Always outside the Box

 

I think this is a place I will always be. A place where I will always see things differently. A place where I have that just-enough-different perspective that no one else sees.  I was more than excited to attend a counseling meeting with many other experienced counselors, but I quickly felt it wasn't the place for me.  I met some very nice people.  But they were not my people.  They just didn't have the passion that I am looking for in the field. They were missing that untouchable piece of presence, that piece beyond theory or diagnosis.  They were missing that thing that I have that makes me, me. I know that I can not expect everyone to have it.  I know that. But there is so much that is in that connection, that carving of space with another human, that makes such a difference.  I said that existential made sense to me; I got the looks.  I am ok with the looks, and I understand that it is not meant for everyone.  I just want to find people who can see where I am, who I am, and appreciate that. 

I was speaking with one of the counselors about finding a supervisor, and she was arguing with me about what I felt and saw.  I was thrown off, like, who are you to judge my thoughts and feelings!   I tried to explain my passion and point of view, and it was dismissed.  It wasn't long after that that I said my goodbyes and left.  I got in my car thinking, these are not my people. 

It was watching Yalom's cure and feeling it so deeply that I was able to understand a different part of me.  I have a different understanding of myself, of life, of just how precious each and every moment is.  I think part of that is where I have come from in this life and all that I have survived.  I have thought that I would die; I have even at times wanted to die, but there was something or someone that kept me going. On the worst of days, there was a spark. A spark that doesn't even have any words. Another part of that is just me, the person that I have become and worked so hard for in this life.  I have always been the one to think about things a little harder and a little differently than everyone else. I think, for most of my life, I have seen that as almost a curse. Maybe it's time that I start looking at it as the thing that makes me who I am.  I struggle to even put that difference into words. 

It's sitting in a session, seeing that little bird on the ledge outside the window, and enjoying it with every speck of space and time.  Yet, someone else could see that same bird, and it doesn't even register just how cool it is.  I feel like I live life like that every single day. So often I feel like the way I experience life isn't appreciated or even understood, and that is what I long for most. For that part, that spark to be seen, understood, and cherished. I come to my therapy sessions with a rawness, with a desire to understand and help them move forward. It's just that how I do it comes from a place beyond the books. The book part is important; the theories, skills, and techniques are important, but there is something beyond all of that that plays an equally important role. 

Even in this profession, I am going to have to look for those people who think differently, who can appreciate how I see things even if they don't see it the same way.  I am always so accommodating and willing to understand others.  I want that same kind of understanding from others, for myself.  I just don't think I realized I would have to search for it, even in this field. 

So I will always be outside the box, and I am going to have to understand that part of myself and be ok with knowing it is just one of the things that makes me me. Goodness, I truly hope that this will make sense to someone other than myself. 

I heart your heart 

Not a fan of Holidays

 

It doesn't matter which one it is; I am not a fan. I was thinking about that today, because it is the fourth of July, and as I took Mariska to work today, there were all these people loading up their cars, getting ready for the cookouts, picnics, and pool parties, and then there is me. Dropping Mariska off at work, seeing everyone with their pool noodles, their festive Fourth of July colors, the big hats, the beads, then going home alone.  There are no invitations; there are no invites asking if we are ok or if we want to join them.  There is nothing, just another day doing the normal things I always do, and not a single soul reaches out to invite us or make sure that we are ok.  

Then I get angry at myself: why, after all this time, does it even bother me anymore? We have never really been included, thought of, or made to feel special. I am 52, and why after all this time do holidays still sting? I feel like holidays are made for families. They are made for the people who have people! What about those people who don't have people? What about those people? What about me? To be honest, I would not even impose; if someone asked, I would probably say no, I wouldn't want to get in the way or be a bother. I am all too aware that I am not a part of their family. But just to be a thought to someone would be more than I could hope for. 

So on this Holiday, I have separated laundry, washed the rugs, mopped the floor, vacuumed, and done all the things. I am getting ready to write my paper. And there is a sad ache in my heart that I just can't shake.  I would love nothing more than to make that special red, white, and blue dessert or pasta salad to bring to a gathering of people, just because it's what you are supposed to do on these days for families. Not a fan of fireworks anyway; they just scare the animals. 

So instead of a gathering, a celebration connecting with friends, I write what is on my heart and hope that someday there will be a place for me.  A place where I am thought, a place where I belong. 

Someday, maybe. 

I heart your heart 

So much Shame surrounds her

 

It's really hard to realize that I was truly just a kid at 13. I was not this little adult; I was just a girl who had no chance of being the little girl I deserved. Wrapping my heart and head around her life, the life that we lived, is extremely difficult. There is so much shame and embarrassment that surrounds everything about her. I find this all so hard to comprehend. All the work that I have done and all that I understood, there are pieces of that 13-year-old that I just don't understand. There is so much that I understand today, yet this girl has so much that I struggle to find words for. I was all around an embarrassment in every way, and ashamed of all of me all the time. I never said the right words, never looked the right way, and never fit in; in all of the ways that everyone thought that I should. Because of that, there was this constant embarrassment that I wore no matter what I did. I still carry so much of that today. This is one of the hardest pieces to understand with a history like mine. It's like there are pieces that she has, there are pieces that I have, and to finally hold all the pieces at once and try to put them in some kind of order and give them meaning is a place that is just extremely difficult. 

The shame and embarrassment that exists for merely breathing is so real and so intense. I feel it to this day. Sometimes it's little things. Other times it's bigger things.  There was this feeling that I have always had, something untouchable and ever-present. There was just something about me that was wrong.  I was just never enough, and in the same breath, I was always too much. What kind of place is that to grow up in, or at least try? Well, it isn't. 

There is just so much about that spunky girl. So much for me to understand, to hold close, and make space for without any judgment.  She believed that she was going to die that day, and living with that is an enormous burden.  Feeling like there is something inherently wrong with you, having that happen, and then thinking I couldn't even do that right.  In those moments, I remember thinking that I just wanted them to kill me.  I wanted them to just finish me off; I could not imagine another minute of what they were doing to me. I didn't want to die, but the weight of what happened was suffocating.  When it was over, I wanted to be anyone but myself. I didn't know how to live, and I sure didn't know how to live with the memories and the silence about what was done that day. And I think I always used to say, one rape was ok; if I just had to deal with my father, that was ok; if it was just Albert. If it was just Don, I could just keep going. But this was something so very different; this was something that happened that broke pieces of me into millions and millions of pieces that I have slowly been trying to get back together. I do think that there are pieces that have been found, there are pieces that will never be found, and pieces that Spunky holds that need care. It's giving those pieces a place to rest, recover, and be seen and heard.

I feel like I am not making any sense; feelings and thoughts are swirling, and I don't know how to make sense of them. How I have managed to keep myself together and survive what I have been through.  Somehow, being 13 is so different for me to process. Like the life that a 13-year-old is supposed to get to experience are things that I never got.  I am trying to wrap my mind around those things, and I am not sure that I can.    I want to see her and all the things she experienced, like how I am finally able to see little Callahan.  It's like all the things I know are thrown out the window, and I am starting all over again trying to find my words. She was just 13. The shame grows, and I think it's been growing since that day. I have shed some and continue to, but there are things just so affected. There are things that have never been given a voice, and I hope they will scream when the time comes.  I want that feeling to disappear of wanting to understand something that there is no understanding.  I want to take each piece and have it make some kind of sense; that just isn't possible.  There is no way to understand evil, no way to comprehend what they did.  I want that need to understand to disappear and feel able to let go and keep moving forward. I think about how far I have come, even feeling stuck in this spot, and I find it hard to imagine the things that I will be able to accomplish when I no longer feel that need to understand the incomprehensible. 

I heart your heart