'sJillann
((RT)) I hope your sessions today was healing and helpful for both the little girl and the big girl. Thinking tender thoughts for you.
's
Jillann
'sJillann
RT, I'm very moved to read about what is happening for you in this, and glad and grateful that my words had a role for you. Thank you for sharing this experience with us. I look forward to hearing how the session went.
Hi again -
Well, to pick back up on that day - Friday - I left my Mom's house with the suitcase full of Little Me’s artwork, intending, of course, to take it to session. When I got home, the lawn was screaming to be cut and as I was grimy from Zumba and cleaning over at the house, it seemed timely to mow.
Doing those solitary, mindless things is always when my mind gets going, and as I pushed the mower up and back, I kept going over Little Me's art work. There weren't any people, explicitly. They were only referenced. People in the movie that you couldn't see. The man in the airplane. There were several paintings of houses with windows that were apparently bedrooms. Mommy and Daddy. Baby. Brothers and sisters. In all the pictures, I was referenced in only one – my bedroom window – and it was outside of the house. Then there was the house with the window with the “shade closed.”
What are these paintings telling me about Little Me’s five-year-old world?
(Continued, briefly, in
Intimate Discussions)
I drew a bath, adding lavender bath salts and laid in the hot water, closing my eyes. I started thinking about The Thirty Minutes with T. That experience hurt. She hurt me. T hurt me. I thought, “I feel wounded.” With that thought, I was transported to a time when I was maybe 10, 11, 12, and I had a friend over. (Interestingly, I was talking to this same friend just a few weeks ago, and she remembered this experience just as I did.)
It must have been Easter because my grandmother was visiting and we had left-over ham. I was going to make ham sandwiches for my friend and me, and I took out the sharpest knife, grabbed the ham bone with my left hand to steady it and began slicing with my right hand. The knife slipped and I cut deeply into the knuckle of the first finger on my left hand. I remember being stunned, remember looking at my hand and seeing the bone, my bone, move as I bent my finger, and I remember all the blood. I went upstairs to the bathroom, dripping blood on each of the wood steps, and cleaned myself up the best I could.
When I went back downstairs, my grandmother was ready. We would sit down together and she would pray. She would read from the Bible and Science and Health. We would repeat the “Scientific Statement of Being” which said that “man is not material, he is Spiritual.”
This cut, this blood, this wound, wasn’t real. That was the lesson my grandmother was praying, believing, acting on. There was no tenderness, no comfort, no doctor, no stitches. What happened wasn’t real. The wound WASN’T REAL. How can that be? What kind of mind-f*** is that for a kid? And, the kicker is, if you were good enough, you’d know it wasn’t real. So, you see, what I experienced as reality, wasn’t real, so I could therefore never be good enough. How does that make sense, even to an adult?
(“Reality” wasn’t limited to this experience. I lived in a community where EVERYBODY believed this, so there was a constant denial of what I experienced in life: headaches, depression, sadness, upset stomach, etc. AND, because it wasn’t real, one didn’t talk about it. Shoot - even birthdays weren't real, because that accepted "man" as material. So, just consider this the “flavoring” for my story.)
So, I’m lying in the tub, thinking about T wounding me, thinking about being wounded with the knife, thinking about how it hadn’t been real and all of a sudden I realized that there had to be healing between the metaphors. I was wounded as a child, reality denied and suppressed. And I was wounded by T. My hurt was real. It is real. By healing the T wound, I will learn to care for the wounds of the child.
-RT
Well, to pick back up on that day - Friday - I left my Mom's house with the suitcase full of Little Me’s artwork, intending, of course, to take it to session. When I got home, the lawn was screaming to be cut and as I was grimy from Zumba and cleaning over at the house, it seemed timely to mow.
Doing those solitary, mindless things is always when my mind gets going, and as I pushed the mower up and back, I kept going over Little Me's art work. There weren't any people, explicitly. They were only referenced. People in the movie that you couldn't see. The man in the airplane. There were several paintings of houses with windows that were apparently bedrooms. Mommy and Daddy. Baby. Brothers and sisters. In all the pictures, I was referenced in only one – my bedroom window – and it was outside of the house. Then there was the house with the window with the “shade closed.”
What are these paintings telling me about Little Me’s five-year-old world?
(Continued, briefly, in
Intimate Discussions)
I drew a bath, adding lavender bath salts and laid in the hot water, closing my eyes. I started thinking about The Thirty Minutes with T. That experience hurt. She hurt me. T hurt me. I thought, “I feel wounded.” With that thought, I was transported to a time when I was maybe 10, 11, 12, and I had a friend over. (Interestingly, I was talking to this same friend just a few weeks ago, and she remembered this experience just as I did.)
It must have been Easter because my grandmother was visiting and we had left-over ham. I was going to make ham sandwiches for my friend and me, and I took out the sharpest knife, grabbed the ham bone with my left hand to steady it and began slicing with my right hand. The knife slipped and I cut deeply into the knuckle of the first finger on my left hand. I remember being stunned, remember looking at my hand and seeing the bone, my bone, move as I bent my finger, and I remember all the blood. I went upstairs to the bathroom, dripping blood on each of the wood steps, and cleaned myself up the best I could.
When I went back downstairs, my grandmother was ready. We would sit down together and she would pray. She would read from the Bible and Science and Health. We would repeat the “Scientific Statement of Being” which said that “man is not material, he is Spiritual.”
This cut, this blood, this wound, wasn’t real. That was the lesson my grandmother was praying, believing, acting on. There was no tenderness, no comfort, no doctor, no stitches. What happened wasn’t real. The wound WASN’T REAL. How can that be? What kind of mind-f*** is that for a kid? And, the kicker is, if you were good enough, you’d know it wasn’t real. So, you see, what I experienced as reality, wasn’t real, so I could therefore never be good enough. How does that make sense, even to an adult?
(“Reality” wasn’t limited to this experience. I lived in a community where EVERYBODY believed this, so there was a constant denial of what I experienced in life: headaches, depression, sadness, upset stomach, etc. AND, because it wasn’t real, one didn’t talk about it. Shoot - even birthdays weren't real, because that accepted "man" as material. So, just consider this the “flavoring” for my story.)
So, I’m lying in the tub, thinking about T wounding me, thinking about being wounded with the knife, thinking about how it hadn’t been real and all of a sudden I realized that there had to be healing between the metaphors. I was wounded as a child, reality denied and suppressed. And I was wounded by T. My hurt was real. It is real. By healing the T wound, I will learn to care for the wounds of the child.
-RT
I did see T on Saturday after that exhausting Friday and I will try to come back to recount that. At the moment, I just want to share the dream I had last night.
I dreamt I showed up at T's house and went inside. (No, it wasn't an invasion.) She lived in a very large, old house with big rooms. I was walking around a bit, looking, but trying not to be nosey.
Then I realized I was buck naked - and was somewhat, but not totally, embarrassed. T appeared, talking with an overweight man dressed in a suit and wearing glasses. He was on his way out. He seemed a bit uncomfortable seeing me naked, but he tried to look as if he hadn't noticed.
Then I told T I hadn't brought any money to pay for the tickets (for a short series of plays at the theatre). She said that was okay because prices had gone down - $40 for the series (the same $amount as my copay!) and she had bought tickets for me. However, she couldn't go with me.
Then I was outside, by myself, still naked, trying to find my way but really struggling to make progress due to the bog that kept trying to suck me down into it.
Hmmmm....?
I dreamt I showed up at T's house and went inside. (No, it wasn't an invasion.) She lived in a very large, old house with big rooms. I was walking around a bit, looking, but trying not to be nosey.
Then I realized I was buck naked - and was somewhat, but not totally, embarrassed. T appeared, talking with an overweight man dressed in a suit and wearing glasses. He was on his way out. He seemed a bit uncomfortable seeing me naked, but he tried to look as if he hadn't noticed.
Then I told T I hadn't brought any money to pay for the tickets (for a short series of plays at the theatre). She said that was okay because prices had gone down - $40 for the series (the same $amount as my copay!) and she had bought tickets for me. However, she couldn't go with me.
Then I was outside, by myself, still naked, trying to find my way but really struggling to make progress due to the bog that kept trying to suck me down into it.
Hmmmm....?
When I called T Friday evening, she said she could see me at 10 am on Saturday, and I was grateful I didn't have to wait long. I felt like I was on meltdown, anxious, tired, almost psychotic, it seemed. T later said that I was dissociated.
I thanked her for seeing me. I said I would try to talk fast because I needed to get through everything. But I was having a hard time breathing and a hard time talking. I asked T to just listen so I could try to get all of it out. Then I asked if I could have a hug. We'd been talking previously about hugs, about touch, about what it would mean to me for T to touch me. We'd hugged twice before. She said yes this time, and her embrace helped me feel more grounded, better able to breathe.
I started by giving T the text of Jones's last post, hoping that would introduce the essence of what I'd finally gotten to in my thought process about The Thirty Minutes. I knew that post wouldn't really make sense without context, so I started telling her about my day. My Friday. Starting with the text Little Me had sent her. I explained how I knew it was Little Me and T asked if I knew that LM had texted her before. I thought about it and realized which text she meant. It was one in which the words were a bit mixed up and switched between first and third person. I always thought that was me being psychotic and it was kind of reassuring to think maybe I wasn’t really crazy.
I explained to T that I was freaked out by Little Me being present with me all day. Then I opened the suitcase I’d brought, and T got down on the floor with me. Together we started unrolling Little Me’s artwork. I was feeling distraught, freaked out. There she was, five-year-old me, speaking to us in her words. I kept referring to “her” but T said “that’s you. She’s still inside you.”
The pictures seemed to be screaming, “you don’t exist.” I know I was holding my head and crying and trying to talk. T was calm. She was with me. I wasn’t afraid of her seeing me. Of her hearing me. The rest of the session could have remained with those pictures, but I needed to keep going. I told her about going home. About the intimate details. (Which I NEVER talk about EVER…. And I wrote them here too…?) I told her about thinking of her wounding me and how I’d really been wounded as a kid. I told her how all of it had been literally denied. (I wrote about this whole day in the past 3 posts.)
I was still upset, still having a hard time talking, but I tried to wrap it up in the way it made sense to me. That we have this heart connection¸ T and I. That there is a thin thread between us, between our hearts. That she had hurt me, wounded me. And healing that wound didn’t have to do with the business transaction as Jones described. It had to do with the connection between us, I whispered. And in healing that connection, that thread between our hearts, I would start to heal the wounds of the past.
T finally said we needed to stop, but she didn’t push me out the door. She asked if I was going to be okay, and I told her, truly, I didn’t know. I didn’t. I didn’t know. I told her I was afraid. She asked if I felt suicidal or was having thoughts of killing myself, killing Little Me. I said it wasn’t suicide I was afraid of. I was afraid of this. Of what was happening. Of it all. T let me know when she’d be available over the next couple of days and said I could get in touch if I needed.
I asked if I could pay later as I didn’t want a “business transaction” to be part of this session. I had my checkbook in hand and said I would if she wanted, but she waved it off.
I asked again if I could have a hug, and T asked if she could have one too. We hugged, close, and it felt good. It felt safe.
Thank-you, I said as I left. We were twenty minutes over time.
-RT
I thanked her for seeing me. I said I would try to talk fast because I needed to get through everything. But I was having a hard time breathing and a hard time talking. I asked T to just listen so I could try to get all of it out. Then I asked if I could have a hug. We'd been talking previously about hugs, about touch, about what it would mean to me for T to touch me. We'd hugged twice before. She said yes this time, and her embrace helped me feel more grounded, better able to breathe.
I started by giving T the text of Jones's last post, hoping that would introduce the essence of what I'd finally gotten to in my thought process about The Thirty Minutes. I knew that post wouldn't really make sense without context, so I started telling her about my day. My Friday. Starting with the text Little Me had sent her. I explained how I knew it was Little Me and T asked if I knew that LM had texted her before. I thought about it and realized which text she meant. It was one in which the words were a bit mixed up and switched between first and third person. I always thought that was me being psychotic and it was kind of reassuring to think maybe I wasn’t really crazy.
I explained to T that I was freaked out by Little Me being present with me all day. Then I opened the suitcase I’d brought, and T got down on the floor with me. Together we started unrolling Little Me’s artwork. I was feeling distraught, freaked out. There she was, five-year-old me, speaking to us in her words. I kept referring to “her” but T said “that’s you. She’s still inside you.”
The pictures seemed to be screaming, “you don’t exist.” I know I was holding my head and crying and trying to talk. T was calm. She was with me. I wasn’t afraid of her seeing me. Of her hearing me. The rest of the session could have remained with those pictures, but I needed to keep going. I told her about going home. About the intimate details. (Which I NEVER talk about EVER…. And I wrote them here too…?) I told her about thinking of her wounding me and how I’d really been wounded as a kid. I told her how all of it had been literally denied. (I wrote about this whole day in the past 3 posts.)
I was still upset, still having a hard time talking, but I tried to wrap it up in the way it made sense to me. That we have this heart connection¸ T and I. That there is a thin thread between us, between our hearts. That she had hurt me, wounded me. And healing that wound didn’t have to do with the business transaction as Jones described. It had to do with the connection between us, I whispered. And in healing that connection, that thread between our hearts, I would start to heal the wounds of the past.
T finally said we needed to stop, but she didn’t push me out the door. She asked if I was going to be okay, and I told her, truly, I didn’t know. I didn’t. I didn’t know. I told her I was afraid. She asked if I felt suicidal or was having thoughts of killing myself, killing Little Me. I said it wasn’t suicide I was afraid of. I was afraid of this. Of what was happening. Of it all. T let me know when she’d be available over the next couple of days and said I could get in touch if I needed.
I asked if I could pay later as I didn’t want a “business transaction” to be part of this session. I had my checkbook in hand and said I would if she wanted, but she waved it off.
I asked again if I could have a hug, and T asked if she could have one too. We hugged, close, and it felt good. It felt safe.
Thank-you, I said as I left. We were twenty minutes over time.
-RT
What a gorgeous, brave and open session, RT. I'm so glad you were able to share all that with her, and it seems like it was the perfect moment for it all to come together. This was really heartwarming to read - and yes, as Draggles says, beautifully written! You did great. 
So pleased to have been able to read it. Be gentle with yourself for a while, ok? You did a lot of hard work there and I think it would be normal to feel exposed/overwhelmed afterwards.
So pleased to have been able to read it. Be gentle with yourself for a while, ok? You did a lot of hard work there and I think it would be normal to feel exposed/overwhelmed afterwards.
Thanks Jones, and Draggers too.
This was so hard to write about. I feel like I've once again put too much of myself out there. I kind of go into panic mode and want to go back and delete everything. I am realizing that is a throwback to my FOO where the only safe thing to do was to say nothing and feel less.
So, I do appreciate your support and validation. It means a lot.
-RT
This was so hard to write about. I feel like I've once again put too much of myself out there. I kind of go into panic mode and want to go back and delete everything. I am realizing that is a throwback to my FOO where the only safe thing to do was to say nothing and feel less.
So, I do appreciate your support and validation. It means a lot.
-RT
I love this thread so much.
Bravissima, Red Tomato! You took this slight on the part of your therapist (and make no mistake, the 'enthralled' comment would have me fuming) and painstakingly turned it into an opportunity for growth, understanding, and connection. I read every page of this until way past my bed time. And you got the extra twenty minutes! How sweet that must have felt.
As someone who 'battles' frequently in T, this story inspires me to move forward. I learned a lot from this. Thank you so so much for sharing so generously of your experience. Amazing work!
*hugs*
Bravissima, Red Tomato! You took this slight on the part of your therapist (and make no mistake, the 'enthralled' comment would have me fuming) and painstakingly turned it into an opportunity for growth, understanding, and connection. I read every page of this until way past my bed time. And you got the extra twenty minutes! How sweet that must have felt.
As someone who 'battles' frequently in T, this story inspires me to move forward. I learned a lot from this. Thank you so so much for sharing so generously of your experience. Amazing work!
*hugs*
Thanks so much for filling us in. It gives us all hope, and courage to find the strenght and go back in there again and try try again. I'm so very happy she did her best to mend your disrupture as well. (past my bedtime, English language escaping me quickly ;-)
effed - Thank-you. Yes, it was quite a struggle, and I think we are still working on it. Our approach now is the way these responses have been a pattern in my life. A pattern based on my experiences in childhood - particularly abandonment in this instance. More and more keeps coming out. My connection with T is strong, and we just keep working.
I'm glad this was helpful for you.
Elsewhere - thanks for commenting. I certainly can't say that I was feeling courage, strength and hope while all of this was happening. It was a very, very painful experience. But, in the end, a worthwhile effort.
Thanks for staying up past your bedtime.
-RT
I'm glad this was helpful for you.
Elsewhere - thanks for commenting. I certainly can't say that I was feeling courage, strength and hope while all of this was happening. It was a very, very painful experience. But, in the end, a worthwhile effort.
Thanks for staying up past your bedtime.
-RT