I debated fiercely with myself today. Should I write? Should I post?
Yesterday I had a therapy session. So far we’ve only worked on relaxation techniques. I find relaxation unsettling, particularly in the company of other humanoids. Lowering my guard leaves me damn right paranoid and so even before the sessions begin I am worked up (it’s the expectation of exposure). We started out playing instruments, my therapist specializes in musical therapy and trauma. I have no musical sensibilities whatsoever, no sense of rhythm but I do like music just the same. I chose the Marimba. I felt a mix of emotions seething insecurity and childish wonder/joy were the top two. I found that I lost focus quite a bit and whenever I did I could tell because the notes became muddied and I lost whatever tune I had concocted. The therapist accompanied me using an African drum and whenever I listened to her playing I instantly forgot what I was doing and my hands became utterly alien to me.
After the music session I had to write a time line. We started with the first five years of my life. The first five years were very difficult and even though I was told not to give too much detail about the events it is impossible to speak of those years without mentioning trauma. Many of my early childhood memories are negative, so negative that even the positive memories make me queasy.
The therapist asked me if there were any positive figures who were predominant in my life. I found that a difficult question to answer. I do have relatives that are sane and kind but I spent very little time with them. I was able to think of one person though, a younger cousin. Growing up she was my closest friend, a kind of surrogate sister if you will. I’ll call her S for sister. S was born with a birth defect, a dangerous black growth on the back of her head. She had surgery after surgery after surgery growing up. She was horrifyingly thin, like the children on charity commercials, just bones with a canvas of thin delicate flesh, almost like a spider’s silk. She got sick often. She had chronic headaches. She was bullied mercilessly for her partially bald misshapen head. She stood up for herself and made friends. She was a very happy, affectionate child. She was innocence personified. She is my hero. Because of her condition she will always be at a high risk for tumors and has in her adult life dealt with her share of cancer scares and chemotherapy. She is tough and I don’t mean hard, I mean she is strong and resilient. She is a very devoted mother. She is also outgoing and confident which means we are completely different.
When I was talking about her the therapist said that I am also strong but I have never found myself so. How does one define weakness? What about strength? Am I strong because I didn’t die? Because I didn’t turn to addiction? Because I am not continuing the cycle, the path my genetics and wiring would have me repeat? If that is strong I guess I am reasonably but I would not call myself a “success story” either. I have a lot of fears and while I am courageous in some respects in many others I am a total coward. I knew I shouldn’t have taken off my coat when I came into the appointment. I have been wearing my coat each time but yesterday I wore a thicker wool coat and removed it, I think it gave a false impression.
Anyways yesterday was a tough session and I am feeling fragile and hostile. I can’t even exercise because I am so nauseous from the stress. One thing I am not good at, is letting go and switching gears. Once I start to open up, I mount an attack against myself in retaliation. I get locked into some morbid obsessional loop that I can’t seem to break free of unless I perchance to have a good night’s sleep. I did not have a good night’s sleep. After the session Sam came to pick me up for lunch and my mind was all over the place. When he left I did a little shopping but I lost so much time wondering around that I was nearly late to greet my daughter from school. I called my MIL just encase I didn’t make it in time and I only barely did.
That is why I am not posting any poetry today I am feeling too vulnerable and emotional. If I do write anything today I will need to sit with it a little longer than I usually do.
(Sam is sick he’s had a high fever all night so I am going to make him stay home today. I thought my stomach problems were stress related but since he is also having stomach problems I think we might have gotten some bug.)