Let Yourself Cry

It's been so long since I have been here. I don't know what to write about the situation in the world. I've felt like that's meant I couldn't write about anything else then, without coming across as a navel gazing bag.

Even writing that, I can hear my therapist commenting on my self judgement. I do that a lot. I am my worst critic. If you are familiar with the Enneagram, I am a One. I have even been critical of myself for being a One. ("Can't I be one of the nicer numbers?", I said to my spiritual director.) 

Here is a beautiful song about Ones. "No, I'm not saying perfect exists in this life but we'll only know for certain if we try."

I have tried so hard for so long. Since childhood I've believed that striving for perfection was the key to my safety. My head knows that perfectly imperfect is as close as I'm ever going to get. With time, I am hopeful that my heart will embrace that truth as well.

My therapist keeps reminding me that it is a process. Recently in a session she repeatedly said, "We know...."  When she does this she is reminding me of very true things in the process of healing. In a moment of push back I replied sarcastically, "Speak for yourself." We both laughed and then she pointed out that I keep coming back so there had to be some agreement, no?

I haven't come this far in dealing with my trauma to quit now. It's possibly the most courageous thing I've done in my life. I keep saying that because it keeps surprising me that I am willing to face this shit even though it feels scary and big. It is not getting easier. I've repeatedly told my therapist, in the middle of a session, that my instinct is to run. I often feel like I have a scream stuck in my throat. She described it this week as having lived my life with my foot on the gas pedal (urge to run) and on the brake (frozen) simultaneously. No wonder it has taken such a toll.

Several sessions ago I spent most of it keening loudly from deep within. The only person who has ever heard me cry like that is that nurse I had during my cancer journey. This time my back arched, too. So many tears. So much pain. So glad I was in the house alone. It went on and on for over half an hour.

If you only knew what a breakthrough that was. To cry unabashedly, letting emotional pain lodged deep in my core, out. It is a victory that I didn't shut my keening down. That I didn't swallow my tears. That I let them be seen and heard until I was done. When I opened my eyes and faced my therapist I could see that she had had tears as well.

Maybe I'm not a navel gazing bag after all. Maybe, I'm a brave, courageous woman, helping her battered inner child fight for her freedom. (So hard not to delete that last sentence as "Who do you think you are?" rattles around in my head.)

Welcome Here

I wasn't up to speed from the moment I woke up this morning. I managed to get up and to my work computer with 4 minutes to spare. Perhaps it's a bonus to be a rule follower at heart when you are sure your body cannot get out of bed. Turns out you can. And there's not even a gold star for the effort. Although there is a paycheck. I have to remember that part.

Some days I am fully engaged in my job. Some days not so much. It's been a busy week job wise and I am grateful for that as well. Grateful I am able to work from home in these weird times we are living in. I've gotten a whole lot of stuff done while my body and brain feel otherwise engaged.

The thing is I had therapy a week ago. It was intense. I haven't quite made my way back to normal since. I wasn't scheduled to see my therapist until next Friday but I got in touch this morning to see if I could bump up my appointment and thankfully there were a few earlier openings to choose from. Tuesday it is.

It's  hard to know if the funk I am in is from my last session. You know it's bad when your therapist thought you were referring to that rape and you were referring to this other one. It could have been another one or another..... Fucked if I know.

Or am I in a funk from being in isolation so much due to the pandemic? Dearest One and I are going out for groceries and appointments and that's about it. He tries to do most of it so I can stay home as much as possible. And while I am an introvert through and through, I am missing contact with other people. I normally work in an office with six other people. We chat a lot about our lives outside of work. I miss them and I don't. I keep telling them I miss seeing them but I don't miss being at the office.

Any time this week when I got still and tried to attend to that little person inside of me, I got teary.

And I've been fighting all week with that nasty inner voice that tells me that I should be done with this shit at my age.

At any rate it is Friday and I am glad.

Sitting With It.

TW - talk of sexual abuse.

There's a reason that the tiger in the picture is sweating it out. Hmm. I just took a closer look and realized she's sitting under a rain cloud. Oops.  I assumed that she was sweating or crying.

Not that I've had a lot of practice "sitting with it." Running in the opposite direction is much more comfortable. But I imagined that if I did, I'd be crying or sweating buckets.

So it meant something to me last week in therapy, when big, big feelings came up, I did not run away. The feelings were so big that it felt like I was standing directly under a tidal wave about to come crashing down on me.

In that moment I was emotionally right back into the trauma of being raped (the first time.) With guidance from my therapist and bravery on my part, I didn't run the other way. Out loud I said my usual, "I hate this."  "This fucking sucks."  comments. And I also took deep breaths and kept my eyes open and somehow stayed present while emotionally I was back in time 40 years.

I don't know how many times my therapist has shared with me that animals in the wild will shake or run and jump after they have been under threat.  And that in doing so they discharge the traumatic energy that would otherwise be stuck in their body after being pursued by a predator. Damn, how apt is that phrase. If you only knew.

And so I watched as 40 year old energy was dispersed from my body somehow with my permission and despite myself simultaneously.

I doubt I have ever been more hopeful in my life.
I'm truly know now that I am not a prisoner to my past.
At last.

Tears

I didn't know where the tears were coming from. They'd started at lunch time when Dearest One was sharing thoughts about his own counselling session earlier in the morning. Tears welled up and I couldn't stop them from spilling over. I have felt tender emotionally since the other day. Joy has not left completely. It's there under the surface when I think of the younger versions of myself being welcomed into my healing instead of trying to shut them out.  These tears felt like ones of gratitude and I welcomed them.

But then the tears did not stop when we finished up our lunch. I went up to my office and listened to a podcast (her latest one) while I finished up some work tasks. The interview hit close to home and I found myself with tears spilling over several times. At the end she talked about truth tellers. That hit a chord with me because that is my nickname in a group of women whom I meet with weekly to pray with and share in our journey as Christians. When I joined in with them I was told to pick a name for myself. A descriptor. The only thing that came to me was the name Truth Teller. So that is who I've been ever since.

Next I was browsing on social media and came across this video (you have to be logged into that big social media black hole to watch it) and cried some more.

And every time my mind circled back to my conversation with Dearest One, I cried.

Crying and I are not the best of friends. Of all the feelings I swallow with regularity, tears are at the top of the list. Sometimes during a therapy session my therapist will ask me if I just swallowed some feelings. She usually asks me that after I've swallowed hard with effort.

I decided that I was done with so much feeling. I plugged my phone in to charge, logged out of my work email and closed my office door.

I went down the stairs in search of Dearest One. As I reached the bottom step I thought to myself, "We should just get drunk." Well, hell. I haven't had a drink in over 32 years. This was noooot good.

When I found Dearest One I blurted out my thoughts. I told him I couldn't stop crying, that I didn't need him to fix anything, I just needed him to listen. His eyes got big when I told him I had had the thought that we should just get drunk. I told him my emotions must be overwhelming for me to think a drink would fix them. I still couldn't stop the tears from rolling down my face as I talked. Sometimes when you want to comfort and be there for someone there just are no right words that will help. I recognized that he wanted to and I also recognized that he couldn't give me what I needed in that moment.

So I called and left a message for my therapist. Late on a Friday afternoon. The only other time I have talked to her on the phone was when we had our initial intake phone call nearly three years ago, to see if she would accept me as a client. Since then our in between appointment communication has been via text messaging.

She called back and then spent an hour, after her last scheduled appointment of the day, putting a figurative arm around my shoulder and walking me off the edge of the cliff called overwhelm. Thank God. In the midst of it all I told her about this day and that. By the time our call ended I was much calmer and where there had been feelings of anxiety in my body, there was now some space. She helped me come up with a plan until I see her next week. The tears no longer overwhelmed me. A drink no longer a solution.

Thanks be to God.

Welcoming The Little's

The day after our drive I woke early and lay in bed watching my thoughts. I wondered if this was my life now. At 57 I was taking care of and re-parenting my 4 year old self. Is this what I would do for the rest of my life? Care take the smaller versions of myself? The word pathetic rose to the surface. It was all I could do to stop it in its tracks. It's a word I've used to describe myself to my therapist more than once. Used it for feeling ashamed of being this many years old with so many smaller versions trapped inside and feeling like they run the show most of the time.

One of the big deals that came up recently in therapy has been about examining just how deeply could I receive the love and care that Dearest One extends to me. I can complain all I want about not being cared for, and about, but perhaps there is love and care being extended to me that I am not actively receiving. Well damn. Can't that be his fault?

I don't like owning my shit. I want Dearest One to not only own my hurt feelings but all the shit I say as a result, as well. But after that session I took some time and experimented taking my thumb and forefinger as if I was describing to someone how thick something was. How deep could I receive the love that was being offered to me, anyway? When my thumb and forefinger had come together until there was half an inch of space I thought, yep, that works. As I started to type my findings to my therapist I stopped. I tried measuring that space again. I lowered it until there was one quarter of an inch of space left. I kept it steady. My body settled. As I found my truth, tears started to well. Who knew something could feel so authentic. I erased my text and started over. One quarter of an inch, I typed. We talked about working on opening up and seeing how it felt to let it go a smidgen deeper.

This morning as I was trying not to stay stuck in thinking of myself as being pathetic, into my head came a picture of my four year old self. I was standing turned sideways to her when she came up to me, with all the smaller selves of mine trailing behind her. She tugged on my dress and asked " Do I matter?" There is no other phrase that could get my immediate attention than that one. It has been the cry of my heart for as long as I can remember.

I turned to her and imagined kissing her all over her face. I knew though that she would shrink from that so I knelt down, kissed her on the forehead and gathered her in my arms, reassuring her as I did so, that she did indeed matter. That I would do everything in my power to keep her safe and release her from the trauma that she'd held onto for so long. I promised that I would continue to show up for her and all the little's behind her.

As I released her and stood up she reached for my hand and I watched as the little's joined hands and took their place on the other side of me, the next biggest one reaching up for my hand on that side. We turned and walked down the road for a while before I stopped and gathered them all close in my arms. I promised them that I would show up and do the work no matter how hard it felt or how much I was tempted to quit when the going got tough. They deserved their freedom. And so did I.

I felt like their mother. Protective. Determined. Loving. Fierce in all the right ways.

These pictures were still fresh in my mind when joy came bubbling up to the surface.

Joy.  I was so surprised.

Me and the Little's welcome it to our journey.

Encountering Potholes

I know by how fast he is driving that he hasn't seen the pothole we're about to hit and I grip the door
handle to soften the impact.

"Son of a bitch!" escapes his lips as his truck, an extension of himself, bounces up and then slams back down on the asphalt. He touches his brakes and glances in his rear view mirror to see if someone is following close behind him. If Dearest One could stop and scold the pothole for being there, he would. Then, he'd put a hand on the hood of his truck, and apologize for not seeing the it.

As the echo of expletives fades in the cab of the truck, I realize my hand is glued to the door handle. Anxiety, in the form of a thumping heart beat and a tightness that snakes its way up my chest and into my throat, gets my attention.

"Breathe,"  I tell myself, "You are safe." I am not four years old. No one is chasing me. I don't need to hide, flinch, or cover my face. I catch myself just before I start to purse lip breathe.  Instead I open my mouth wide and take a long, slow gasp in and then breathe out an audible aaaaaahhhh, through my mouth. I do this several times while Dearest One, minus his hearing aids today, drives on unaware.

How many times has this reaction played out in my body and mind while I was unable to notice it happening? It occurs to me to tell Dearest One what is going on. It will help me to reorient myself to the here and now. I take one last deep breath in and out and feel my now stiff fingers unfurl themselves from the door handle. I flex them slowly, like I'm counting by fives, to ease the pain.

"My anxiety went through the roof when you swore. I'm working hard at reassuring my four year old self that she is safe. That no harm will come to her. That she doesn't need to grip the door handle in fear. That you aren't dangerous."

He's caught off guard by my admission. Concern washes over his face. Regret does, too. I tell him I have always tensed up when he swears but this is the first time I am aware enough to feel it in my body; to let it rise to the surface, acknowledge it and let it flow on through.

I can tell he has not only heard me, but has absorbed what I've said, because he sits up straighter and pays more attention to the road in front of us. I doubt he will ever swear at hitting a pothole again.

People say "that was then, this is now" without the awareness that our bodies carry our trauma on a cellular level and no amount of pithy sayings will move it from the past to the present and on its way through to integration.  I used to believe I could think my way to emotional health. Turns out I need to feel my way there. Sometimes in the middle of doing just that I murmur "I hate this. "This sucks." "I want to curl up in a ball."  

The first time my therapist ever sat close to me, I gave a subtle flinch every time she moved her hands. She had to sit on them to stop waving them around as she talked. The first time she demonstrated how we would work together on somatic therapies we both felt my entire inner being back the fuck up when she moved her foot a mere 8 inches towards me.

That was nearly three years ago. Some days now I ask for a hug before I leave; a sign of the work we've done to build a trust relationship. Even so I've come to see that one of the effects of having developmental trauma is that I navigate the world with an undercurrent of  hyper vigilance in any encounter I have. My therapist has helped me see this is through no fault of my own. It just is. It won't always be this way.

These days we have our sessions via Zoom. Surprisingly, (or not) the extra distance that a screen provides has helped me relax even further and the sessions have delved deep into childhood trauma. It requires much trust to go there. During our recent work I felt paralyzed and momentarily couldn't move parts of my body.  I was back living in the trauma and moving would mean to risk being hurt. My breathing became as shallow as possible. My therapist watched as I shook my head ever so slightly in response to her request to try and bring my paralyzed hand up to comfort the spot on my face where I was having phantom pain from being hit as a child. "Impossible,"  I whispered.

Grief welled up in me for my younger self. In my mind I knelt down beside four year old me and cupped her face in my hands. I planted a kiss on her forehead, looked her in the eyes and told her she mattered. I let her know how sorry I was that there was no one to see her and acknowledge her pain. I promised to keep showing up for her, reminding her that she was no longer alone. Grief washed over my body and tears welled up. I whispered, "I feel sad for her." My therapist whispered back, "I do, too."

Growth Happens

We've had a touch of warmer weather lately which has been a welcome relief after 10 days of -40C to -50C with windchill. Brrrr.

A great therapy session this week was a welcome relief as well. Sometimes I go and I leave feeling like it was a waste of both of our time. Sometimes I come away with awareness that things are shifting. Other times I don't realize change has been happening somewhere under the surface until I notice I'm processing the world around me in a slightly different way.

For reasons unknown to me, I have been able to keep my mouth shut more often lately when someone is telling me something, instead of trying to hang onto what I want to tell them in response. It's a humbling thing to realize the world functions just fine without my two cents worth. And I didn't all of a sudden decide I was going to listen more than I spoke. One day it popped into my head, while someone was speaking to me, that what I was thinking of in response to what they were telling me, was not the point of the conversation.  It's like seeing, on the periphery, a thought bubble float away.

Will I ever stop being surprised when I see a shift or change in myself?

How It Should Be

The saying in the photo over there must bother me because I found myself purse lipped breathing as I read it.

I think it bothers me, other than what human being doesn't it bother, because I grew up watching adults do things that were harmful and wrong and not how it should be. That made it too painful to process life as it was. I coped by disassociating, shoving down feelings and abiding anywhere but in the here and now. Even typing that brings me back to when fear and breathing were the same thing.

I can spout out loud, "It is what it is" a gazillion times, while underneath that I am muttering, "damn it anyway."

It's such an old story line of mine. Will I ever shake it off? Learning to process life as it is feels like a trick that will end with someone thumping me a good one when I'm not looking. And shame on me for not seeing it coming.

And yet.
And yet.
Retraining my mind will continue.

Thoughts

It's cold here. Bitterly cold. -53C with windchill last night. Windchill has kept us at highs in the -30s most of the week.

I'm not supposed to be typing right now because I injured my rotator cuff when I was in the airport 3 weeks ago. I stepped onto one of those moving walkways and failed miserably at trying to gauge how to walk off of it safely. Damn, that hurt.

I was off work last week in the hopes of getting better. Monday of this week was a fog of a day returning to work. Tuesday was better. Then I saw the physiotherapist yesterday and, after she put my shoulder joint back in place for the second time in less than a week plus my shoulder blade and a rib back where they should be, she suggested I take several days off to just sit and heal. Strict orders how to keep my shoulder aligned and such.

I better stop typing. I like to think I'm a compliant patient. Best not wreck that thought.

For The Soul

I've been holed up in my office for several hours trying to make order out of (paper) chaos. Trying to decipher receipts from outdated notes to self. Coming across notes that make no sense and ones that I wish didn't. Notes with just numbers on them, for example, to the partially written timeline of someone's lies in preparation to give a required statement to the authorities. Sigh.

Am I a Luddite because I still use a paper, coil bound date book to record appointments and such? A bigger one for my desk and a purse size one to carry about? I have no desire to use my phone's calendar function to replace them.

In my cleaning I've come across memorial cards of those in our family who passed away last year.  I tucked those away in the box of things I deemed keep-able. Under my desk was a pile of snot rags and papers that built up into a tiny volcano-like hill after the small garbage can was full. It's been remarkably easy to throw things under my desk. Beside my desk is another pile of papers and books. If I spun my office chair around like one spins a globe I'd find things to clean no matter where I stopped. Does cleaning it mean I suddenly care?

The death of my sister in law a week ago has me swinging between who cares about anything anymore and it could happen to me tomorrow. It's prompted conversations with loved ones about wishes and important papers. The need to have those papers in one spot. Preferably not under my desk in a pile that makes it indistinguishable from the note to remember to pay a parking ticket or the Christmas letter to neighbours where I remind them that, although we can all see each others' lights on at night, we can't see what goes on in each others' lives. And ours has been particularly hard of late.

I type a bit here and then turn to tackle more rubbish.  I find an empty envelope that says Important information enclosed. On the back is an old grocery list. There's a sheaf of papers from a weekend Dearest One and I spent one on one with a psychotherapist. I find a list of appointments to book. Occasionally I find things that have me swearing under my breath.

Bit by bit I have tackled two volcanoes. My feet no longer kick bits of things out of the way when I type. I can look to the right and see the floor instead of a sea of books, papers and things to recycle.

One of the last bits that went into the keep-able box was a six month old sample pack of anti-aging skin care products.

Someone needs to invent one of those for the soul.

The Other Side

We were up at 4 this morning to catch a plane. I crawled into bed shortly after we got home and woke up past suppertime. So ya. It's past midnight and now sleep is elusive.

Our house looks like we got up in the middle of a meal and left. Although honestly, it looks like that most everyday. Housekeeping is not my strong suit.

I'm not sure what my strong suit is. Maybe it is showing up. Not always in person, but in heart felt companionship, during hard times. I look over my texts and other forms of messaging and there's a lot of hurting people in my life right now. And I hurt along with them although my pain is not theirs. Theirs is the kind that cuts to the bone. Death and sickness has a way of dealing that card.

I was looking forward to what seemed like endless downtime for our Christmas holidays. I even took several extra days off so I could luxuriate in them to the fullest. I decided that I was not going to fill my days with must get done lists or I've failed as a human being kind of thinking. I would putter and read and relax. Who knew, maybe I'd even find time to write.

We had a death in the family mid December. A teenager. I just caught myself beginning to purse lip breathe as I typed that and remembered that my therapist suggested that I try to open my mouth and let my breath out instead. She said purse lip breathing was akin to trying to contain feelings. I've been doing that a lot lately. And now tears are pooling as I breathe out my feelings. I can't even go back and read that sentence without starting to purse lip breathe all over again.

A family wedding was scheduled for New Year's Eve and I found myself telling coworkers that I'm more of a funeral person than a wedding one. (Make of that what you will.) Even so, we booked tickets to fly to the nuptials. I had yet to book hotel rooms or car rentals with 4 days to go before we boarded our flight.

On Christmas Day we got a call telling us Dearest One's closest in age sister had suffered a brain aneurysm and was in ICU on life support. I don't know why a person gets surprised as if we are immune to tragedy. We'd already had 3 deaths in our family in 9 months. Surely that would tell us bad things happen to everyone.

The next morning we got up and made plans for our day. I wondered aloud if we should fly to be with family. This particular part of our family has isolated themselves from the rest, or at least it has felt that way, ever since they moved away three decades ago. In our early days of marriage we spent a lot of time together. Dearest One made a phone call and shortly after lunch we dropped what we were doing, packed our bags and were on a plane going in the opposite direction of the wedding.

We found our family members in the waiting room of the ICU. The last time I had seen my husband's brother in law was in the 1990's. It was a joy to greet his children, most of whom I hadn't seen in decades. There was even a great grandchild to meet. We sat among them in the little quadrant of the waiting room that we took ownership of as ours.

Communities built in microcosms are one of my favourite fascinations. For many days there were several families gathered in our respective areas. We'd nod to each other, sometimes sharing the bare essentials of who was on the other side of the locked entry door of the ICU. I took notice of the matriarch across from us who made sure every member of her extended family was fed before she went in to see her husband. Foreign languages were spoken all around us and for a few minutes, with everyone in one family hugging and having a semi reunion in the waiting room, there was a celebratory feel.

But mostly faces were grim with a dash of hope. Or hopeful with a shadow of grimness. Progress came in minute improvements. Or was dashed in the same blink of an eye.

We spent nine days holding vigil from morning until night at the bedside of Dearest One's sister. She turned 61 years young while we did so. There were family meetings with her medical team. Holding out hope. Fearing the worst. Feeling guilty when we felt no hope. Putting on a brave face. Mostly shock that this was reality.

Yesterday we gathered with the medical team late in the afternoon. We knew it was time to cling to a different kind of hope. The forever kind.

Machines were turned off. Medications were halted. Tubes were withdrawn. The end came mercifully quick.

Seven hours to the minute later her great grandson entered the world. We'd like to think they passed each other on the way.

And Still The Sun Rises

I'm still here. Haven't been able to gather my thoughts. Fighting fatigue that basically means I go to work and come home to spend the evening as a verifiable couch potato.

Doing hard work in therapy. Disassociated at work the day following a heavy duty appointment, after getting triggered by some coworkers vile joking conversation. I then accidentally slipped off the curb while walking to my car and banged into a vehicle with my hip and less than 15 minutes later got two of my fingers slammed in my car door. Still not sure if one of them is broken. With the help of my therapist I was able to ground myself enough to function for the rest of the day. Spent the weekend in my nightgown resting and giving myself permission to accomplish nothing of the get up and go variety of tasks. I need more of that.

Weary

I had great plans for this long weekend.

Last week was my busiest week of work for the entire year. Getting through it without being wound up tight was a blessing. I am grateful to find that my mood is better than it's ever been. I wake up in the morning and the thought of going to work doesn't feel depressing.

My fatigue though. Oh boy. I told my doctor this week that it sucked driving to work and feeling like it's the end of the day and time for bed. So far this weekend I've mostly slept.  I wonder why we, or should I say, I, don't count sleeping as being productive. And why does productivity rate so high anyway?

It's too bad one can't get paid for reading and sleeping. I'd make a fortune.

Cry, Cry and Then Cry Some More

How can it be that I find less time to write here now that there isn't a baby in the house?

About ten days ago we helped our son gather his belongings and move back in with his wife. Sweet baby rode with us in our vehicle and I cherished every moment. He was asleep in his dad's arms when we went to leave and as much as I'd told myself I wasn't going to cry until we were in the car, the tears were falling before we even said goodbye. I continued to cry as we drove away and then for a distance down the road.

After we left sweet baby we drove another three hours to see our two granddaughters. It was good to be among giggles and playing and the reading of books. They are dancing sparks of joy in my mind and in person and I can't help but smile when I think of them. I so often wish they lived closer.

The next morning Dearest One and I and a psychotherapist spent that day and the next one exploring and making connections between deep childhood wounds and current relationship patterns of behaviour. If there was a hare in the picture up there I would have to say we made progress somewhere in between the speed of a turtle and a hare.

I must have felt safe because I have never cried so much in two days in my life. Nor had anyone heard before what I call my 'keening cry'; the one that combines the ugly cry with primal pain.

I had told my regular therapist I wouldn't text her while on the weekend but she reassured me it was okay. I tried not to swear in the psychotherapist's office but I found myself whispering, fuck when the following three statements were made. I texted the first one to my therapist followed by the words 'fucking yay.'

Protection and connection are incompatible.
Requests and expectations are incompatible.
Reactivity and curiousity cannot coexist.

Because of the hard and exhausting work we did over that weekend, the emotional charge I've had in one of my most challenging familial relationships lessened to the point that I can't find it. I don't know if that person senses it or not but Dearest One thinks they do. Understanding why, where and how that relationship felt like such a threat and the ensuing conversation and tears was healing. I've done work in therapy here to help lessen the charge, and was on my way, but the work I did and the insight gained melted away so much displaced energy.

Normally I an super wary of things like that happening. Worried that I have instead stuffed my feelings because I found them so unacceptable on some level. But the change feels authentic and I am now able to set boundaries without the accompanying underlying smoldering anger. It was time and money well spent with the kind of changes that happened despite ourselves. Don't get me wrong. We did deep preparatory work and we couldn't have prepared for the insight and ensuing changes that took place.

We drove 8 hours home to an empty house. We had to put the last of our two pugs down a few months ago and so for the first time in 30 continuous years of having dogs, there was no dog to greet our return. Combine that with months of having a baby in the house and the initial quiet was jarring. We are grateful to be just the two of us again and we miss the baby. There really is nothing better than a baby recognizing you first thing in the morning and smiling all the way up to his eyes at you, bedhead and all.

I was cleaning up the living room on Saturday and came across two tiny squeaky toys that belong to sweet baby. Then a soother and a tiny pair of socks. I put them on the table and took a photo of all things baby then sent it to his parents. Then I sat there and cried.

Thankfully sweet baby and his parents are coming for a visit this week. I'm sure there will be tears all over again but some of them will be the happy kind.

Entirely Possible

Our infant grandson came home last night after being gone close to three weeks. Those weeks make such a difference in the life of a baby's development. He didn't recognize his Papa because his Papa went from full whiskers to clean shaven during that time but he had many full face, eyes smiling looks as I held him. Eventually he came around and fell asleep in his Papa's arms. A baby is good therapy.

It looks like he will be going to live with both his parents on a permanent basis soon. I will miss him dearly. I have worked hard in therapy to come to some kind of peace with it all. One that I believe would be totally different if the genders were switched. I don't think many people would be supporting a woman headed back into the situation even with the changes that have taken place. But then again that is only my opinion. I would be far more comfortable telling my daughter how I felt than my son, which either speaks to the differences in my relationship with them, or societal expectations. I don't know which.

I've set my boundaries. Made clear what would make me phone authorities to step in if necessary. I somehow found the grace to be kind and loving while doing so. Who knew I was capable of that after months of sheer anger about my lack of control? Somewhere along the way my anger has diminished and I've gained some acceptance of what I can't control.

Yesterday in therapy my therapist said many hard truths to me. She said them in a kind and loving way and I was able to hear her. I'm getting better at accepting hard truths when it comes to myself. I like to dish them out to other people but not so much when it comes to me. I think most people are that way.

I better get off the computer. Somewhere in my wisdom I made a physio appointment for seven o'clock in the morning. I've been awake since 3 AM. It's going to be a long day.

Leveling Up

Isn't that what they call it when you are playing some kind of video game and you're going to the next level? I have no idea. My gaming ideas run to the likes of playing Sudoku on my phone. So there you go.

We've been away camping for ten days so far. Tonight we came home to do laundry after stopping on our way for an enjoyable evening socializing with friends. The kind of people you can be yourself with. The world needs more of that.

Tomorrow we'll head back to the campground for the rest of the week. Birds singing in the early morning. Deer and their young walking outside the camper window. Walking barefoot through mud puddles. A sibling quartet of squirrels running hither and yon. Sitting around a campfire. Playing cribbage. Sleeping. So much sleeping. I wish sleep helped weariness of heart.

I saved this photo as I was scrolling on social media because I'm in a place of hanging onto so much shit that is not serving me or my relationships very well. And I'm inching closer to letting it go. My therapist sent me some homework earlier this month and as I looked it over I thought to myself, "Oh, fuck." I told her that despite my plethora of "oh, fucks" that I recognized the work as the next step in my healing. In response she said, "I continue to be impressed with your ability to have a natural emotional reaction, settle yourself a bit, dust yourself off a bit and then say "OK - Next" 

Here's to letting go of shit.
Here's to leveling up. 
Whatever that means. 

Questions For My Therapist

I feel like I'm in some kind of emotional boot camp these past few days. Every day, sometimes multiple times a day, I type things on my phone to ask my therapist:

I'm the only one in the family who feels duped. The rest are able to not make it about themselves and simply support the person in getting well.

Why does it seem like I'm the only one still angry?
The only one still on alert?

Why do I need acknowledgement?
Why do I need to be right?

How can I get the "I'm a bad person" narrative out of my head?

I'm realizing I'm making life all about me. Worrying so much that I'll be alone or not liked or not good enough or abandoned. And I don't think there's enough attention that could be paid to me by anyone that would fill that void. Now what?

I feel like my anger was suspended over the weekend. I couldn't make myself go there but I'm aware that the anger isn't gone.

So I really want to be in control of it all. Want it to go my way so that I can feel safe. And if it was like that I would alienate everyone who matters to me. I can see it's futile to want this anymore. And I can see it in a way that feels like acceptance. And all I want to do is cry. Because it feels scary and I feel raw. So raw. Like I'm stepping out of a cocoon. I know it's where my freedom lies.  I know it. I don't know how to get there.

I've been so proud of having an edge to my personality. That edge is not serving me anymore.

You know how I said at my first appointment that my goal was to be able to sit with my back to the door in a restaurant? I changed it. My goal is to learn to feel compassion for myself.

Look

It is late and everyone else is asleep. My brain is still busy and because, last night sleep was elusive, I best just type away until I can settle.

The last few days I have majored in the brain part of the photo. Fixated on my screw ups. Unable to see the good. So many tears, harsh words, exhaustion.

As a result I'm not liking myself very much. I have many notes made on my phone for when I see my therapist next week. They all boil down to why am I acting, thinking, believing this way? Ways that I was sure were behind me a long time ago.

Dearest One and I have joked lately that the epitaphs on our gravestones may include something akin to cancel all future appointments with our therapist. We are sure we will be needing to see her until then. We are funding her retirement, which we don't want to hasten. We are grateful that we have the means to see her. To get help. To continue to grow, change and face whatever is in front of us even though I definitely feel like I am a two year old having a temper tantrum lately.

I detest not getting my way.

A conversation yesterday left me wondering about that. About the rest of the people in my world not seeing things the way I do. You know, the right way. But yesterday something shifted just a titch. Enough that I am more open than I was before that shift. I don't know what to do with it, yet. Part of me feels like I am giving up something I should hang on to. Part of me feels like if I don't budge I am going to be very lonely.  I'm glad there is a safe place and person to sort this all out with.

Look at that. I can write a whole post without swearing.

Letting Go

The meme that is attached to this post? I would've chucked it at you yesterday, were that possible. But today I felt desperate for some kind of relief from the stress. Sitting in my car after I was done my work day, I sent Only Daughter an SOS text and asked her to pray for wisdom for me.

I'd gone online and it seemed every little cutesy post was speaking directly to me. When I read this one it hit me between the eyes. It's one thing to want to let all the extra stress, worrying and overthinking go. It's another thing to do it. The best I could do was want to want to do it.

After I talked to Only Daughter I drove to my physiotherapy appointment. I don't have the run of the mill physio person. I don't know how to describe what she does. She scans one's body and has the ability to pinpoint what needs work. Places that might be holding emotional tension. One always has the option to tell her areas that are bothersome and she does work on those, too. Today I was back with a nagging knee pain. Last time I saw her she dry needled my hamstring and that gave me instant relief in my knee. Today I was back with knee pain, lesser, but still there.

On the way to her office tears were so close to the surface. I far prefer to cry in the privacy of my own home. My emotions were so raw today that I couldn't swallow them. As the physio assistant took me back to one of those curtained off areas, where beds are separated by a hospital like curtain I just couldn't face being seen. I asked for the private room, telling her that I was really teary and wanted to be treated there. She was gracious in granting me the choice.

When the physiotherapist came in I told her how I was feeling. She had me stand and scanned my body, then she directed me to the table where she prodded behind my knee. Agonizing pain. She started to do her mojo and the tears just rolled down my face. Not from physical pain. She knows the details of the stress I have been carrying around. As the tears continued to fall the muscles, tendons, ligaments, whatever lurks behind my knee, released.

As they did she told me that I didn't need to solve all the problems in my life at once. That it is okay to take a manageable chunk and deal with that. I started to sob. Ugly cry. She came to where she could see me and told me to go do something for myself after my appointment. To stop thinking I needed to do everything for everyone else and do something I needed to do for me. She then took a blanket and wrapped me up tight, akin to being swaddled. With that she was out the door on to her next client. I stayed and cried and looked inward to see what I needed. I'm not good at knowing what I need. But I waited and into my head popped the following: I need to be honest. Be honest with those I am feeling in turmoil about. Not from my go to place of anger but from a place of vulnerability.

Don't you just love when the answer comes and it's the least likely thing you would have chosen if you were in charge of the universe? But I recognized the truth of it.

And I did as I felt I needed to do. Two of three conversations took place today. Copious amounts of  tears and snot were expelled. I can be vulnerable. I can. One of those people was vulnerable back and they hate showing their tears as much as I do.

I can do hard things. Hard things can lead to good things. Beautiful things. Hopeful things. More than muscles, tendons and ligaments were released today. Thanks be to God.

Kept

Most of my coworkers are on their last few days of work this week for the summer. I've yet to find out how many vacation days I have to use but I am hoping we can make most of the days we have booked to go camping mid July. I am looking forward to having time with Dearest One. No animals to look after. Or people either, for that matter. Sitting around a campfire, lazy mornings, playing cribbage, reading to my heart's content, walks around the campground. Doing nothing or something. My choice. I look forward to it all.

But I have to say I am some sort of funk. It feels like I've stepped 50 yards backwards yet my therapist assures me I have simply punched through another layer of stuff to sort through. She implied this was just the beginning of the layers yet to be uncovered. Yep, you heard me right when I said, "Fucking yay."

Ultimately it's about not being in control. I thought I had some sort of grip on that. Nope. Or should I say I thought I I had less of a grip on the need to be in control. Turns out I'm hanging on tight to things going the way I want them to or think they should go. I know the answer is in surrender. I could spout every saying, platitude, rah-rah cheerleader kind of thing about freedom being in surrender. There are times when those words are of no interest to me. This is one of those times.

I can hear my long ago friend saying, "Shit or get off the pot."

That little note up there? It's perfect for where I find myself these days.