Child audience (shouting) : IT’S THERAPY THURSDAY!
Yes kids, it’s everybody’s favorite day of the week, Therapy Thursday, and that means that I had a therapy session over the phone between 1 pm and 2 pm today.
Well, 1 pm and 12:50 pm. Because therapists need time between patients so they can read our file and remember who the heck we are.
Therapist at desk, reading file : Oh right, THIS guy. Oy.
It was an average session. No great revelations or breakthroughs to report, but at least I was fully awake, which made it better than the previous time.
In fact, I’m kind of proud of that, because I was feeling sleepy and tired again this week but I got mad and said, “No, this is not going to happen! ” to myself and actually got up off my thunderous buttocks and gave myself a wiggle and a shake to wake myself up.
By my standards, that was thrillingly proactive, And it worked!
So, yay me!
Child audience applauds wildly and very encouragingly.
I talked about my whole “source” think. About how I feel like I have to take a journey to the source of my river of life in order to clear the trauma that has been blocking it for most of my life and making me weak, hesitant, and scared all the time.
We know what the problem is : rape trauma. But diagnosis is, alack, not cure, and I still need to make that journey upriver to deal with my problems by doing the emotional work needed to resolve that ancient trauma.
Or at least make it more digestible.
And that’s not going to be easy. That ancient trauma has equally ancient defenses and they are no less deadly for being so old and primitive.
Rather the reverse, I am afraid. They were, after all, designed by a child.
Right now, I am trying to clear my mind of the legacy “logic” system’s notion as to how to “solve” a problem like this.
This is not a riddle, a puzzle, or an equation. There is nothing to “solve”. I can’t gain anything through logical analysis. All the relevant information is already known.
The research phase is over. Implementation must begin.
And I’m ready. Well, as ready as I will ever be. I am fully willing to take on a hell of a lot of fear and pain and anything else those ancient defenses can throw at me if it means that I will clear the blockage and finally get better.
And not just a little. I am tired of this painfully slow incremental recovery. It’s better than nothing but I deserve a hell of a lot better.
Life’s too short (especially mine) to go around with a bone stuck in your throat.
And somewhere out there are the clean green meadows full of fresh air and sunshine and rivers of pure water that I dream of. Someplace where I can be happy and healthy and whole living a life that is wholesome and free.
And when I say out there, I really mean in here (gestures to heart).
Child audience awwwwws.
Thanks again, kids. You rock.
More after the break.
What is this thing?
Calling it The Wound seems inadequate now.
Now that I have a deeper understanding of what it is and what I have to do to overcome in, I feel like it needs a new name.
I could call it The Clog, I suppose. But that makes it sound like my river of life is dammed up near the source by a giant wooden shoe.
Or a giant ball of grease and hair. Ewwwww,
I could call it The Blockage, but that makes it sound like my cardiac issues. And while my metaphorical heart is, indeed, deeply involved in the issue, my literal is not involved in any but the must general of ways.
I could try to be ominously generic by calling it The Issue or My Problem, but that would not be very satisfying in the long run.
Well I have to call it something. So I will call it Frank.
And quite frankly, Frank has got to go. Frank has got to die. I must kill Frank.
To be fair, he started it. He’s been killing me for decades. Smothering me, choking the life out of me, weighing me down and holding me back.
Making me artificially afraid of the world when I am a man of incredible abilities and vast intellect and monumental power of personality who is more than capable of handling life’s challenges with skill and agility and wit.
Instead I have this bunker mentality which makes me stay all locked up inside myself out of fear of threats from 40+ years ago.
There’s nobody out there, man. No wolves at the door, no bullies patrolling and looking for victims, no uninterested family members making me feel unwelcome in my own home for the crime of being born uninvited.
Maybe that’s what I am truly afraid of : that all those things truly are gone and that means I am truly all alone in the world, without even my imaginary oppressors there to keep me company and pay attention to me.
That has the bitter taste of truth to it. The universe does not care enough about me to be out to get me on any level. Nobody does. I am absolutely alone and adrift on the sea of life with nothing but a buster outboard motor to provide propulsion.
But I am not alone. I have friends, very good friends, who love me and want to see me do well and be happy.
I am just too numb to feel it, and too scared to believe in it. Just another resource I am too weak and gutless to tap into no matter how much I want to.
I have sacrificed far too much in order to maintain this suicidal and self-contradictory sense of “safety” – including my own actual safety.
Frank is killing me. And at this point, one of us has to go.
I vote him.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.