Life in Storage

Among the many gifts bestowed upon me by The Four Day Win by Martha Beck, PhD., my favorite has got to be talking to my inner child/right brain* through a writing exercise. In the exercise, after visualizing yourself as a child, you write down (with your dominant writing hand) a question for her, and with your nondominant hand, you write down her answer. There’s a lot of anger and profanity at first, (reminiscent of “automatic writing”, huh?), but after that dies down, there are some kernels of truth.

For me, the hardest kernel was this accusation: You put your life in storage.

That still drops me. I mean, hit me in the face and call it sunshine, that’s a freaking epiphany.

I really did put my life in storage. We all do. When we have a talent, or a gift, and we say to ourselves, “I’ll just put this away until ____ and then I’ll use it again,” or “I want to _____, but I’ll do it later,” or even “I’ll be happy when _____” what is all that but putting our talents in storage? For me, I always said, “I’ll live like they want me to until the kids are grown, and then I’ll pursue my dreams.” In fact, it started even earlier, when I wanted to be a writer but didn’t think I could support myself that way (circa second grade. Um, Mom and Dad? Not to point fingers or anything, but how does a second-grader get to evaluating her financial solvency in potential careers?).

Even rebellion is, in most cases, just putting our lives in storage. When we consciously rebel, we are often doing the exact opposite of what someone wants us to do, and specifically not doing what we want/need to do (I know there are exceptions, but think teenagers). The person with the expectation is still the one in control, not us. And we’re over there like, “Until they let me do what I want, I’ll show them.” But who’s got the power?

No, the person over there quietly doing what he/she wants to do without the theatrics is the one who is actually living.

So there we have it. Through youthful rebellion, to not-so-youthful “accepting responsibility” via cowing to the expectations of an abusive ex-, well-meaning family and friends, and society at large, and through the second stage of rebellion (from ex-), I put my life in storage.

I don’t know yet how much permanent harm was done. I do know that my life is a little dusty, but still seems to be there. There is hope that a good wash and a few coats of paint will liven it right up again.

There is hope.

*I will not be addressing the whole left brain/right brain debate. New information comes to light back and forth, including a recent (Nov ‘11, Dec ‘11, Jan ‘12?) edition of Scientific American I just read. You know what I mean by “right brain”, so work with me)

Theraped

It has been noted by several people in my life that "therapist" breaks out to "the rapist" with the single addition of a space. Although I do not personally believe therapy is the rape of the unconscious by the conscious, I do believe that there is an element of violation in the whole process.

As I prepare myself to be "theraped" today, I can't help but to think that, in order to be a successful counselor or therapist in my own right one day, I should probably be able to help myself right now.

Of course, what I'm doing right now could be construed as helping myself, as I'm deciding, at this moment, to take some charge and responsibility over my life and my ultimate dissappointment with it.

In any event, I look up therapy techniques on the net, including a wonderful little article about "7 types of therapy to help depression", or so the article claims, which is basically a rundown of the current therapy techniques, without too much actual discussion of how successful each type is for depression.

Am I depressed? I would guess "yes". I have been depressed before, and I recognize the hopelessness in it, and the frustration. For me, depression and anger have always been inextricable...in this way I guess I react more like a man than a woman. I experience pain, both physical and mental, and overwhelming sadness that life cannot be wonderful, or even tolerable, for large stretches of time. The bursts of rage are actually welcome, then, as they are better than the moments when I sit in my chair, after exhaling, waiting to die by virtue of not ever inhaling again, and closing my eyes and thinking "this is what death feels like".

This sounds hopelessly melodramatic, but depression is a melodramatic, and it is hopeless.

More than wanting to die, I want to die to this life, and can understand how people have deep religious conversions in order to die to this life. In the Appendix to Dune, Frank Herbert mentions religion and the need for a religion to address man wanting to be different than he is. . . that self-satisfaction has no place in religion. I can also understand why people mistake wanting to die to the current circumstances and wanting to die...you know...forever. Because there are times when you're really steeped in desperation, and you know, logically, that none of this will ever end (even if your limitations are illogical or self-imposed, or your assumptions are bad), and so the only remaining way "out" is six feet under. But, I think because of my past, I can see the need to re-invent as a better way to cope than to actually slit my wrists. After all, what happens if it's unsuccessful? Then I'm stuck unable to type or write with giant scars. . . No, re-invention and dying to this moment is better.

And one can argue (and I do argue, when I am trying to rally myself), the theory of "Positive Disintegration" for this state...that in order to change, the life that is here must die. To grow, the old shell must crumble. That in order to change, the me that is me at this moment must go. Perhaps this is why we "go" crazy.

So we give ourselves over to our inner crazy, and we see what emerges. It is the therapist, then, who comes in and rakes through and pours over our crazy mess, and tries to yank out that bit of sanity. Thinking over this, perhaps the term "therapist" is more accurate than I thought. :-)

So off I go to expose myself and allow someone to sift through my emotional scat, to determine my path through the game trails of existence.

When instead I could be reading books and watching movies, like the Blind Melon song "No Rain": "All I can do is read a book to stay awake/and it rips my life away but it's a great escape."

Movies have actually been better therapy for me recently.

I saw "Neverwas" yesterday. Man, did I bawl my eyes out and my kids looked at me like I was an alien and asked me why I was crying. But it was because I felt how lonesome and desperate it is to have that fantasy world ripped away, to lose your dreams, to wake up in the real world, not knowing how the Hell you got here, and wish you could close your eyes and let the dreams happen again.

But here we are, referring back to the Cherry Post...this blog is to help me in that journey to re-establish those dreams.