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.