Emotions 101

I’ve been continuing to work with my new therapist on emotional “stuff”. I’m frequently dumbstruck in our sessions when she asks how I’m feeling and I can’t find the words, or when she asks me what a particular feeling is like and what it means to me and I don’t know.

This week we talked about empathy.

In the course of our discussion I learned that empathy isn’t when you tell someone about events in your life (like your mother having cancer) and they ignore you so they can talk about something else. And I learned that empathy isn’t when a friend launches into hysterics about how your stuff makes them feel. I’m still not sure what empathy actually is, though.

Honestly, I know I’m not dumb, but I certainly feel it during these sessions.

In better news I went to a concert this week. Amazing singers. Perfect pitch, beautiful harmonies, and magical music. Here’s one of the pieces they sang (although some of the group members have changed since this was recorded). I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

When you’re not looking for it

There’s a saying or something about finding things when you’re not looking for them. Like the car keys. Or things you put away in that “special” hiding spot so you’ll remember where they are, but can’t never remember it. I had a day like that today.

I went to the beach this afternoon, despite the cold wind and the threat of yet MORE rain. Instead of walking, I sat in a corner near some rocks (to shelter from the wind) and just watched the world go by. As I sat there, I started to feel some of that characteristic special rejuvenation settle over me. I can’t tell you how good that felt!

After a while I realised that what I find here may not be some magic peace or healing afterall, but mindfulness. (Ok, I still think there’s some magic in the place, too ) I’m able to stop long enough to see the world around me. Today, for example, I saw the teeny weeny crab dancing up the sand to his home. And the six inches of blue sky trying to peek out from behind the clouds. I love it when I can slow things down enough for this. Especially with (or perhaps because of) beautiful mother nature!    

I also realised why my blog has been annoying me a bit of late. Not so much the blog itself, but my use of it. The way I get great ideas for posts that once would have been well thought out and well written, but now are dashed off in ten minutes flat because it’s all I can seem to find the time for. Or all I allow myself the time for. It’s not enough. I want to get back to a more mindful blogging, and more regularly. It’s much more meaningful to me, and more helpful. The trick, of course, will be to make that happen when I get home!

Fingers crossed for some more mindful rejuvenation tomorrow!

Manning up

I started to write this post about how I’d stepped up (or “manned up”) this week in coming clean with my therapist. And then I realised that I’d actually “manned up” in a few situations, so thought I’d give myself a big bloggy pat on the back.

1. I finally came clean with my therapist. Funny, I had avoided this in the session after my post, and by the time the next session (or the one after) rolled around, I felt much more able to tackle it. So much so that I barely squirmed or cried or anything – just had a “normal” (at least “semi-normal”) discussion with her about it. I’ve waxed lyrical on the benefits of talking to one’s therapist so many times in the blogosphere. Seems that sometimes there’s benefit in waiting, and not blurting.
2. I reported a guy at work for giving me a work nerd stick that contained p0rn0graphic material. It was gross and freaked me out … It came on the back of the bad trigger at work, so possibly I was more sensitive than I ordinarily would have been, but seriously people, pornography at work? Just. Not. Appropriate… EVER.
3. I’ve been feeling lazy and lardy and awful lately. For months actually. And then my BFF online pointed out that I used to go to the gym regularly, and it seemed to help with all the body tension. She’s right. What she said triggered a massive “a-ha!” moment in my brain, so I went to check out a new gym after work yesterday. Spur of the moment appointment to check out the gym, and a spur of the moment decision to sign up. I felt really motivated while I was there, so I went again this morning. It really brought my focus back to my body, and made me aware of all the places I’m carrying a ridiculous amount of tension. Of course it also made me aware of how much condition I’ve lost, but I’m hoping this will ease as I get back into a fitness regime, and (hopefully) gain some of my fitness back. Thanks BFF!

I also bombed my therapist today (as in ‘last minute bomb’ or LMB – kinda love it when we get to throw them occasionally) – “Why do you always ask the hard questions at the very end?” she asked. Ha ha! I asked her about my intense fear of abandonment and can she talk to me more in “intellectual terms” about it. I’m desperate to understand it, though I do fear it’s a bit like therapy in this regard – that if I stop intellectualising and just go with it, I’ll start to get better. Of course, I’m not sure what the “it” is in this situation. I guess that will be top of the agenda for next week…

Once living in fear

It seems like ages since I was able to blog regularly. I feel bad about that, though I know I shouldn’t. Like has gone into crazy mode, and mostly I’m going day to day dealing with things. On one hand it feels like I’m completely unstable; on the other, I know I’m not, and I’m actually coping well with what are incredibly difficult life events, if almost crippled with exhaustion. I know I’m also continuing to heal, as I was reminded last night.

Just as I crawled into bed, shortly after midnight, I heard my door bell ring. Of course, being so late, I panicked. Heart thumping, palm sweating, brain frying panic. I lay in bed, totally frozen. I was scared almost to death about who was at the door, and the bad things they had come to do. I watched the clock tick over* and waited, everything on high alert, convinced someone would break in. I literally couldn’t move.

At some stage I must have fallen asleep, because when I woke up this morning, well, I actually woke and no evil had taken me in the night. Of course, the first thing I did was check the front door – no one there, no one sleeping on my porch, nothing. Strange.

And then I remembered how many nights I’ve felt that panic before. How often, over the years, I slept with knives under my pillow, or scissors under the blankets. How often I sat under the window or by the front door, waiting for the bad men to come.

They never did.

And so, while I panicked (who wouldn’t panic that when their doorbell rings so late?), I also remembered that I’ve come a long way. It’s been a loooong time since I slept with knives or stayed awake all night to make sure nothing bad happened.

And that, my friends, as they say, is progress.

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* It’s a digital clock. It doesn’t tick. But what do we say now about digital clocks? Do they flip? Swoosh? What is it we say now that analogue barely exists? What will little kids say in years to come?  

A few bags and a suitcase

Mum and I went to her house last week to start sorting through my father’s belongings. I’ve been looking forward to this for years – throwing away all his old, stinky clothes, and the few other possessions he had. I thought it would be cathartic – another nail in his coffin, so to speak, and another way to exile him from my life. It was, although sadly the catharsis was lessened because my mother had already thrown away the worst of his sh*t when he went into the nursing home.

Thanks to the Wonder Therapist I was prepared for this to also be triggering. Mostly it wasn’t, although there were a couple of things that threw me for a minute – things like his old bucket hats (which reminded me of his foul moods), the smell of his wardrobe (and of him) and some skanky old toiletries, like shaving gear. Thankfully the worst of the triggers – his dirty, stinky fishing gear – had already gone, so I didn’t need to deal with that.

Strangely I kept a couple of things. Yea, I know, you’re thinking I’m crazy, right? It wasn’t anything triggering. Nothing that really even reminds me of him, just things I like. A pale blue shirt I bought in France, a couple of old cravats I never saw him wear (they’re in beautiful old vintage fabrics), and an old hair brush I’m not sure he never used (also vintage, with a fleur-de-lis pattern on the handle).

This whole process of sorting through his cr*p affected me more than I thought it would. Throwing away his eye glasses, realising he would never need them again, made me a bit sad – not for my father, but for what’s left of a person’s life in the end: a few garbage bags and a suitcase filled with old clothes to go to charity. I don’t know why I find this sad, but I do. Somehow it seems that 91 years of life – nearly 92 – should amount to more than that. The Wonder Therapist says it’s not uncommon to start thinking about this – about the meaning of life, our legacy, and what it all means. (F***ed if I know, that’s for sure.)

It’s amazing how exhausting this whole process was – even though I’m not saddened in the usual way, I’m still exhausted.

In which I break the power of flashbacks

I’ve been having a few flashbacks since my father died. Nothing too bad; nothing that makes me freak out. Just intrusive little things that put me off kilter for a few minutes (or linger annoyingly for a few hours). But none of the usual dissociative wigging out – or only momentarily.

*** TRIGGER WARNING ***

Mostly they’re flashbacks of horrible things he did to Mum and I, and the feelings of fear I felt then (and now), and of being small and vulnerable. Things like the times he was being violent, usually drunk, and Mum would sleep in my room, usually barricading us in with my chest of drawers. He’d try to break in, but never succeeded. Thankfully, god knows what would have happened if he did.

Or the time we were on holidays visiting family in the country – Dad was, as usual, in a foul mood and as Mum started to get in the car he drove off – leaving her half in, half out of the car, dragging a little bit as he took off, and yelling at her about how “stupid” she was. I get this knot in the pit of my stomach whenever I think about these things.

*** END OF TRIGGER WARNING ***

I was talking to the Wonder Therapist about this today. She said this isn’t uncommon following the death of an abuser. She suggested I should just tell her when this happens, and just blurt out the flashback. Really? Yea, really. I wasn’t sure if I could do this – the same old feelings of shame and embarrassment are still there, even after all this time. But I did do it, and you know what? Just telling her about the flashbacks took all the power out of them. Suddenly they were just memories – yucky memories, and still intrusive – but not as scary as they were. Amazing. I felt lighter and more powerful. I no longer felt like a victim, but a survivor.

I guess that’s why they call her the Wonder Therapist after all.

I’m free!

I visited my father at the funeral home yesterday. My mother and I decided there would be no funeral. She used her illness as an excuse, but really, the truth of it is that neither of us could bear the hypocrisy of a funeral. People offering condolences, eulogising him – it all makes me want to vomit. So no funeral, but I did need proof that it’s real, so I visited him at the funeral home.

The funeral people had set aside a private room for me – just me and the coffin, the flowers and some candles. All very nice, or would have been if I was bereft in any way. The funeral home guy was all very serious and respectful – as they all have been – and I initially played serious in return. It’s almost comical us playing this game given the circumstances.

When I first saw the coffin I couldn’t believe it was him – it looked so small! This might sound weird, but I needed proof. I needed to see his body to know that he really is dead. Funeral home guy lifted the lid of the casket and left me alone.

I admit I was a little scared at first – I’ve never seen a dead body before, and I wasn’t sure how I would react. When I first looked at him, it kind of took my breath away – he looked so pale, so small and so powerless. That feeling lasted barely a nanosecond before I realised it really was him. He really is dead!

I told him he was a son of a b**** and that he’d made my life hell (and my mother’s). I told him I wasn’t sorry that he was dead, and that I hoped he’d rot in hell.

I cried a bit – at least another ten tears since the six I shed on Sunday when he died. They weren’t tears of sadness, though, but tears over the wrongs he committed, and tears of relief.

I stood there for a minute, looking out over the gardens. Something felt wrong. At first I couldn’t put my finger on it, and then I realised – it was the first time I’d been in a room with my father and he couldn’t answer back; couldn’t be abusive. The first time I’d been in a room with him and the air wasn’t thick with tension. It felt unusually peaceful.

I realised then that I’m free. I am finally, and forever, free. He can never hurt me again. I can’t tell you how great that feels!

Taking care

We got news yesterday that my mother’s cancer is more advanced than originally thought. It’s not good news, and it’s thrown both Mum and I a little bit. Actually it’s been a week of bad news on one front or another. I’m blaming some weird planetary activity.

On top of the cancer and the myriad appointments I’ve attended with Mum, I’ve had my own health issues to deal with, as well as work, and putting my father in a nursing home, and a job interview (that’s another story) and and and …

Understandably, this has all taken its toll and I’ve been feeling overwhelmed.

I finally made the decision today that something has to give. I chose work. I’m taking a few days off to deal with things. I’m also withdrawing from the job I interviewed for. I’m just not in the space to take on anything new. It’s also likely I’ll need a bit of time off for Mum, and I don’t want to muck them around.

It feels a bit weird this taking control and taking care, but I know it’s a good thing. I hope you’re all sitting down because I’m also planning to get back into my exercise routine, and get healthy foods going for Mum while she stays with me and endures her treatment. Crazy stuff, I know, but that’s what’s happening.

I also had a nap this afternoon, something I do sometimes. I was at a friend’s place and looked at her bed, and realised I just wanted to crawl into it and fall asleep. So I did (in my own bed). Almost unbelievably I slept for three hours. They say stress does funny things, and sleep is a way for the mind and body to regenerate. I’ll be heading back to bed again very soon.

Needless to say the Wonder Therapist was impressed at my care taking. It’s quite nice, really. I think I might even like it.

Expressive Arts Carnival No 8 – Your Truth

This month’s theme for the Expressive Arts Carnival is:

Through drawing, painting, photograph or any other visual means, create an image of “your truth.” Some ideas you may want to explore are finding your truth, saying your truth, what your truth feels to you, and more. With your entry, also include a couple of sentences saying what the process was like for you.

I’m getting in early this month, as I go away in a few days (again) for a proper holiday this time. The place I’m going to is also my entry for the Carnival. It’s a simple one, but no less relevant to the theme:

I’ve posted this photo before, and others like it, here and here.

This is the place I went to when my life started “falling apart”. It’s the place where I started uncovering my “truth” – peeling back the layers on my onion of abuse. It’s also the place where I started discovering who I am, and the place where I started healing.

I love this place because of its physical beauty, but also because of what it represents to me. It is my spiritual home.

The Carnival doesn’t close until 21^st February and is open to all survivors. It’s a great privilege for me to be part of this, and lots of fun, so I encourage everyone to enter! Details on how to enter can be found here.

“Healing is about living”

Paul over at Mind Parts wrote this in his recent post reflecting on 2010. He says:

“Healing is really about living. It is not all about therapy. The work we have done has helped me live more of the life I want to live.”

I was struck by this when I read it. It seemed to capture the essence of my journey into therapy, and my healing so far.

For the longest time before I entered therapy, I felt like something was holding me back – like this quote from Alfred D’Souza:

“For a long time it had seemed to me that life was about to begin – real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be gotten through first…”

I first got the idea of therapy from a colleague, who suffered from anxiety and saw a therapist. I saw her grow in countless ways. I thought may be therapy could help me, too.

And then I changed jobs and put it all out of my mind… until things started spiralling out of control in my own life.

When I entered therapy I didn’t even know there was “healing” to be done. I just knew I was becoming unhinged and I didn’t know a way out. I was stuck, with day to day stuff, let alone the life stuff. And then the Wonder Therapist – who always knew there was something to heal – poked around and I too learned there was more to be done than just getting “unstuck”.

At times I forget that “healing is really about living”, but it is. It’s about losing the barriers and obstacles, so that I can live the life I want to live – removing the “walls” I showed in my entry for Expressive Arts Carnival No 5.  Paul’s right, it’s not just about the therapy, though this is an important element for me – in my healing, and in guiding me to the life I want; the life that’s been inside me for always, but trapped by all the heinousness of the past.

Thanks, Paul, for the reminder. I’ll treasure it.