Work in Progress - update, 17, 27, 28 October,6th Nov 2012 - nb
- this is stalled. I am having complications with my eyes at the moment, the focal points in each eye as it happens, making it diffifult to do stuff like this. I can see the world, just not the precise things I am looking at.
For those what don't know, I have been on an psychological treadmill since 1989, spanning some 20 odd years or so of incidental, occasional, directed and even focused therapy, concerning my 61 years of experience and the effect and consequences the chaotic and unstable circumstances of my childhood had on me and my ability to experience my reality directly, my feelings engaged and appropriate to the day. For most of my life, I have been disconnected from my feelings, one of the 'tragically hip,' to cool for school, and out of step with my reality, unable to interact emotionally on anything but a superficial level, gauging my 'reactions' externally, with no inner gauge save uncertainty. Basically I was either angry or waiting to be angry. A sociopath, incapable of empathy and/or spontaneous feelings, isolated, alone, and ultimately, confused. As of spring of 2010 and for a couple of years now, having made a breakthru regarding my anger/flight/fight mechanism, I believe I have been tapping directly into the emotional landscape of my very early childhood; experiencing first hand, long forgotten, dormant emotions that are now coming to the forefront of my psyche as I, the adult, am host, witness, and guardian to these emotions. And I, the adult, am watching as I become 'whole' in this regard, as I 'allow' these feeling from long ago to express themselves freely, and the yesterday me and the today me work in conjunction, forming, somehow, a new person in the doing. It's tricky, as I thread my way thru emotions that feel like they are 'now' but are actually from long ago. And I am learning how to experience these repressed feelings that overlay or underlay the present day scenarios without somehow 'identifying' with them too strongly,letting them happen as if they are their own entities, independent, yet connected. It seems to be working. I, the 'me' that everyone feels in themselves, am starting to experience my emotional reality now, and not like before, not hours from now, or days or even years from now. It's a very different game from the one I was playing before, spontaneous, unpredictable, scary in some regards, but it's powerful, and reassuring. I may be sad, or devastated, or upset, or even joyful, but at least now I feel like I am standing on firm ground, facing whatever is in my path with strength and conviction. My feelings, once a wasteland of depression, anger and uncertainty, are now signposts, guides, comforts that help me understand where I am in all of this. And I am no longer afraid.
Case in point. My recent surgery. I am now at home convalescing, post op 3 weeks or so. And a friend, my best friend, has made me lasagna. For my convalescence Yum. Lasagna. I love lasagna. And I love her. Except now, she has thrown a wrench in to the matrix of our relationship. She has put spinach in the lasagna. Green, slimy, yucky spinach. All mixed in everywhere. And there is now a fly in my pasta pie. How can I look this gift horse in the mouth? And how could she do this to me? I did once extol the virtues of a store bought spinach spanicapizza that I was miraculously able to eat, once, a while ago. Perhaps she remembers that and has acted accordingly. But it doesn't matter. I am compromised by my surgery and the morphine I am on, and am weak and vulnerable, and in no way able to deal with this situation rationally. I am very emotional at this time, and so, angry, pissed off, conflicted, dejected. Bummed. I can't eat this. Never mind I haven't tried it. I can see the slimy green goo with my own two eyes, and I have food issues. Childhood food issues. Foods that I didn't like literally stuffed down my throat by a father who was pissed (and most definitely driven by his own childhood, wartime and family ghosts) that his son won't eat what is in front of him. Issues that I have been working on for years that still haunt me physiologically. Try rationalizing psychology to a gag reflex. Ha. And now, in my weakened state, my best friend, a surrogate mother on some levels, has joined the enemy, and is, in that 'gotta do it because to do otherwise is to insult' way, making me eat what I can not stomach.
And so the lasagna, a gift from this friend, meant to be a comfort and a help during my convalescence, sits in the fridge. Decomposing. A big pan of it. Drying out while I dither. What to do with it. I don't know, but I better do something soon or it will go bad, and I can't countenance that. A big waste, and a no no in my book. Days later I decide to try it. Cut a hunk of it out of the pan, heat it up in the toaster oven. Yumm, it sure smells good. Maybe it'll be OK Maybe it's all in my hed. But no. It is what it is, regardless of whether or not it's in my hed. Spinach lasagna, the spinach dominating the lasagna like a bad, pseudo Mexican hot sauce on quality nosh. My stomach is revolting as my gorge rises. I can't eat it. But not to be defeatist, to not denigrate the gift of my friend, I try again, picking out all the spinach, which takes a while. And I lose a lot of the ricotta cheese too, cause it and the spinach have bonded, and won't be separated. Finally, I give it another go, cold, but sans spinach. And,... it's not bad. I can handle it. I think. Even like it, there are meatballs, even if every once in a while my taste buds snag on a tenacious piece of spinach yuck hiding in the yummy tomato sauce. I finish off the piece, somewhat satisfied if a tad exhausted by the ordeal, and cut up the rest of the pie, put it into separate containers, and put them in the fridge for later.
Days later again, in the fridge it sits. Untouched. Silent. My eyes avoid it when I'm making my peckish rounds, looking for the right thing. It's just so much hassle when all I want is to pop something yummy into the toaster oven for a quick bite. I bought the toaster oven specifically for that purpose, for this exact time, so that I wouldn't have to prepare or cook during my convalescence. So here I am, today, days later, hungry, feeling reasonably stable, looking for something easy to eat, and the lasagna finally catches my eye. I remember the meatballs, and the sauce. They were good, the pasta just right. So I go for it. Such is denial. Surely the spinach is not that bad. I place it in the oven, heat it up. Cautious, but days away from the initial tasting, smells good, and hoping that it will alright this time. I have confronted the enemy, and I have won. It will be OK.
Simultaneously, coincidentally, something else is bothering me. I have just had an email from a friend who hosts a "my mother's story" site where people talk about their mothers. Mostly, as far as I know, a site for loving, understanding, personal mom stories, and stories about mom that explain the discrepancies of the historians writing therein. Only I am having a problem with this concept. Because my mother left me, when I was 5. And rejected me henceforth. Not my sister, just me. And it seems to me that while the site is for 'understanding' and 'forgiving' moms, who, after all, had done their best, and were really only acting in their children's own best interests, even if we didn't understand their motivations at the time, the underlying concept is flawed. That it's all very fine this appreciate the bad mommy thing, but that in trying to understand our mother's story, our own stories can get minimized. Where's the site for 'our inner children,' or, 'who's going to stand up for child that once was?' And are we not somehow the traitors within as we conjure forth comforting images of women, who for better or worse, abandoned this little boy or that little girl in their times of need.
For I can now see that little boy that I once was, from a distance, just as clear as now I can see some stranger child on the street that is being mistreated or abused by a uncaring or abusive parent, I can see how that little boy was me, and how my mother
mistreated me, betrayed me, rejected me even as I longed for her comforting touch in the face of my father's fury. I can look at that little boy and feel empathy for what he was going thru. And I, and the child within still long for our mother's touch. For she did touch me with comfort once. Even if it was only in the womb, and herself perhaps not as consciously committed to my well being as might be hoped for. For a brief time, I knew of a mother's touch. Of her warmth. Of her comfort. Of the caress of her inner most self. And on some level, I can feel that longing. Now. Here. Still.
So here I am, standing in front of this lasagna, this loving gift made for me for while I am infirm, convalescing, a gift well intentioned and good. Only this gift, made with love, this gift contains landmines; is a culinary war zone, ambivalence the heady spice of its component parts, and it is tearing me apart as I juggle the love and caring with the revulsion and abuse contained within. And as I stand, in the kitchen, this adult, as cognizant of my psychology and situation as anyone might be, and more than just some, I cry and blubber as I pull this lasagna apart, digging out the yucky bits so that I can eat the tattered, cooling remains. It's not supposed to happen this way; it's not fair, at least not from my inner toddler's point of view, and I am really sobbing now, grief stricken as I deal with the disgusting spinach which is keeping me from the comfort I need, all 61 years of me together now, in this moment, the anger and frustration and loss and indignation of years of repression and untoward circumstance protesting this offending pie, tears streaming from my eyes as I pick thru the culinary rubble. No mom to hug me and make me feel better as she 'fixes' everything so that I can eat without fear that some slimy green yucky thing will attack my throat and send me puking to the bathroom. And it's just too much for my vulnerable state, and so I stand there, alone, defeated, sobbing, as I stare blankly at the bloody, pasty remains lying before me.
So what's the point? This is me. Emotionally. Down to the very bottom of my psyche, or at least as far as I have been able to dig. There is no uncertainty here. No act being put on to manipulate or deceive. This is how I feel, and these are my feelings, and I know what is going on here. Here, I am, if not the expert, at least the source. They say that there is nothing certain in life, but for me, this is certainty. I am what is going on here, and I can feel it all the way down. As John Lennon says in "God," "I just believe in me, Yoko and me, And that's reality" And for me, that's certainty. And for a person who for 50 yerrs or so had no idea what I felt, that is something.
That part of me that first felt this, the 'inner child,' the repressed and forgotten 'inner child' that lurks beneath the surface of my everyday adult life, my adult 'persona,' and that latches on to any present day situation that will give it some form of vent, that part of me is finally free to hurt. And hurt it does, no matter that I am an adult and 'know' what it is that I am experiencing, knows an abreaction from a hawk or a handsaw.It hurts all of me. Because it is pain, pure and simple, pain from days gone by perhaps, but pain that is part of my experience today, now, with that sabotaging lasagna pie and the spinach that has come back to haunt me. And I have now experienced it, felt it, acknowledged it, let it do what it needs to do so that I can move on and deal with my situation with all the cards face up on the table. Will I eat spinach now. Who knows. But at least the spinach now stands a chance, for now, I am open to the experience.
