The Good Therapist, Part 2

I want to tell you, I say to T, why I need  to work with you. About the reasons I can commit myself fully to this process – with you.

We met a few times several months before we really started working together, but I needed to finish some things, and you encouraged me to do that. I knew I had to go back into the typhoon, fight to stay afloat, see if the captain could get us safely to shore. She couldn’t. I knew that, but I was unable to let go, not yet. When I came to you, bludgeoned and bloody, you sheltered me. You accepted my experience of the events as more important than what actually happened. I mattered – not just details of the trauma.

The Good Therapist, Part 1

There are so many good things, and we talked about them in session. I talked about them. I wanted to tell her. I needed her to stop asking if something was a deal-breaker. If I could work with her human and imperfect self. I didn’t want to hear T’s uncertainty, because uncertainty is a crack. A place to break apart. Yes, I think, I may have a hard time trusting. But I do trust you. I don’t think you are holding out. I don’t think you are sugar-coating or feeding me bullshit. I believe you.

Googling Your Therapist

Looking for your therapist in either cyber or 3D space is all about boundaries. Both your T’s and your own. I’m responsible for my boundaries; T is responsible for hers. In general, I don’t believe it is a problem to search online for information about T – as long as everyone’s boundaries are intact.

When I was looking for a new therapist, I researched each prospect as thoroughly as possible without using a paid source. My insurance company provides name, address, sex, professional license, year and university of graduation and a check-off list of “specialties.” I wanted to know age and while year of graduation could be an indicator if it was many years ago, more recent graduations didn’t necessarily mean the therapist is young. Plus, therapists who had checked off every specialty… well, one can’t specialize in everything. It defies the meaning of the word. I looked for more info on that as well.

"Late" Is Just A Perception

I show up for my session 10 minutes early, so I wait. And wait. And wait. At fifteen minutes past our scheduled time, I've been waiting 25 minutes.

It was just last session I told T I don't like it when she's late. But, I knew she'd be late - she always is. Still, I'd told her, I especially don't like when we start ten minutes after the hour. Yes, I believed she would show up. Yes, I know she said she'd give me my time. But I didn't like it.

So, today I am waiting. She's never been 15 minutes late. I feel myself abandoned, sliding into despair. Angry. Why won't she get here on time? Anxious. Has she forgotten me? Uncertain. Is it the wrong day? The wrong time? I checked the cracks in my mind. No, I am right. T is fucking up, big time.

I start to feel tears forming under my skin. Start to breathe irregularly. I hold my breath.

Again, I think it through. What day is it? Tuesday, I'm pretty sure. What time is my session on Tuesday? My session is at 11:00. Crap. I arrived at 10:20.

 T shows up at 11:05 - "on time."

Hello, she says.
I smile and try to behave like a sane person.

Previous Therapists, Part 1

I found my last therapist (oldT) before I had even left the psychiatrist/therapist (PT) before her. PT was retiring. I’d seen her for six years – which was about how long she was in private practice. It was super-hard to let go. I knew it was coming, due to her age and Parkinson’s, but I wasn’t expecting it when she told me. She informed me just six months after my mother died, and it felt like another crushing blow.

She’d given me two months notice, so we had time to talk about it. But I didn’t. I couldn’t form the words without crying, and I didn’t want to bust out like a blubbering fool. So I avoided it as it related to us and how I felt about it. We talked about logistics. Finding me a new psychiatrist. Finding a new therapist.

The Strait Jacket

“Frankie and Alice” is a movie about a woman (Halle Berry) with Dissociative Identity Disorder.  It’s in limited theaters, and I saw it today. In the course of the “based on real life” story, Frankie ends up in the psych ward with a compassionate and savvy psychiatrist. Berry does a good job portraying the different alters and her switching is subtle yet discernible. In one scene, an alter switches and then freaks out, needing to be restrained due to her violent outburst. They put her in a strait jacket.

That’s what triggered my memory. Despite giving my psych history to numerous therapists and psychiatrists over the past twelve months, I never mentioned it. I didn’t remember. Suddenly, though, watching Frankie get forced into the strait jacket, zapped me into that same scenario. I had been put in a strait jacket. I also had fuzzy memories of being restrained, tied to a bed in that same hospital. Why? What happened that I was so out of control? Then I remembered. I tried to hang myself there. Was that one of the times? Surely, if I fought the staff. But the other? I don’t know.

Remains of a Life

I am struggling.

This is the situation: Mom died two years ago. Her husband (of six years) remained in her home. He died three weeks ago. Now I am tasked with going through her things and getting her house ready to put on the market. There’s only me and my sister, but she lives 900 miles away. I also have to deal with his kids who need to deal with their Dad’s stuff – which isn’t a lot, but which is integrated with everything else in the house. Today I came across some certificates with his name. Last week I found two unopened bottles of Listerine and an erection vacuum pump.

Finding Balance in Life

It has been a month to forget. But I doubt I will.  I suppose my memory might get fuzzy. The details may fade. But the fact that my step-father died and now I must deal with my mother’s house (and stuff) will always be with me.

2014 was supposed to be a fresh start. A year to get back on track after the toxic, life-sucking 2013. But this has been a month of sorrow. A month of binge eating. A month of ice cream. I eat ice cream when I’m depressed. I’ve eaten a lot of ice cream. My Zumba class, good food choices, daily blogging and good therapy were all things, with consistency, that I counted on to keep my life structured, focused. They were going to turn things around for me. Not that they still can’t. But each of these have been disrupted, and I feel off-balance.

A Message via Donald Duck

I’ve only told four people about this. It’s not something I felt I could tell just anyone. But now I’m going to tell you. Maybe you’ll let me know what you think.

I grew up reading Donald Duck comics. I read them, because my father had a subscription as a kid, and he saved all his issues. Everyone in the family read them. We referred to them in the same way people today refer to “that Seinfeld episode.” Carl Barks was the artist who brought Donald to life between 1942 and 1966. I’ve read that Barks didn’t go to college, so he would read National Geographics to give him story ideas. Most of the history I learned as a child was flavored with the adventures of Donald Duck and his nephews, Huey, Dewey and Louie.

Slingshot Progress in Therapy

Sometimes progress doesn’t mean moving forward. Progress, I think, is continuing movement on the path one is destined to walk. And, in my experience, falling into the deepest hole is sometimes the staging ground for incredible growth. Of course, we don’t often recognize that when we’re in the hole. We don’t say, “Oh yeah! I feel so badly, but isn’t it great?” More often it’s, “I feel like crap, and I don’t think I can take much more of this. I just want to quit.” Most of us don’t quit, and it is finally in retrospect that we see growth.

Quiet

The Peeper is quiet. Pondering.

End of Life

I’ve got it third-hand that my step-father has said he is ready to die. Both of the loves of his life are gone. His health is failing. He is 80 years old.

I know I can’t truly grasp his perspective – but I wonder what I’d be thinking, feeling, at the end of a long, full life, resting on the cusp of this world and the next. I see pages of a flip book that incrementally depict my life. I can’t imagine lingering on the tragedies, still trying to figure out the drama. Sitting on that fence, I like to think I’d be celebrating the people I’d loved, and appreciating all the experiences and accomplishments that formed my life.

Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened.  - Dr. Seuss

To Be Here, Now

I have been moving in this direction for a very long time. To be here, now, where I am, is finally making sense. I am starting to Get It.

At any moment, you have a choice, that either leads you closer to your spirit or further away from it. - Thích Nhất Hạnh

Realities of Life

I am trying to be wise and thoughtful, but right now the realities of life are steamrolling me, flattening my lungs and breath and making my heart beat like tapioca.

I don’t know if my step-father is going to die today or tonight or tomorrow. Or if he’ll pull through. He has an appetite and is eating. Even planning for the future by saving his pudding for a snack.

At the moment, all I have are questions and tired tears.

Walking, I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.  - Linda Hogan (b. 1947), Native American writer

Life is Fragile, Too

I was just boarding a plane to go visit my sister for a few days when I received the text.  My step-father had been taken back to the hospital, to the ICU. His oxygenation was too low. As I wrangled luggage and found seat 17F, I felt my heart beating like a base drum. Settling into my seat, I looked out the cold window and felt tears welling.

When Mom was put on oxygen two years ago, it was the start of her death march. Learning Ray was on a cpap in the ICU was almost déjà vu. Except it was really happening. The same hospital, the same floor, the same month, the same distress.

Reciprocity In Therapy

We haven’t talked about what you give me, my therapist says. Immediately I think – well, I did just give you a check. Then, almost surprisingly, my next thought is not about my unworthiness or that I have nothing to give or that I could only give bad stuff.  I start to go there, but  without delay I think I would be demeaning her to think that I mean nothing or that I give nothing.

I can think whatever I want about myself, but I don’t do myself any favors by assuming she thinks poorly of me.  She  respects me. I believe she cares about me. I think she appreciates life at a deep level, and I am part of that life. To say that T views me as “just another client” is to call her trite. It’s like I’d be calling her one of those high school girls who gossips in the bathroom and then puts on a friendly face when she walks out.  Two-faced? No, I respect her more than that.

All Charged Up

I believe there is enough static electricity in my hair to power the entire house. Seriously. I have long hair, so that contributes to the voltage. I can’t get out of bed, pet a dog or have a morning kiss without setting off sparks. And when I put on my polyester fleece robe, it’s as if my skin is buzzing with electrons. I know I have a dazzling personality, but geez!

I try to mitigate the harsh dryness of winter with a little bitty vaporizer that holds about a gallon of water. Not too bad if you sit right next to it all day. But it’s cheap and there’s a terrible lime buildup which must be scraped out routinely. Actually, the directions say to clean it every day. Shoot, who’s got patience for that?

Life is Precious

Yesterday my step-sister texted me to say her father had fallen on the basement steps. She was at the hospital and he’d broken his right clavicle and left ankle. Actually, he’d fallen the day before around 5am but didn’t want to “bother” anybody. Twenty-four hours later, he called 911 – though still not his kids.

When Ray and my mother married eight years ago, he sold his house, gave away his belongings and moved in with Mom. Six years later, on their anniversary, my mother died. In her will, the house was left to me and my sister with the stipulation that Ray could live there as long as he wanted. So, technically, he’s been living in my house. Mine and my sister’s. I’m the one who lives five minutes away. My sister, 900 miles. You know how that goes.

We Eat Vegetables

At my house, we eat vegetables. If you’re a dog at my house, there are no ham bones, no chicken knuckles, no greasy meatloaf pans. Just vegetables. So, if you’re a dog at my house, you adapt.

I’ll be standing at the kitchen sink, cleaning produce for a salad, and Sugar will hurry in to supervise. When I remove the green Tupperware from the refrigerator, Sugar is frantic. “Tomatoes,” she cries, “radishes, turnips, and celery. Oh, please, please, pleeeese can I have some? I am so good,” she goes on, “better than the other dogs who are worthless and undeserving. Just one bite of turnip and I will forever be your faithful dog.”  So I dole out blemished bits cut from the roots that we will eat in our salad. And Sugar is faithful.

Stop Comparing: You Are Worthy

It’s time to stop comparing trauma. Stop comparing suffering. Stop comparing parents. It’s time to stop believing that your suffering isn’t bad enough or horrific enough to deserve care and attention. Stop. Just stop.

It doesn’t matter that you weren’t beaten black and blue or raped. It doesn’t matter if there wasn’t any physical manifestation of abuse. It doesn’t matter that you don’t have the worst story to tell.

What matters is you. And how you feel. It’s really true. We are each affected by how we experience the world. Everyone has different sensitivities. Things impact each of us differently. What feels bad to me may not feel that way to you. That doesn’t mean my feelings are less important.

My Heart Therapist

If therapists were all Microsoft Office documents, oldT would be an excel spreadsheet. NewT, a powerpoint. OldT was smart. NewT is heart. 

In session yesterday, T was saying that the better part of her learning to be a psychotherapist came from her own therapy. And, at this, she put a hand to her chest and patted it – a gentle acknowledgement of her own work, of her student heart. 

I need to be the patient/client/student of a Heart T. My parents were both smart. Growing up, I longed for heart. I am sure that when I was small I had a broken heart. The brokenness of not being loved - not enough, not in the Little Me way I needed so much.

We Need Each Other

Today is John Steinbeck’s 112th birthday. (It is if you believe the Doodle on Google’s home page today, and I believe everything I read on the internet, so it must be true.) Our lives overlapped; I was 12 when he died.  When I discover my life overlaps some interesting character, I always feel a brief sadness or regret. Like, “Oh shoot! I might have had the chance to know him, to talk to him, to go to a book signing… if I had only known.” Of course, as a snotty little 12 year old, I couldn’t have cared less. I probably recognized his name, but pfft, what did it matter to me?

Co-ink-i-dentally, I just finished reading The Grapes of Wrath. I might have read it a long time ago, probably under threat of an “F” in some English class, and I have faint memories of a very dusty movie. But reading this book in 2014, in my 57th year, knowing the history that has passed since it was written more than 60 years ago… Geez-o-pete! The story is gripping, tragic, magnificent. And that guy, Mr. Steinbeck, was an incredible writer. I guess I’m not the only one who noticed as he did receive the Pulitzer Prize in 1940.

How Are You?

How are you?  Oh, not so great. Been really depressed lately.

And with that, the questioner averts her eyes and quickly changes the subject. How ‘bout them Yankees?

I loathe “how are you?” because the expected response is “oh, fine – and you?”. I hate lying, and I have trouble discerning when someone truly wants to know how I’m doing. Even when you know they do care and want a truthful answer… how to respond if you can’t just say Fine?

What Is My Soul?

At my twice monthly Deep Ecology discussion group, we’re reading Spiritual Ecology, a collection of essays from various perspectives that assume the interconnectedness of all life, human and non-human. The article we discussed last evening was by Bill Plotkin (who has been a research psychologist studying non-ordinary states of consciousness, professor of psychology, psychotherapist, rock musician, and whitewater river guide).

In his essay, Plotkin articulates a definition of “soul” that’s got me thinking. He describes soul as the “role, function, station, status, or niche it has in relation to other things.” This place, in its truest sense, is the very core of one’s identity, it’s significance, purpose, raison d’être. He describes the soul of Jesus as love and the soul of the Buddha, emptiness.

Healing A Vacuuming Injury

Long ago I gave up the idea of having an immaculate house. Just ain’t possible with pets. Not for me anyway. Not for me and staying sane. Three dogs equals twelve paws times eight trips outside each day equals 96 dirty paws. I am not patient or OCD enough to wipe or wash paws after every trip outside.

Of course, there are different stages. Slightly damp ground means only a faint paw print on the hardwood floors. Rainy and soggy increases the possibility of muddy paws which must be toweled if not dipped into a bowl of water, rinsed and dried. The final category is thawing ground, not muddy, and the result is paws that have collected little clumps of dirt.

Mood Index

Unharnessed, I’m sure the food I eat is directly related to my mood. This past week was laced with bad food choices. Pasta. Bread. Cereal. Ice Cream. Carbohydrate Frenzy. Let this be an index for how bad my week was.

Tonight, dinner will be at a friend’s – a meal of fresh Atlantic salmon (bought yesterday at Whole Paycheck), over a savory quinoa and vegetables roasted in a balsamic reduction. Doesn’t get much healthier than that. I suppose we could have kale chips as an appetizer. That would be supreme-o healthy. So, like it or not, the Food-Mood Index will be ratcheted high and I’ll have no choice but to feel better.

Struck By Lightning

I was almost hit by lightning when I was 20. The current sped through my body like a shiver on steroids. I wasn’t the bullseye, but I smelled smoke and three feet from where I sat was a hole burned into the carpet. Beneath that, concrete chipped from the floor. Wiring in the house was destroyed.

It happened again. I’ll try to explain.

I went to the movies yesterday. In an early scene, a young woman learns her son is being taken away from her, without warning or opportunity to say goodbye. She runs to a window only to see the car with her son pulling away. She sobs, anguished.

What Would You Rather?

When my now seventeen year old niece was little, she used to come to our house and spend the night. In the morning while pretending I wasn’t the last one still in bed, she’d crawl up next to me and chirp, “Are you awake?” Slowly I’d open my eyes and then with a speed she didn’t expect, I would grab her for a brief tickle-fest and say, “yeah, I’m awake.”

Then we’d settle back into the pillows and play our game: Would You Rather. In the beginning, when she was still in wonderment years, the questions were funny, silly. Would you rather have green hair or purple hair? “Purple,” she said. “Well how come?” I asked. “Because Barney’s purple,” she squealed. Hot dogs or hamburgers? Swimming or soccer? When she tired of the game, we’d move to the kitchen and she would help me measure flower and baking powder for biscuits.

The Romantic in Me

Happy Valentine’s Day to all you sweethearts out there!

How does an old married couple (34 years in July) celebrate Valentine’s Day?

Her: It’s Valentine’s Day.
Me: Yeah.
Her: Do you want to do anything?
Me: Hmm. I don’t know. Do you?
Her: I don’t care.
Me: I suppose we could go out.
Her: It’ll probably be packed where ever we’d go.
Me: Yeah. That’s no fun.
Her: I suppose we could stay home.
Me: Yeah.
Her: We could go downstairs and watch the jumbo-tron.
Me: OK.
Her: What’s for dinner?
Me: Left-overs.

Honesty in Therapy

I am doing therapy differently with my new therapist. I didn’t go into it with this in mind, but the change is happening. I like it.

In the beginning, I extracted her promise, and gave mine, that each of us would be honest. Though I didn’t realize it, I meant honesty lite. I won’t say I hate chocolate if offered a Hershey bar. I won’t create an excuse for declining. That’s being honest, right?

Show 'N Tell with Little Me

Just recently, I made a book about my pets called, “No Dogs Allowed,” and yesterday I took it to my therapy session. What’ve you got there, my therapist asks. I said it was a Shutterfly book. When T looked perplexed, I explained I made it by uploading photos and, using Shutterfly software, designed a book that was then printed. It’s a glossy cover hardback with a photo of two golden retrievers and my dust mop, Sugar, on the cover. I know T is an animal lover because when I told her a story about a doe and fawn frozen to Mississippi ice for two days, it brought tears to her eyes. It’s something we have in common. 

Can I see it, T asked, referring to the book. I was excited to show it to her. Excited to show pictures of my family. Of the dog who saved my life, the one who stole my heart, the blind diabetic, two in diapers, another the object of a civil case between my sister and a schizophrenic childhood friend. I told stories of rescue and of death. Mi familia. 

Karma, Fate or Random?

Some questions will always be hard to answer. For instance, why do bad things happen to good people? I think there are three possible answers: It’s fate. It’s karma. It’s random. To decide between the three, I must first determine who (or what) I think is in control.

If the control is within me, then I believe in karma. There is a specific link between what I do and what happens. “What goes around comes around.”

If the control is outside of me, then I believe in fate. Fate conjures a power greater than ourselves that has already determined our destiny. “It was meant to be.” This, of course, suggests that there *is* some meaning.

What Do You Think About?

What do you think about in the random moments between a good belly laugh watching Saturday Night Live and worrying about bills? Between the rupture in therapy and learning you just got a bonus at work? What fills those in-between moments?

I think about the birds. Where do they go at night? How can they fly so fast through the forest without running into trees? And the deer – how do they tolerate sub-zero weather? I am always feeling so cold for them.

Showing Up Vulnerable

It’s Sunday, and I have a confession.

Although I’ve been posting Morning Peeps since January 1^st, it hasn’t been until this past week that I started reading other's. I couldn’t jump back in 100%, writing MPs, reading discussions, responding. I knew it would be too much, but I wanted to peep.

In the past, I harshly and irrationally judged my self-worth by the way in which I perceived other forum members interacting with me. It triggered a LOT of anxiety in me. It got so I couldn’t think rationally about it. Now I try to remember (and believe) I am not the center of the world (go figure) and people aren’t out to get me. That others’ responses or lack thereof most likely have nothing to do with me.

Therapist Owns Being Late

My new therapist has been late to almost every appointment I’ve had with her. Not just session late. Arriving at the office late. We have had thirteen sessions. Thirteen times late. This week I said something about it.

Opening the session I said to T, I need to tell you something. I feel really anxious when you’re late. What’s that like for you, she asks. I worry that I’ve got the wrong time, the wrong day, that I’ve screwed up. I worry that I’ll miss my session and wonder if there will be a chance to make it up. I’m afraid I’ll lose session time with you. And you’re probably angry too. I didn’t confirm it, but yes, a little angry. Do you recognize that you first blamed yourself, T asks. It was my fault. I was late. I’ve been late to almost every – if not every – session. T tells me she has been late her whole life. We'll keep talking about it. We'll work it out.

Cold Car Problems

Remember the big red triangle with the exclamation point inside? (MPs Feb 2) It meant something.

I got a call last night, just before dark, and so far, the coldest day of the year. Her car wouldn’t start. Call security, call the insurance company, talk to the tow company. Wait, wait. Cold, cold. Two guys with briefcase jumpers are unsuccessful. Tow it? Where? $75. 

Ask the tow truck operator to try a real jump and charge the battery a bit before hooking up the tow, I suggest. Uggh. I hear cold hands and fingers in her voice. I hear her missing yoga, her sanity. Missing protein and carbs after a long day of dieting and no dinner. Just ask him, I urge. What can it hurt? Maybe he’ll get it started and you can drive it to the dealer and we’ll leave the car and I’ll pick you up and I’ll wait on the car in the morning and you can drive my mine to work. Uggh.

Tell Your Truth

I am looking at an amazing array of taupes, browns, blues, and white. Half is brightly illuminated by the rising sun, the remaining still in shadow. At about 100 yards there is a teepee shaped tangle of bramble, vines and fallen trees. This is where the cardinals gather. I’m thinking it’s their synagogue. Or

maybe a rec center. Whatever it is, there’s often eight or nine of the red birds pausing there. My woods. My eye-candy. I know this view will change. Soon, almost undetectably, green will emerge. Soon, the white winter cover will be only a memory.

Today the winterscape is lovely. A year ago I was on the Siberian tundra, enduring the long, dark days. So too, in therapy. T
My therapist keeps saying things can be different. They are different. I am wondering if this new work with this new T is to be my shift. The imperceptible, undeniable, glacial movement of change. I am wondering if the dynamics between us will slide into the anti-functional. If our discourse will become toxic repartee. If my past will again become my present.

Inner Child's Fear

My therapist is back from Hawaii, jet-lagged and weather-shocked, but present nonetheless. I had a session yesterday.

So, says she, how are you?

I told her that my chest felt like it was full of iron, tight, burning, pressing. What does it mean, T asks. I’m afraid. I think when we feel fear, T explains, we’re experiencing something that happened to us before. When we were little. I was afraid you wouldn’t come back, I say, tears silently starting to slide. That’s something that happened to you before, T asks rhetorically. And it happened with oldT, she adds. I bob my head, a little girl’s nod, and bite my lip.

What Words Mean

That’s right: morning peeps. Do you read that and think 1) MPs – that’s just the name of the thread, or 2) MPs – she’s saying Good Morning People, or 3) MPs – she’s writing (peeping) in the morning?  My original intention was number two – sort of like Robin Williams saying, “Good Morning, Vietnam!” I’ve also come to think of myself as “peeping,” and that seems relevant since I’m usually watching the birds come to life as I write.

What do our words mean? What do we mean by our words? These questions are with me constantly. Before smartphones and apps, I always carried a dictionary in my car – in all three of our cars. I needed them not only to decipher the “intelligent talk” on public radio but also for the words that popped into my head. Whoa, where’d that come from, I’d think. Then, upon investigation, I’d discover it was just the word I needed.

Reparenting My Inner Child

"When you learn how to reparent yourself, you will stop attempting to complete the past by setting up others to be your parents.” - John Bradshaw, Homecoming: Reclaiming and Championing Your Inner Child.

Wow! Those words sent a flush of recognition through my body. How many times have I done that? For sure with every therapist – and a handful of other people too. How many times has it been successful? Zero. Zip. Nada.

Desires, needs, longings of my wounded little girl? Normal. Expectation that someone who truly cares and understands will fulfill these for me? Trouble. Others can help with some of this, but no one can truly be there 100%. I will never be someone’s top priority. I am the only one who can be that for me. I am always with myself. I am always interested in myself.  I’m the one who must step up to the plate.

Pay Attention - It Matters

The triangle with the exclamation point inside lit up big and red on the dashboard this morning. Hmmm, I thought, I don’t think that’s supposed to happen. The dashboard display was dark, but the car seemed to be on. Hard to tell, though, since the hybrid Prius is silent running on battery alone.

Sitting in the car in the garage, I pulled out the manual to decode the symbol. Turning from page to page, see this, see that, refer to such-and-such a section, I finally found a limited explanation. The one sentence description was long, the punctuation confusing and I couldn’t quite decipher the meaning. Was this a fatal event or a simple warning? I pushed the power button to turn off the car. Then pushed it again to restart. No red triangle. Good, I thought, nothing’s wrong.

Optomistic Zumba Queen

I got on the scale this morning, and I’d lost 2.8 pounds. Very happy, indeed, to finally see the graph lines move south. My last weigh-in was two weeks ago. I generally like to weigh every other day, but that requires remembering before food or beverage passes my lips, because I certainly wouldn’t want a sip of water to tip the scale. Plus, the scale is downstairs and it’s cold down there and I always weigh in the buff – so you see the dilemma. Still, I have only been back in my regimen for three weeks, and I’ve kept up with my Zumba classes, so I’m satisfied.

It’s been hard to get back into the exercise routine. I first started classes back in 2011 when I weighed about 240. It was hard, but I learned to really like it. I used to stand in front of the two foot section of wall that was between the rest of the mirrored wall – so I wouldn’t have to look at myself. Surprisingly, it took only a couple of weeks to learn the routines. I would watch the petite, fit instructor and as we both moved in time to the music, I imagined I was inside of her, light and able. Sometimes I actually felt that way.

10,000 Volt Flashback

Yesterday I received an email from oldT. I’d requested a 2013 statement for my taxes and she replied, writing that she’d send one as soon as possible. I hadn’t been sure she’d respond, so seeing her name pop up in my email sent 10,000 volts of memory and pain through me. In an instant, I was sobbing. Strobe lights of rejection pummeled my heart, memories so fresh, they might have happened yesterday.

Through tears, I tapped a text to T. She tapped back: try to keep your power; don’t give it away. But I felt powerless. Be a champion, T texted. She beat me, I wrote, and it hurts so much. Your little girl is awaiting you, T responds. I got nothing for her, I reply. She can wait, says T, until you’re ready. John Bradshaw writes about this, she adds.

Bringing Hope

Today is January 30^th. I began this rendition of Morning Peeps on the first of the month, and I’ve posted every day, so I think I’ve earned the right to say, “I’ve got 30 days.” Those of you familiar with

12-step programs know that 30 days is an accomplishment – an oft time difficult commitment maintained for, well, 30 days.

I jump-started Morning Peeps this year after a pledge I made at a Winter Solstice ceremony – a ceremony about the transition from darkness to light. I promised to use my writing to help bring hope to others. Without hope for oneself, how can there truly be hope for anything else? For social justice, drinkable water in every town and village, peace in the middle east and our own troubled cities – and a host of other changes that are critically important for our world and ourselves.

You're A Gift

My therapist is still in Hawaii, but we talked on the phone yesterday. I worried she wouldn’t call at the specified time. I worried I’d be forgotten. Then I’d have the dilemma of what to do. Call her? Wait? Both terrible options. Both the result of being disregarded, ignored, neglected, overlooked – all the things I expected. So, at 1:55, I relived all the anguish I carry with me. At 2:02 T called.

T says things can be different. She keeps telling me that. I guess I keep expressing my fear and doubt. Part of me is perplexed that I have been in therapy so long without learning this. The other part is having a difficult time visualizing what “different” might really look like in my life. It’s hard to imagine, I think, because certain core beliefs about myself are so negative. Surely I am not worthy of a better experience. Beyond worthy, maybe it’s not even possible.

Judgement Free Solitude

I’m still thinking about Robinson Crusoe. There is something fascinating about 1) being wholly self-reliant and 2) being completely alone – not just for weeks or months, but years.  It begs the question: what would I do? Another similar question that gets a lot of airplay when the lottery is insanely large is: what would I do with all that money? They are both ideas rich for the imagination and interestingly they are on extreme ends of at least one spectrum. What would you do if you had nothing… or everything? Which would you prefer?

The idea I’ve been pondering most concerns one’s mental state in such extreme solitude. Initially, I wondered how I could survive without having someone to talk with, and I imagined a sort of madness prevailing. Today, though, I am wondering what it would be like to be totally free of outside opinion and the complications of relationships.

Dogs Rule

I looked in the mirror the morning and was frightened by the dark bags under my eyes. I blame it on Sugar, our Lhasa-Havanese-Bischon-ish white mop of a dog. She likes to get up in the middle of the night – sometimes several times, and I have been chosen to get up with her.

Eleven pm is “last time out,” a last call before “nite-nite.” In this cold weather, Sugar gets bundled in her smart, blue, plaid, Worthy Dog coat and sent out to roam the fenced yard. On her heels is Brewster, a Miniature Pinscher and Pumpkin, a Sheltie. Brewster is our skinny boy and constantly cold, so he has a collection of hoodies, sweaters and jackets – most of which must be pushed up to his shoulders when he goes outside so he doesn’t pee on the belly part of the sweater. Oh, and there is also his diaper which must be feverishly removed while he dances at the door, anxious to get outside.

Memories

When I was a senior in high school, I entered a poetry contest. I don’t recall anything about my poem, but there are two things I will never forget. I placed third in the competition and the prize was a book of my choosing up to a specified amount. I hadn’t won first place so the cost of the book I wanted was too much. I made a deal with my English teacher so I could get a beautiful hard copy edition of Roget’s Thesaurus.

The second thing I remember is that the girl who won first prize, she a year behind me in school, married my father five years later.

Robinson Crusoe's Audience

I’ve been listening to Robinson Crusoe on audio book. Despite being the child of an English Professor who loved literature, I missed reading most of the classics. It wasn’t because I didn’t like to read. I did like it. I read all the time – generally three or four books a week. Just not the classics. Now, approaching my sixth decade, I am trying to rectify that gap in my schooling. Using new technology, of course, with my ears instead of my eyes.

This Robinson Crusoe book… it’s a good story, and it gives me so much to consider. Basically it’s the tale of a man in the 1600’s who is shipwrecked on a deserted island, the only survivor. Aside from a few provisions he is able to save from the ship, he must make do with what the island provides.

What Therapist Says

Sometimes things are different.

She says she will help me. She says things can change. She says things can be different. She says it like she means it. Like it’s true.

She apologizes for an infraction so minor, I am startled she says a word. Yet, in those words, she is saying mistakes happen, we can both be accountable, everything’s not my fault.

She says I can ask for what I need, that I can reach out in whatever way I need. She says I can call, text, email.

She says it is her job to establish boundaries so I am safe to do the work.

There is so much hope in these words, I can hardly believe them. Each time she says things I don’t dare to expect, I cry. She shows me a benevolence I barely recognize.

This is huge. Huge. I can’t say it enough. Huge.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul - and sings the tunes without the words - and never stops at all.  -Emily Dickinson

Hopefully yours -

Lost My Pants

I’ve lost my pants. Surely I put them somewhere reasonable. Surely I did not take them off in public and leave them somewhere. Surely they are here someplace! They are my black pants – jeans actually, that aren’t the usual denim, rather some brushed material that's a magnet to dog and cat hair from miles around. I need these pants. They’re the ones that fit a little looser and are, of course, black. The slimming-black. The don’t-notice-my-big-butt black.

I lost a-heap-o-weight in 2011 and 2012. As I went down in sizes, I shopped at Goodwill to subsidize my wardrobe. Approaching my goal weight, I got rid of all my large-sized clothes. Then I had the year-from-hell in 2013,

Vulnerability

Vulnerability.

I hate it, hate it, hate it. I want to stay in my safe spot – the place where I know what will happen next, even if “next” is something horrible. Isn’t the known better than the unknown? Maybe. Maybe not.

 

I think what occurs, at least for me, is that when moving from the known to the unknown, when we dare to do something differently, we put ourselves into that vast land called Uncertainty. There can be so much discomfort there, we go to great lengths to avoid it. Even if it means staying stuck. Even if it means continuing to hurt.

Say What You Need to Say

I think, perhaps, I write too much in metaphor. Even when words dance on the tip of my tongue, I want to convey meaning and tone in addition to content.  I want the reader to feel what is in my heart and understand what is in my mind. So I look for words that might be a common bridge from my experience to yours.

At times, the words are as water droplets, coursing over the falls at Niagara, gushing with an urgency that no force can stop. Even when I know they will flood the bottomlands, possibly killing crops, my nourishment.

What Do You Do?

What do you do when you don’t know what to do? Or say?  When you are so full of content and meaning and feeling, but there are no words to form nor actions to take? Our words are so important. They are our emissaries to partners, children, co-workers – and therapists. We tell people who we are by what we say and do. But what if you can’t, don’t, won’t? What, then, is the message?

A Therapy Dream

I dreamt last night. I haven’t remembered a dream in a long time, but when I got up with the dogs at 5am, I was aware of one. I wondered if I could pull together the ethereal ribbons to discover what my mind was processing. It was a therapy dream. No surprise since T is out of town for three weeks, and I am grappling with this new relationship as well as her absence.

Setting Boundaries

This may sound like a rant - okay, it is a rant. I am freaking tired of being the local bank. I have let us get into the position of being deep pockets for my BIL and our dog sitter. I’m not talking about annoyingly small amounts like $20 or $50. Let’s start at $500 and go up to $2350.

A recent loan of $900 to the dog sitter for “rent is due tonight” is being paid, though not on the promised schedule. A previous loan for $1200 is being worked off through dog duties, although that was not our original agreement.

Waiting on Therapist

I was going to write about boundaries this morning, because yesterday I reread the chapter on it in Deborah Lott’s book, In Session. Definitely a must-read for those of us who struggle with setting limits. I guess that’s most of us.

Today, though, my thoughts are heavy with the bane of waiting on T. I am so, so not good at it. It is the place where the hill is steep, and my mind tumbles.

Therapist Anxiety

I’m finding it difficult to be inspired right now. My belly is too full of the oatmeal and cherries I ate to stave off compulsive eating this morning, and my eyelids are heavy from the sleep they are not enjoying. I sit, absently, staring out my window, sipping diet coke and swallowing morning meds. I want to go back to bed, sleep until my neck starts hurting, then get up and take a long hot bath. My motivation is lagging and I’m feeling anxious.

T anxiety. Hoping she will receive, read and respond to an email. Hoping she will get the message that I won’t be available tomorrow for a scheduled phone call. Wondering if she might call today. Or this weekend. Or not until next week. And, of course, I am counting. Counting the days until my next appointment. But oops, we didn’t schedule one.

Our anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrows, but only empties today of its strengths.  ― Charles H. Spurgeon

 Stay strong -

The Me's Talk To and About Therapist

I actually had two more conversations after that first one with Little Me. Again, these were out-loud talks. What is it about that? About speaking aloud? I think maybe it is practice. Practice taking those dark fears and deep yearnings out of the shadows of one’s mind. Exposing them, giving light to them, shaking them out like an old rug, then saying, hmm… what have we got here?

What scares you, Little Me? I reply to the T in my mind: I am afraid you will leave me, you will abandon me, you will hurt me like the others. I’m scared I’ll become attached to you and you’ll take everything you know about me and use it to hurt me. You’ll destroy me. Then I’ll feel trapped, glued to you by the attachment with the only possible escape being to kill myself. Is that what happened with your parents, the T in my mind asks. Yes, whispers Little Me, and others too.

Getting to Know Little Me

I did it. I talked to her. I talked to the little girl. I talked to Little Me.

I was looking at a photo of Little Me at about five years of age. A real cutie, that kid. At first, I just looked at her, studied her, noticing. Then, I began to speak with her. It was awkward at first, uncomfortable. I spoke softly, as one does with a child when things are scary. I told her what I saw – a blonde little girl with bangs, smiling almost unobtrusively, looking happy and unblemished. As I talked, the tears started, but I continued, telling her things I knew about Little Me, like an Aunt speaking of a favorite niece.

A World-view from My Window

I don’t want to make you jealous, but I have one of the greatest views from the window where I sit to write. Of course, you might not think so. It’s not the ocean or the grand canyon or the mountains – all views I absolutely love. No, it’s a tangled mess of woods. Many of the trees are tall and spindly. Vines have crawled some trees, slowing choking the life out of them. There are trees down and a couple of brush piles (from when I tidy up the woods). There’s a creek in the valley where I sometimes find flat rocks to extend a path in my yard. And I can hike two miles beyond my gate, following deer paths to the Mississippi river.

The very best part, though, is the wildlife. It is their playground, their grocery store, their home. It is a place for flirting and singing, working and playing. It is a good place.  A couple of days ago, a doe and fawn sauntered by, taking their time, nibbling on whatever it is they eat in the winter. I see varieties of woodpeckers and other birds, once even sighting a pileated woodpecker – a rarity in my woods. This is my Netflix, my streaming, my wide-screen TV.

Baby Steps for Inner Child

I never miss sessions, I told T. I always pay what I owe. In thirty years, I have only cancelled once. Why do you think that is, she asks. It is like blood, I respond. It is so important to me. I say this, fearful of how much truth it holds, of how high the stakes are. Then you must have hope T replies, otherwise you wouldn’t keep trying.

Hope. Is it true? Maybe it’s just longing. Yet, I could be hopeless and still longing. Last night I felt hopeless. All the plans I’ve made for the year, my commitment to health, even writing morning peeps. I was ready to drop it all. I felt the past was happening *again* and I thought, I cannot do this anymore.

Attachment, Acceptance, Afraid

I am thinking of little else. On the cusp of my new therapist's 3-week vacation, my mind is heavy with thoughts of Attachment. I said the word. The A word.

During session on Thursday, we talked of how I feel about T leaving for so long, so early in our relationship. I hesitate, thinking immediately of attachment, longing, need – and the abhorrence I fear these words induce. Yet, I melt in the gentle acceptance that fills the room. I speak truthfully, telling T that as we connect more and more each session, I am starting to feel attached to her. Immediately I am in tears, re-experiencing past attachments that left me despairing and suicidal. I am so afraid.

Attachment Needs

Attachment.

A word so big, it needs its own sentence. Its own paragraph. It is my need. So deep and so old that I have only an iggling of an idea about when the seed was planted. Actually, though, didn't it start when we *were* attached? When life literally depended on the connection to one's mother. Then at birth, that cord is severed and thus begins the journey of our independence.

For some of us, that critical component of healthy development went awry. For me, a defective "secure base" has left me with longing that leaks from every cell in my body, every pore of my being. I remember visiting my grandmother as a pre-adolescent. She reached to hug me, but my arms hung limply by my sides. She lifted my arms, forming them around her body and said, "Here, this is how you hug."

Solicitation on Mental Health Line

Progress, not perfection.  I almost lost it with the insurance company yesterday. I was following up on the problem I described in MP 1/7/14.

I called the Behavior Health company that handles my insurance company's MH benefits and I spoke with a woman who said she would submit an inquiry to the Eligibility Department to determine if their system showed I had coverage. (I had already determined through my main ins co that, indeed, I did.) She would call me back.

Gift of Free-flowing Tears

Do you ever suddenly feel overcome by sadness? The kind that just pops out of the blue and doesn't seem connected to anything else? It's happened to me a couple of times here lately. I am perplexed. The sadness washes over me, and I'll feel my eyes swelling. But I don't cry. The tears are like a sneeze that that just won't come.

I told T, and this is what she said:

"Allow yourself the gift of free-flowing tears."

This simple statement blew me away. Like a poem. Powerful words and so comforting. Not T's comfort - rather permission for me to comfort myself.

allow yourself
the gift
of free-flowing
tears

I don't think I can choose to cry. I can, though, allow myself to let down the defenses that hold my feelings so tightly inside. Allow myself to release my breath, relax my abdomen, unclench my jaw, relax my shoulders, unfreeze my face. Maybe not all at once, but I can practice each of these things. I can allow myself the gift of free-flowing tears.

It is such a secret place, the land of tears. - Antoine de Saint-Exupery

I wish you sweet tears -

I Didn't Panic

Yesterday my therapist left a voice message for me. She had called my insurance company and was told my benefits expired on December 31st. And, of all the past times she has seen me - maybe 10x - they would pay her for two. I was concerned but confident that I DO have coverage and the problem could be worked out.

In times past, news such as this would terrorize me. I'd become distraught, despairing that my insurance company found me a liability (sick), imagining an impossible financial burden and fearing my T would drop me like a brick. I would begin grieving the loss of an attachment figure. All before making a single phone call to try to straighten things out.

A Good Day

I don't know about the weather where you are, but it is freaking cold where I live. A lot of snow yesterday. And wind. I swear I shoveled the same foot of snow three times. Seriously.

However. My home is warm, the furnace is in good repair, my neighborhood has power, and I have food on my shelves. I am also grateful to have the Internet which allows me to stay home during this bitter cold weather yet be connected to people. I am grateful for the bounty in my life and on days like today, I need to be especially mindful of that.

When I think about gratitude, Brother David Steindle-Rast's video, "A Good Day," comes to mind, and I make a point of watching/listening to it again.

Greed vs Need

Snow again. Pretty much Ditto my 1/2/14 post, except my socks are an itchy wool blend and I'm using my new shovel. Major winter storm, They say, which is fine with me as I plan to stay inside all day. As long as the power (furnace) doesn't go out, I'll be okay. Last night we brought firewood inside and stacked a pile outside the door. And I fully charged my smartphone, my kindle, my tablet, my iPod, my laptop (although its battery is dying), as well as my partner's smartphone, kindle, iPod, and two laptops. Bring it on!

Winter Solstice

It's cold here this morning, as it seems to be across most of the country. (Sorry global friends, I don't know the weather outside of US.) The forecast for tonight suggests that I will be shoveling again - six to eight inches if the weather people are correct. Wind chill of 20 below expected on Monday. Brrrr!

Both my parents came from North Dakota. Mom lived on a farm and used to tell stories of tunnelling through the snow to the barn to take care of the animals. Unfortunately, it seems this extreme-weather-hardiness is not genetic; I wimp out around 35 degrees.

Finally Working in Therapy

Yesterday was T-Day. I used to think of that as Turkey Day (AKA Thanksgiving), but now it has a different meaning. Besides, I'm a vegetarian.

I like this new therapist. I've been seeing her since the end of November, on rebound from a five session run with a T who finally said she couldn't help me. (Full disclosure: I also saw newT for three sessions in June, but hadn't yet been able to disengage from oldT.)

She's older (a handful of years older than I) and wise (surely wiser than I) and compassionate (oh how I've needed that) and experienced (need that, too) and I can see her twice a week (as $$ allows) AND I can call her (sometimes just being allowed is enuf). Alas, she is going on vacation for three weeks in January.

Snow!

Snow! It started last night and came down steadily. Snow is my job, and I like to keep on top of it because if I don't... well, best not go there. Thankfully it is sub-sub-freezing cold here, so the snow is light and easy.

I make my first pass on the deck at about 10:30pm. It's so light that I am able to sweep the 2-3 inch accumulation. As I work, I'm wondering why we wanted a bigger deck. It's a new deck and newly stained - ergo, very slippery. I think about leaving the snow to provide traction for the three pups who call my place home. But snow on the deck is a sure invitation for peeing on the deck. What's up with that? So I sweep again at midnight. Of course, doing the deck includes the stairs and concrete slab at the bottom and then a swath into the yard itself. Yes, I am sweeping the dead, frozen grass. Because I am a good dog mom. How would you like to go out in the snow to potty with legs that are only 4 inches long? Exactly.

Happy 2014!

I cannot freaking believe that we are 14 years into this century. Remember Y2K? It seems (almost) like yesterday. My partner, two Golden Retrievers and I were vacationing in Destin, Florida (note to dog owners: Destin is not dog friendly; they have beach hours for dogs and it's something like 2am - 4am... well, not that bad - but the hours never fit our schedule). Anyway. We were sitting on the beach late on the night of 12/31/1999 (remember partying like it's 1999?) watching the city lights of Fort Walton Beach. The Y2K drama had us wondering if the city would go dark at midnight. So we sat and sat and watched and watched. The lights stayed on. Was it that the computer geeks had fixed everything before midnight - or was it just a lot of hype? Guess we'll never know.