Posts Tagged ‘therapy’

 

Same, same … but different

Sunday, May 15th, 2011

“What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls the butterfly.”
- Richard Bach

Just over six years ago I found out I was growing a son. And, in an instant, it was as though the personality slate was wiped clean … my life split in two – I went one way and the person I was before that moment, went another.

Parents say their lives change, they gush about motherhood and how they wouldn’t want it any other way, and they give childless people a tough time when they make a conscious choice not to go that route. They sever themselves from the people they were and blindly take on a new role and a new personality. A brave choice? The only way to survive? Who can say? … we all have our self-preservation tactics. But I have never been able to sever myself from the knowledge – and, yes, occasional envy – of that parallel dweller who took my life at the crossroads and left me with a stranger in the shape of my baby; my husband in the shape of a stranger, and no manual on how to deal with either.

And that diversion led me to the next intersection.

Divorce Ahead, the sign read. But no one was paying attention. Usual story – one person is texting and the other is changing the channel on the radio … you lose concentration and before you even look up, the ten-ton truck has mowed down the SUV and no one knows what’s hit them until they’re in ICU figuring out who’s going to pay for the mess.

But then you start the rehabilitation part … and you get a chance to nip and tuck. You get rid of pieces and you find bits to fix, and you discover all the parts you were always told you had to fix … well, they actually weren’t broken at all.

I have been to so much therapy in the post-baby years – I’ve been to counsellors who have told me to guard myself by donning cloaks of protection, I’ve seen healers who have told me to shed said cloaks and live with truth, I have been to therapists who have told me to live with authenticity and those who have encouraged me to compromise myself for the sake of my relationships. And at the end of that road, the only real choice I had was to just shed it all and emerge openhearted … and with a lot of raw nerves. Not fragile, just exposed.

So who is this parallel dweller I wonder and would I even like her, now that I see her from this perspective? I can tell you she is obsessive, controlling, fixated on money, job and investing for the future. She works hard and long, trains to the point of obsession and never compromises on her desires. She gets what she wants, when she wants and is incredibly lucky because she gets away with it all. She is so guarded that she takes life’s knocks like spandex and is unaffected by the attitudes and opinions of others. She doesn’t take compliments because they make her weak and she needs no one … ever. She is a stand-alone deal and she is invincible. She’s got a huge bitch button and it’s dangerously close to the one that sends her out of control. I’m not sure I like her but I miss her sometimes because she’s so much stronger than the person she left behind, a person I recognise so vaguely since it is all so new.

You can’t stay a caterpillar forever. You have to trap yourself in a cocoon for a while in order to emerge one day as a butterfly. I have stripped away the parts that were there for others, I have exposed the parts that were locked away because others couldn’t handle them and I have taken off the protective cloaks that shielded me from the parts in others that threatened to damage me. All the shielding, guarding and pleasing has been replaced with authenticity and trust that the people who love me are the ones that can handle this bare truth that lies within. The relationships I keep are those that allow me to expose the parts of myself that scare even me.

I’m just waiting now for my wings to unfurl and then I will see if I can fly.

Left-brain hypnosis

Sunday, April 10th, 2011

I abandoned my writing recently and retreated almost completely into my left brain. My musings have been read and misinterpreted and judged until, through my honesty in revealing all, I have arrived in a place where I am watching my life as an observer being strung along by those errors in interpretation and by the judgments of people I once loved. And I retreat further and further into my left brain in an attempt to try and make sense of my dysfunction around blogging this stuff in the first place.

“It is not a sign of good mental health to be well-adjusted to dysfunctional society.” (Krishnamurti)

I go to therapy, I send my child to therapy, I try and conform to a set of norms. Defined by whom? I restrain my life into a set of rules and values. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. And you know what? It still sucks. Divorce sucks. Who said it shouldn’t? And who said we have to work towards a place where it doesn’t or that we’re ok with it? I wasn’t shy saying that I didn’t want a baby, I didn’t pretend to be ok with it, I just let the world know that I was ok not being ok with it. We don’t have to like the hurdles on our journeys but we’ve still got to jump them … to get to who we’re meant to be.

This violent hurdle of separation and divorce has been a slow, stressful and traumatic amputation but, just like the place the huge oak has fallen in the forest – there in the space that has been created – a sapling begins its journey towards the light. A new limb slowly emerges where the old has been severed. And then I left brain it and, like a cloud, it smothers the sapling’s journey out of the undergrowth.

I’d like to find my way back into my right brain where I don’t have to make sense of everything, where I can just bring judgement-free humour to my own vey personal shitty situation because it’s who I am. And who I am is not something that needs to make sense. I’m just me … with all my quirks and weird desire to sometimes just make light of the darkness that won’t disappear unless I shine in it. For things to grow they need both the sunshine and the shit … and if you’ve ever thrown manure onto a garden, it’s pretty clear where the accelerated growth comes from.

Love. Life. Even when it’s shit, it can be pretty damn fabulous.

My Voice

Tuesday, April 5th, 2011

I have been working on several blog posts lately, working and reworking but never quite completing them. It wasn’t difficult before … before people actually read my blog or before they de-friended me on Facebook or just de-friended me in general.

And then I read http://networkedblogs.com/enz7C by Cath Duncan and pulled out this line:
“Grief needs to be expressed in some way – either privately or with witnesses, in order to heal.”

I grew up in an environment of repression and hidden secrets, a home where sweeping was obligatory and the carpet was lumpy with unexpressed emotion. Food was always the blanket that smothered the fire. And I married a man who held the same sentiment … for the obvious reason that that was my comfort zone. But as I evolved into the free-spirited writer, traveler and mother my perspective changed.

I became isolated and part of my means to break through to the other side involved sending out these messages into the ether – I didn’t know where they were going, I just wrote and posted and in a sense that was the release my issues needed … a public airing with seemingly no consequences and no obvious recourse that usually comes with discussing things face-to-face with someone who could quite easily instantly judge me.

The more isolated I became, the more I worked on finding my voice and in the midst of paradox, my blog was born, anonymous at first … and then not so. I broke free from fear of embarrassment and in a sense I embraced the inevitable judgement, fearless of the repercussions that would come from my admission that the thought of throwing my baby against the wall crossed my mind … and more than just the one time.

You ask what place grief has on a baby blog? I believe that every time you walk through the fire of transformation, be it willingly or at the hand of the universe, there is a fair amount of healthy grieving that needs to be done in order to heal. Not everything can be fixed with a roast chicken and a chocolate bar. When I got married I had to grieve my singledom. When I had my child, I had to grieve the life I had lost to motherhood. Sure, many women continue as they were, employ nannies or harness the help of family and friends to support their existing lives. But I had changed too much. And when I left my husband, I had to grieve … well, I had to grieve and grieve and grieve for all that was lost.

I remember blurting out how crap it was that I had fallen pregnant, only to fall prey to a barrage of criticism for my insensitivity considering one of the women in the group had been suffering with fertility problems. “But I didn’t know!” I claimed. It didn’t help. Another friend had a miscarriage and told no one so issues to do with abortions, for example, became a taboo subject … impossible if you were not part of her closely guarded secret. I have noticed on so many occasions how easily people have judged me for getting divorced … until I realized it’s not so much the doing as it is the telling. The telling exposes people’s vulnerability around issues. The telling makes them take a closer look at their own fragile situation. And in my case, for 14 years my marriage was perceived as a union of the perfect couple and if such a tragedy could befall the prom royalty, then what chance did others have when their relationships were far more ‘of this world’.

I have had to deal with therapy sessions that paint me as a tough piece of work who is terrified of displaying any vulnerability, hence creating a host of relationship issues around neediness. I took that on and practiced really hard to be vulnerable … when all along my blog is the very proof that I wear my vulnerability on my sleeve and the fact that it doesn’t line up with how my partner is needed has little bearing.

But I digress in my explanation. My laptop screen is littered with a variety of Text and Word documents, all posts waiting to be born but, ironically, as my healing begins to feel like it is close to completion, I struggle to deal with my audience. I lost my voice for months and it only returned recently. The posts on my blog were written by a woman who now forms only a part of me and the fate of the unfinished documents scattered over my desktop lie sealed by the hand of their author who no longer exists.

If it’s not out there, it’s not real

Saturday, October 11th, 2008

My therapist once told me not to make my stuff anyone else’s problem. I might want to put it out there but that doesn’t mean anyone else wants to listen to it … and they definitely don’t want to deal with it. It apparently makes them feel awkward and uncomfortable. I do it anyway.

My glee is a product of having always been asked about the second child. If people want to procreate that’s their choice, but when they project that need onto me, I buy myself time with some hard truth: No more for me, my husband’s had the snip.

The silent scream

Wednesday, October 8th, 2008

She tried to prove she could do it all while trying to be happy doing nothing at all.

During one of the postnatal depression periods following the birth … and close to a couple of years after the birth … I had a moment (perhaps several, if I am totally honest) of considering having another child. This was once I had quit my job to write, was still in therapy and felt – generally – rather useless. I felt that if I had one more and made my life pure hell, I would be busy enough to justify the existence I had chosen. I was feeling irrational at the time and had it not been for the fact that my coil (a.k.a. extreme body piercing) was dislodged and causing too much pain to have anything near to the kind of passionate encounter that might lead to more offspring, there might have been another ‘whoopsy’.

I like to think I graduated from therapy feeling like I can stand by my choices no matter how much I am trying to prove. I’ve done it all and had it all and I have tasted success, money, travel and more than my share of indulgence and extravagance. Life is short with so many pressures. I am ready to cut a small wedge out of my existence to dedicate this part of this life to love, nurture, respect, support and teach a boy who is destined for greatness.

I’m going to play my trump card – my card of excellence. Can there be any greater achievement?