From me to whom?
07 June 2011 12:05 PM Categories: Quotidian existence
I am tired of the "she"-talk and the talk-around, the namby-pamby. I've pussyfooted and fallen on euphemism, have held back spasms of truth.
No longer. Today in my Round Robin write I confessed. But I can't share it here. Some things are best held between one's ears or kept in short rasped whispers, told to a single stranger across email who doesn't know what is truth or fiction. The confession would be for whom? Unburdening passes it on, though I would argue that we should at least confess our trespasses to those whom we've trespassed against.
Lately my weeks have been appointment-filled. The eye doctor (today), a haircut (tomorrow). I have a lot of therapy jammed in at the end of the week, will actually go from my therapist to the psychiatrist on Friday (and then to Sacred Rose to get on a talented tattoo artist's waiting list). Me, me, blah, blah, blah. My eyes, my hair, my psyche, my skin. My stories, my guilt. I am desperate for someone else's stories, for some stimulation besides my sidewalk strolls, beyond the hall outside my son's classroom, beyond this living room, sunlit and open. The waiting rooms I encounter are all empty and my anecdotes come from half-read stories in the New Yorker.
I have been so sheltered and selfish, buffered against the world by time and home, by a kind man who protects me and takes on too much. I have forgotten what it is like to go without, to not have. Depression can be a form of self-absorption. You can't see beyond the sludge you travel in. You get angry at the world or at those who happen to inadvertently trample on some idiosyncratic sore spot. I'm lucky to have a supportive partner who has waited me out and taken some serious knocks along the way, has not abandoned me despite my difficulties.
This is the spot for a pronouncement, the climb e'very mountain portion of my post. I've made my confessions. I'm changing. Good things lie ahead. But I have no idea what any of it means or how to think about it. I am in the moment, feeling lucky, feeling in between. The changes may be all internal. My entire life could be altered. I don't know. I'm not sure who I am or what I will become.
My therapist says that times of ambiguity can also be times of great creativity. It doesn't feel like that right now. I'm actually afraid of the changes, wish that all it would take would be a few mental adjustments to make it good. No matter how directly I face the symbolic rationale behind my fears, I'm still afraid to drive. I haven't been riding my bike. I see all of this apprehension and am not sure how to deal with it. It hits me all at once, my many faults and weaknesses, the huge tasks that await. The biggest change of all is to admit that I need help to make the changes, need to ask for support from other people, starting with the ones closest to me.
Maybe that is enough as a first step: asking for help. Saying what I really think and feel. Taking the risk to make a stand and to enforce my boundaries even when it might mean loss or exposure. One small thing at a time.
There I go again. Me. Me. Me. But I hope that through all of this focus on myself, I can be more present to my child and husband, can teach the boy that it's ok to risk, that he, like the rest of us, is a flawed yet fine human being. I can finally be present. I am here, my boundaries are stronger, like my foundation. It's me, it's him, it's the family. It's other people.
No longer. Today in my Round Robin write I confessed. But I can't share it here. Some things are best held between one's ears or kept in short rasped whispers, told to a single stranger across email who doesn't know what is truth or fiction. The confession would be for whom? Unburdening passes it on, though I would argue that we should at least confess our trespasses to those whom we've trespassed against.
Lately my weeks have been appointment-filled. The eye doctor (today), a haircut (tomorrow). I have a lot of therapy jammed in at the end of the week, will actually go from my therapist to the psychiatrist on Friday (and then to Sacred Rose to get on a talented tattoo artist's waiting list). Me, me, blah, blah, blah. My eyes, my hair, my psyche, my skin. My stories, my guilt. I am desperate for someone else's stories, for some stimulation besides my sidewalk strolls, beyond the hall outside my son's classroom, beyond this living room, sunlit and open. The waiting rooms I encounter are all empty and my anecdotes come from half-read stories in the New Yorker.
I have been so sheltered and selfish, buffered against the world by time and home, by a kind man who protects me and takes on too much. I have forgotten what it is like to go without, to not have. Depression can be a form of self-absorption. You can't see beyond the sludge you travel in. You get angry at the world or at those who happen to inadvertently trample on some idiosyncratic sore spot. I'm lucky to have a supportive partner who has waited me out and taken some serious knocks along the way, has not abandoned me despite my difficulties.
This is the spot for a pronouncement, the climb e'very mountain portion of my post. I've made my confessions. I'm changing. Good things lie ahead. But I have no idea what any of it means or how to think about it. I am in the moment, feeling lucky, feeling in between. The changes may be all internal. My entire life could be altered. I don't know. I'm not sure who I am or what I will become.
My therapist says that times of ambiguity can also be times of great creativity. It doesn't feel like that right now. I'm actually afraid of the changes, wish that all it would take would be a few mental adjustments to make it good. No matter how directly I face the symbolic rationale behind my fears, I'm still afraid to drive. I haven't been riding my bike. I see all of this apprehension and am not sure how to deal with it. It hits me all at once, my many faults and weaknesses, the huge tasks that await. The biggest change of all is to admit that I need help to make the changes, need to ask for support from other people, starting with the ones closest to me.
Maybe that is enough as a first step: asking for help. Saying what I really think and feel. Taking the risk to make a stand and to enforce my boundaries even when it might mean loss or exposure. One small thing at a time.
There I go again. Me. Me. Me. But I hope that through all of this focus on myself, I can be more present to my child and husband, can teach the boy that it's ok to risk, that he, like the rest of us, is a flawed yet fine human being. I can finally be present. I am here, my boundaries are stronger, like my foundation. It's me, it's him, it's the family. It's other people.
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