuable.  I found my witness for the story I needed to tell.  I think back on how our therapeutic relationship started and marvel at the obscurities of chance.  Why her?  Why me?  She’s told me she doesn’t believe in chance which then leaves, we were meant to cross paths for a reason….This is getting off topic.  Excuse me.  I have had a valuable witness and part of me doesn’t want to let go.  I know that it is possible, if I really needed it or wanted it, to continue to see my therapist once every few months or so but I don’t know.  At that point it seems…pointless?  Or is it?There is value in checking in of course but the transformative period of time where the magic happened has passed, a chapter has closed so to speak.  Is it time for me to grow beyond the therapeutic relationship?  This could be equated to any relationship I guess.  So does the relationship need to end entirely now that my primary treatment goals are met or does it just need to transition to a new phase?

When my supervisor and I were talking yesterday she said something that kind of made my lack of close friends okay.  Before my new job I was working with people all day everyday at one job (cashier at a grocery store) and working primarily by myself at my “real” job (mobile therapy).  At my “real” job I had no one to regularly bounce ideas off of or seek feedback from.  As a result of both jobs, I was depressed and highly disillusioned, which lead me to feeling like an all around failure personally and professionally.  Now that I have regular contact with a treatment team at my new job I am much more fulfilled and I am more okay than not with having few social contacts.  My supervisor pointed out that as long as I am happy it is okay that I have so few social interactions.  But it’s not like one can regularly share the same things one would with a friend, at work. So where does that leave me?

New Day

At the suggestion of a friend of mine I decided to write an update entry.  In the past I’ve often written when I was upset or bothered by something.  Perhaps it is time for a different perspective.

Two months ago I got a new job.  One job. One paycheck.  Complete days off instead of partial.  I feel so blessed to be working a job and feeling like I am FINALLY getting somewhere instead of just treading water.  These past two months I’ve been excited to go to work for the first time I can ever remember and I don’t have to worry whether it will pay the bills.  It has been such a long time since I’ve had an ever so slight flexibility in my bank account.

I am learning so much too!  I can use what knowledge I already have.

When a person or a family is confined by their paycheck or lack of paycheck it is very hard to be hopeful and growth minded.  When your primary concern is survival, growth becomes almost impossible.  Everyday a person can read these “positive thinking” quotes or listen to podcasts or absorb the cultural messages that “if you just think it and work hard you will manifest your greatest self.”  While I appreciate the sentiment it is really condescending and disingenuous to the family who is wondering how to pay rent or waiting in line at the food bank.  Their priorities, my priority was surviving and I was in a much better place than most when I was working two jobs.  It is very difficult to be growth minded when you work yourself to exhaustion and feel hopeless.  Now this all can sound very condescending from a well-educated white chick but I am honestly amazed at the strength these families have and the sacrifices they make.

Now that I am in a better place financially my struggles with other issues seem more manageable.  Socially, eh, I’m working on it.  Expanding my therapeutic skills, I probably have a long way to go.  My anxiety is still present, especially when I am aware of all of my flaws and weaknesses (areas of growth). But the biggest change is finally, finally I can see the light at the end of the tunnel (and it is not just an oncoming train) and I can see a future.  I am finally able to judge my weaknesses and flaws with ever so slightly more perspective.  I am working on not judging my weaknesses and flaws as disqualifications for my worth as a human being.  Okay so maybe I am not as assertive or outgoing as would be beneficial in my profession.  Maybe I don’t respond as therapeutically, maybe I share too much, maybe I am little more than a friendly face…  I idolize people too readily, sometimes, to the point I disregard or cannot see or trust my own judgement.  I can always find my flaws before someone else points them out to me.  My strengths are what I need to concentrate on and finally I feel like I can (at least a little).

I am a writer.  I am smart (thanks Mom and Dad).  I enjoy my time alone.  I enjoy intelligent conversation.  I know what I like and what I don’t like.  I am creative.  I love art.  I love writing.  Now how do I make the best use of my strengths.  Grant writer?  Art therapy advocate?  Art therapist (if I am even no so awkward and clumsy) Author?

So what I am asking from the universe is help in keeping things in perspective.  Help me weigh my strengths more than my weaknesses.  Help me value myself and my contributions.  Help the anxieties and “less than” feelings fade away.  Help me find my place in the world.

The Gift of Relationship Building

So I’m writing about friendship and relationships again…When I was recovering from a migraine a couple of weeks ago what I wanted more than anything was for someone to make me a cup of tea.  Can cats be trained to make tea? I wondered.  I was on the mend but it took me quite a while to push myself to get off the couch to make the tea.  Regardless, it was one of the first times I could clearly remember wishing someone else was there to take care of me and not in a “I’m feeling sorry for myself, I’m so alone” kind of way.  I just remembered thinking about how nice it would be if the tea was there and made and I didn’t have to move my exhausted and woozy self.  And that I actually wanted someone there to be nice and take care of me was a weird weird experience for me.

I remember a few years ago I sprained my ankle and I had people from all over the place offering to do things for me.  Get groceries or whatever.  I put them off.  “No. No. It’s okay.  I’m fine”  You know how it is.  Nobody ever wants to admit, “Yeah groceries would be nice.” (If you have ever walked around a grocery store in a walking boot you know how exhausting it is.)  I pushed myself because it’s just “easier” to do it myself.  And to think I was actually going to go to work the next day and I had to be convinced to stay home.  It’s okay to take care of yourself.

This year especially I have realized it’s okay to admit shortcomings.  It is okay to admit I can’t and that nobody can do it all.  It is okay to want to be taken care of and to take care of yourself for that matter….But that is not really where I intended to go with this post.

Off and on my therapist and I have had conversations surrounding letting others do things for you.  It is okay to do things for other people but ya gotta let them do for you too.  She’s asked me how it feels when I have the opportunity to do something for someone, buy flowers, buy tea, drive someone somewhere, or let them sleep on your floor…It feels good.  It gives me a sense of control and demonstrates that I can matter to someone.  Being able to help someone feel better is a gift.  But when you or I don’t allow other people to do those same things for you, when needed, you or I are robbing them of that gift.  Now when I had my migraine it simply didn’t occur to me that I could ask friends or acquaintances to come make me tea.  I had people offer after the fact.  It just never occurred to me.  I guess that is the result of trying to do everything by myself for so long and being afraid of being hurt.  Definitely, being afraid of being hurt…But that I actually wanted someone there this time was even more astonishing to me.

My therapist says that doing for others and letting others do for you is how we establish relationships.  Being vulnerable and finding a safe place to land or a safe way to get your needs met is what draws us together as humans.  I have to learn to recognize the opportunities for joining in this way.  I have to recognize when to ask.

Pre-session Musings

Written pre-session a few days ago…and yes I did share this with my therapist.

Many times when I leave K’s I am anxious, sometimes happy, sometimes satisfied, sometimes, a few times, desolate.  Primarily, with a few exceptions, it’s all for the same reason.  I give “my power” away too easily.  If it’s not to Mom, or my Aunt, or to K then it’s to someone else.  I try to do or want what they want, or what they think I should do or want.

Last week K and I talked about my need to “write my own rules” and taking responsibility for making my own decisions.  She asked if part of the reason why I struggle with any kind of action towards anything is that I still have the need to put blame or responsibility onto my parents for my life choices.  While in part that may be true I don’t know if it’s true in the way she intended.  It is true that sometimes I take a perverse kind of pleasure in berating myself for not, in my perception, doing what others, again in my perception, want me to do.  So in leaving K’s with these perceptions of what I “should” be doing, what actions, any actions I “should” be taking, I get a kind of permission to metaphorically self-harm.  There is this belief that I “should” be doing more simply from the belief that I am not doing enough.  I am stagnant.  And K will ask “for what and for whom” and I struggle to answer.  Just the shear number of answers to that question overwhelms me.  And it is then that I realize “for what or for whom” usually means any person I assign parental authority to.  And it is then that I ask, “how do I learn to parent myself?”

Frequently there is this feeling at K’s that I have ti take action now.  Do things now. Make decisions now.  But I feel the need to be patient.  If an opportunity comes along I’ll give it attention.  In the meantime, I feel the need to be patient, be aware, learn what I can now. Let things come in their own time.  Is this apathy?  Maybe in part.  Could I be doing more.  Probably.  But in answering that question the anxiety begins to creep in.

Sometimes I feel and sometimes I know K pushes me and challenges me the way she does just to see how far she can go until I push back.  Except frequently I get so wrapped up in my self imposed anxiety that I withdraw and head down the well-worn path of self-abuse and the endless refrain of “not good enough.”  Which is where the desolation has come from in the past.

My anxiety has decreased quite a bit from what it was in the past.  I’ve learned to take pleasure in more things.  I do more for myself simply because they give me pleasure and they are my choices to make.  It is an immense relief to live by myself without being hyperaware of what another person is doing and feeling.  Having my own space to do whatever I please with and in has helped enormously.  But then I think of college where I shared a suite with suite mates and it wasn’t a big deal.

My anxiety comes now from doing more of those things that make me happy while balancing the burdens and obligations of paying bills.  I don’t feel like I can be too adventurous without jeopardizing what little balance I have.  That’s what I meant when I told K last week that “I’m just focused on maintaining right now.”  That is where the majority of my energy goes.  Any extra is spent on simple pleasures that make the burdens more bearable.  The question is, how do I lighten the burdens of maintaining, two jobs I tolerate with paychecks that barely cover my needs, without upsetting the balance?  What can I risk? Where?  How?  When?

I’ve asked these questions.  I’ve asked these questions repeatedly.  How do I become my own person fully and to not feel so connected to the ifs, buts, ands, ors, and maybe nots, that I try to navigate around?

What opened my eyes last week was a discussion we’ve had in some form or another in the past.  I was talking about Dad and how he just doesn’t seem to care.  I always end up feeling that I should be doing more, calling more, making more of an effort, visiting more even.  Where is his effort???  Anyway, K made a statement about it not being about me, that maybe it has nothing to do with me.  It could be and very likely is entirely Dad’s own problem to deal with.  For so long, forever it seems like, I’ve made things, like Mom’s emotions, Dad’s level of interest, whether or not someone likes me, my problem.  I have been the one not doing enough, not doing the right things, not right, not good enough.  What if it has nothing to do with me?  I haven’t spoken up about my thoughts and feelings many different times because I made them my problem.  I was the one who never fit and I struggled because I knew how I felt and it never seemed right.

There are so many stories I tell myself based on partial or skewed information that scenarios or themes are created that really have little foundation.  Of course other people  go around creating their own stories too based upon their own inaccurate conclusions.  The story I have told myself for so long is that I am bad, that I’m an inconvenience, and that it is my responsibility to make my life the least intrusive it could possibly be.  In my core I still struggle with believing in my value and worth.  That anyone would actually enjoy my existence is a foreign concept.  That anyone could value my existence, as I valued theirs, doesn’t seem possible in my heart and mind…