To Be a Rainbow

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

(from Still I Rise, Maya Angelou)

 

 

 

As the curtain rose, she stood there bowing. She was already humble...the first time that I saw this magnificent woman in the flesh. She has inspired me and strengthened me, fed me words that I am to drink and allow my own babes to suckle from the nourishment...and there she was, bowed as we stood for her applauding her.

 

 

It was to be a reading, but she talked to us instead. She told us stories, like a grandmother, that were laced with lessons and sprinkled with laughter. She laughed like my grandmother. In those stories, I recognized lines and entire paragraphs from the books that she wrote...and that I read. She wasn't reading them, she just remembered the lines and incorporated them into the conversation.

 

...she laughed like my grandmother.

 

 

"Thank you, rainbow." She said in the beginning...and she concluded with, "I was made to be a rainbow in someone else's cloud."

 

 

I should remember that she said that. I should remember it when I am feeling "like a cloud across the sun" (Elton John). Sometimes I can be a rainbow in someone else's cloud.

Falling fom the High of the Summer

The summer magic is over. The kind, supportive, and thoughtful man that my husband had become this summer is no longer there. School is back in session, schedules are brutal, I need a supportive partner more than ever, and he is back to his old self-absorbed manner. Things have been really tense between us during the past few weeks.

...And we went to marriage counseling, where we managed to admit that WE ARE NOT OK! We are simply maintaining, and trying not to say anything so as to not be the one to pop the bubble. It was during this period of honesty that I realized that we are in it for the kids...he said it...and I heard it. We are focusing on the kids. There is no "us" in this marriage.

Realizing this was not really what upset me. What brought me down on Tuesday was falling from the high of the summer. When I saw the changes in him and in us, I had dared to hope. I had dared to imagine that things would be better. I had dared to trust and open up...a little. Our session on Tuesday proved to me that nothing really changed. Summer was just an illusion, and when the going gets tough, we put our ugliest foot forward.

I went to work that evening, as I have done too many times in the past...missing my children, but relieved to be out of his presence. The night turned to shit during the last hour. There was an incident that escalated to an unnecessary level . The police were involved, and I did not leave the pharmacy until an hour after closing.

I am the keeper of a mammoth inventory of some very highly controlled substances. When the shit hits the fan, I have to be a tough cookie, put on my big girl panties and face the situation head on. In other words, I have to do my job. I am free to fall apart after my shift is over.

After I got in my van and drove away, I called my husband. I was due to have been home thirty minutes prior, and I thought he would be worried. I also felt an overwhelming need to fall into someone's arms and cry while telling the story of what happened at work that night. My husband was not aware that I was not home yet...nor did he care...I think I woke him...and he certainly did not want to hear what happened to cause me to be so late. "OK, see you later" was the best I got.

So I came home, washed up, changed into my pajamas, came into my room, crawled into my bed and allowed myself to cry hard tears while I wrote "Girls Like Me". I did not have anybody's arms to fall into, but I still fell.

Girls Like Me

I'm crumbling. I'm either going to go numb or self-destruct. Going numb is probably safer and more acceptable. At least no one will know that I can't feel a thing.

I have not felt this much self-hatred in a long time. Girls like me don't get the nice guy. We don't get the prince. We don't get the fairy tale. The glass slipper doesn't fit us. There is no one true love. Love is not true, and it is not unconditional. It never was. It never has been. It never will be. Girls like me just get trapped in the nightmare.

I hate this nightmare. In this nightmare, I am not good, I am not worthy, I am trash, good only for sex...and pleasing others.

I hate who I am, and I want to hurt and destroy that girl.

My Fighter Still Remains

In the clearing stands a boxer,
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev'ry glove that laid him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame,
'I am leaving, I am leaving.'
But the fighter still remains

(my favorite verse from The Boxer, Simon & Garfunkel)

Today has really kicked my ass. I don't have the energy to describe all the details of what went into this ass kicking, but I feel like I have been punched a lot today. I have gotten back up after every punch, because it just wasn't time to fall down yet...because I have resilience...because my fighter still remains.

The last punch was hard, and it was late in the evening, so I had started to let my guard down. It's the one that I feel I haven't gotten up from.

I know it's hard to decipher what this post is about. It really has no point. When I started to reply to the last two comments on the previous post, I finally broke down in tears. I didn't know what else to do with these emotions, except write them down.

Tomorrow I'll be stronger...and respond to comments.

Crawling Across the Floor

How do I go from a confident and composed adult to this scared, fragile and sad child? Welcome to EMDR.

...Eventually I will stop staring off and start writing...

By now I am well aware that these feelings will not last forever, but right now it's where I am - roll-me-up-into-a-ball, don't-touch-me, don't-talk-to-me, don't-look-at-me sad. I am struggling just to write. It is taking everything in my reserves not to drive home, lay under the blankets and sleep. I think the only reason I haven't done so is because I am afraid I will not get up and go to work at 1:00, but today I want to disappear in darkness.

As usual, after taking a break from EMDR, it is very difficult for me to even mention that I want to go through another session. It feels too good not to be crawling across the floor emotionally. Even if it is just for a day or two. But alas, it is my responsibility to say what I want/need to work on for the session. I don't need to change that, I'm just saying I have the hardest time just saying, "Shall we do EMDR today?"

So here I am crawling again. When remembering, I wasn't so much seeing images as I was remembering feelings. I was a child again...frightened...looking for my mother. I forgot my words. I don't even know how to explain that, but let me give it a try.

I was not born in the United States, where I grew up. For the first eight years of my life, I spoke a language different than English. It wasn't until I was about 10 or 11 years old that I became comfortable with the English language. During EMDR today, I felt like I was about 9 or 10 years old, and there were times when I could not describe what I was feeling. I knew that it was something that I had felt before, but I could not come up with the word that would describe these feelings. I shrugged like a kid, as I struggled to pull from my apparently nonexistent list of vocabulary words.

So, as my daughter would ask, what is my hypothesis? I can only think of the obvious. I wasn't thinking with my adult mind; I was thinking as a 9-year-old who barely knew enough words in English to talk to her friends and teachers, let alone to describe scary dark feelings. Come to think of it, I probably did not know those words in my native tongue either...well, it was just a hypothesis. The research is still valid even if you prove the hypothesis wrong...and at this point I'm rambling...I just don't want to feel anything right now, and talking about science sure is effective in accomplishing that.

I'm going to go hang my head now. I can't stand this sadness. I will cover my face...look away. Today is hurts in that place that is so fragile, I keep it under bullet proof glass. Today it hurts to look at you, because I am afraid that it will show in my eyes and you will try to touch my sore spot...to try to help...or hurt inadvertently.

I am reluctant to leave this café...reluctant to remove my earphones...reluctant to leave my hiding place inside the music of Eric Clapton and Van Morrison. Once I do this, I will have to face the public, and I just don't want to hear them today. If I could just work with my earphones and my music on today, I would be OK.

Deep breath...here goes nothing.

Planes

Recently, I saw the movie Planes with my daughters and my husband. It is the animated story of how a country dust cropper makes it to an international race against other airplanes that were truly built to soar at high speeds. Disney style and in keeping with its predecessor Cars, all the airplanes have voices, faces and colorful personalities. It was an evening well spent, and we all enjoyed the movie.

I had forgotten how much I like airplanes - their magnificence and beauty, their liveries and sleek lines, and of course, their grace in flight.

My stepfather worked for a very large airline company. We flew everywhere. I did not know what a "road trip" was until I had my own children.

I have pleasant memories of traveling as a family to the airport. There was a place near one of the runways where people could park their cars and watch airplanes take off. Other than going to the beach, this was one of our favorite pass-times as a family. What a thrill! I loved every minute of it! I loved the deafening power that those beautiful machines exerted in order to take flight, which then gave way to unspeakable elegance once airborne.

There were times when he took us to the hangar and showed us airplanes under repair. He explained the functions of some of the parts and how they would come to need repairs. While my siblings mostly enjoyed the visuals of this tour, I relished the didactics.

Once, we toured an Airbus! The thing was two stories inside!

Needless to say, I recall these family field trips fondly. I still like airplanes...I still stand in awe of an aircraft on a runway just as it takes flight...a military flyover still moves me to tears.

...So is this allowed? How can I have fond memories of him who damaged me so deeply? This is so conflicting, and it brings guilt to another level. I feel guilty for having memories of enjoyable times with him. Yet, these were the times when he was truly being a father...and we were happy. He occasionally had these moments.

It is not the memory itself that I find troublesome. It is the dichotomy between my rage for what will never be excused and the tenderness with which I recall these moments.

Progress

Today I got a much needed break from EMDR. In fact, I had sort of planned to take this week off from that so that I could have all the emotional energy that I needed for back-to-school week.

Today I needed a place to exhale and take a reprieve, and I did. One of the topics we discussed was the way that I have been finding my voice in my everyday interactions. Yesterday's interaction with my husband was one such example. I expressed my sentiments to him perhaps at an inappropriate time, but nonetheless, I expressed myself. In the past, before engaging in such seemingly risky behavior, I would have weighed the consequences and decided whether I was up for dealing with them before I spoke up. Usually that meant that I did not speak up. I repressed. This time, I stopped for about two seconds to consider this and realized that the consequences would be more severe if I did not say anything...and we all know where that has led me.

The upside of this little joust, if there is one, is that we were able to discuss things further this morning...without the anger or the audience. I was really able to speak up, to express myself, to explain where the anger and shock originated. He was able to relay how clueless he was about...a lot. I was still amazed by the amnesia, but at least there was an explanation. He thank me (for educating him). I thanked him for allowing me the opportunity to express my opinion...and I did this without feeling that there would be any unpleasant consequences for using my voice. I did not need permission, and I was not afraid.

It's difficult to see yourself grow, but this I would call progress.

Can I Fall Apart?

Can I fall apart now?

I just dropped my older daughter off at her new school in Timbukfuckingtu. This is where her school is now because...I could go on about test scores, but that's just boring...she's really smart, and in our school district, that is where services are offered for really smart kids. Period.

I have been terribly busy, and I am exhausted now...but the year has just begun! I kept up with two school supply lists and managed to acquire every last item before the much acclaimed First Day of School. I attended camp day for new students at my older daughter's school. I have kept up with the schedules and instructions that were handed to us on that day. I have arranged my work schedule such that I could attend two separate school Open Houses on two separate days. I delivered the correct supplies to the correct classrooms at the correct school. Everything that needed to be labeled got labeled, book bags were ready and lunches were packed on time. The kids even got breakfast this morning.

In between all this, I found a new piano teacher at the music academy in our town (since we had to let go of the teacher we had for the last three years). I enrolled them, and we started piano lessons last week (first lesson for my little one). We re-enrolled in dance lessons, and obtained yet another list of dance shoes and leotards that we must still purchase.

So when I finally drove away from my daughter's school this morning with an empty van, I wanted to just fall apart. It started yesterday when I went to Open House at my baby's school. This is the Montessori school that my older one is leaving this year. This is the cradle that received her at the age of four when she was still reluctant to let go of my leg and explore the world of metal insets and sandpaper letters. It was in this same exact classroom with the same exact angel of a teacher that she learned that letters have sounds, and the sounds put together make words, and the words are in books, and books are what we read.

And so it started when we arrived at this familiar Children's House with two bags of brand new school supplies to deliver. As my daughters ran into the room straight onto the teacher's (my friend) loving embrace, I checked myself out at the door as a surge of unexpected tears flooded my eyes and spilled down my face. I could not stop this, but I could not walk into that room in that condition either. I composed myself, because I had to. This was not the occasion for this type of emotion. I did not understand where the tears were coming from. All I knew was that I was bringing one here, where I was used to bring two. But, my God! Hadn't I cried enough on her last day of school here? We had said our goodbyes to everyone then...but I guess there was something about reaching that doorway that brought it all back.

So back to this morning...Everyone was up and at 'em at the appropriate time, and we were out of the house on time. I had the kids in the van, while my husband followed a little while later in his car (he was headed for work after drop-off today). We spent a little bit of time with Baby in her classroom (no tears this time). We relished the easy parking lot and familiar process of this routine. She is in the same classroom and with the same teacher she had last year in Pre-K (Montessori style). She was confident and happy to be in familiar surroundings again. Then we were off on our "road trip" to Big Sister's school.

Traffic sucked, but we still had time to spare. While we waited for the classrooms to open, my husband came in the van and sat with us...and in this short ten minute interval, he managed to push my very fragile buttons! Let me explain how very precisely this dance of ours had to be choreographed. We have two kids to get to school at two separate locations. Busing is not an option. We each have to open different pharmacies on time. The good people of the community do not appreciate having to wait at the door (or the drive-through window) to pick up their kid's medicine on their way to work. We don't have the same schedule every day. Throughout the summer we (meaning I) managed to coordinate which days we could provide our own transportation, and which days we would need to carpool with friends. I was given the delicate task of arranging for help with carpooling. The carpooling was arranged, and I am going to take the liberty of patting myself on the back for how gracefully this was handled. So everything was set to go. I spoke with our friends last week and let them know which days this week we would need their help with transportation. First Day of School here we go!

So why then during this short and crucial ten minute interval did he have to announce, "Oh, I plan to take her to school every day. We don't need help with carpooling. I thought that was just in case of an emergency." Are you fucking kidding me?!! First of all, the reason why I (not he) had to ask for help with transportation was because he said it would be impossible for him to get to work on time if he could not drop off before 8:30. He was adamant about this. He had said that there was no way she could attend this school if we did not have help from someone. So where the fuck did that come from?!! Did he loose his mind precisely at this moment? So yes, I lost my cool right there and then. You see, I needed him to be my support and my partner at that point. I did not need someone to rock my overwhelming world ten minutes before I was to walk my daughter into her scary new school. I was furious that he would play this all too familiar amnesia game at exactly the wrong time. I have been doing everything in my power to keep things smooth and organized, and I needed him to hold up his end of the deal also - mainly to remember what we agreed on and not decide to rearrange all the arrangements on a whim at the last minute! And then deny that he had anything to do with this agreement! So in front of our daughter I displayed my shock and anger that he would pull this one on me now, while he took the high road saying that this is unnecessary and not the time and place for it.

No, it wasn't the time or place for it, but shit, I had been keeping it together for so long. This was just the last straw. We managed to act civilized as we walked her into her classroom. I even introduced him to her homeroom teacher, whom I had met at Open House. We kissed goodbye (yes, we made the effort) and got into our separate vehicles. As we drove out and realized that it would take 30 minutes just to get out of the school, he called me to let me know that he was glad that we would have carpooling help on the days that he has to work, because there is no way he would make it to work on time at this rate. This is what we had agreed on this summer and the reason he had said that I should talk to our friends about it. Go fucking figure.

So is it any wonder that when I was finally finished with my responsibilities this morning I just wanted to fall apart? I just wanted to break down and cry. I don't want to keep it together or stay composed anymore. I wan to just cry and sob. This is the right time and place. I want to cry about everything...whatever that is...no one will know. I will just fall down at home and cry my heart out and then I will hold myself and love myself...until the afternoon and evening madness begins.

Speak Up!

"Speak up.", he said.

Well, that is not exactly how he said it, but my therapist has asked that I speak loudly during my EMDR sessions, not for his benefit, but for mine...easy for him to say!

What has been happening is that during therapy, my voice usually gets very low and soft. The more painful the subject matter is, the less audible I become. After an interval of following his hand with my eyes, while recalling memories and sensations, my therapist asks me to say what I notice. I respond...when I can...but I can barely get the words out. Sometimes they are a whisper...sometimes a low mumble...sometimes I cannot open my mouth.

He has explained to me that he believes my hesitation to speak up and speak out stems from the very point that we are working on: "He told me not to speak" - my stepfather's warning to keep my mouth shut. Consequently, he has asked that as part of my therapy I try to speak in a loud voice when I respond, in an effort to conquer the very thing that seems to be keeping me almost mute.

...Right...easy for him to say...

So when he asked, I silently nodded my head yes, and thought, "Are you serious? How can I explain that this is the best I can do? It feels physically impossible for me to relay these images in a voice any louder than what you hear. I want to try, believe me, but simply put, I open my mouth...when I can...and this is what comes out!"

Here is the contrast to that. Ever since he brought this up, I have been purposefully aware of what my voice is like in other situations.

It is a known fact that my kids cannot always hear me during regular conversation. They have often said, "Mom, you really need to start speaking louder." This week I responded, "I'm working on it, I really am!"...little do they know.

At work my voice is usually clear and deliberate. I enunciate. My work is fast paced and precise, so when I give directions I need them to be understood and followed with minimal repetition. Again, I speak clearly and deliberately.

When speaking with patients with diminished hearing, I allow them to look at my face when I speak. I have learned that we all read lips when we listen. It's just that some of us rely on it more than others.

After paying attention to they way I speak at work, I am lead to believe that "speaking up" is not so physically impossible for me. I am obviously capable of speaking in a voice that is audible, clear, and understandable. The question is how to transport this voice to my EMDR sessions How do I conquer the pain enough to speak with the confidence and strength that I speak with at work?

Hiding From the Boogie Man

Last night was rough. Sleep did not come easy, and even breathing was difficult. When I finally turned the lights out and put myself to bed, I jumped under the safety of all my blankets...just like a frightened child hiding from the boogie man. My quick and shallow breaths were inefficient, and I had to remind myself to take deep and long breaths as I visualized my safe place. To this rhythm I fell asleep.

So here I am again hiding at the busy café, except this time I am afraid to go home. Home alone is not safe today. Yet, I crave the solitude. I crave the time spent without demands from those whom I nurture and feed. I crave ample time to spend on projects with long past due dates.

So I will go home...eventually. I will face my demons and do my best to stay out of my blades.

This last EMDR session was so strange. I feel like I have not left it yet. There is so much anger...sullen not raging. I feel like I am looking at everything through the eyes of hate, and it doesn't feel healthy or productive to me. Not that I enjoy the feeling of being raging mad, but this just feels like I'm holding the anger in with only one outlet in mind...myself.

The truth is that I may have been cautious and reluctant at times. I was very afraid of the experiences that I went through during the previous session. The physical sensations were absolutely the worst feeling, and I may have been avoiding going places where those feelings might return. Not intentionally...just self-preservation.

The bottom line is that I am down in the dumps again, dare I say depressed? Maybe. I am healing, I know. This I am told. I suppose it's just not a good time right now. I guess I will ride this wave like the rest of them. "The storm will pass". Maybe I will cry today, or hit things...or both. Maybe I will find something soft to hold tightly in my arms...like the puppies in my therapist's office. Yes, I wish I could hold them. Perhaps I will hold them when I return next week.

I will go home now and work on a project for as long as my energy will allow me. I may call my mother, and ask her to send pictures. Perhaps I'll play the piano. Dear God, anything but cutting.

I may need help today, and if I do, I promise myself that I will ask for it.