Completing the Circle

Can you hear the steam as it frantically escapes the prison of the tea kettle?  No, not the whistle of the kettle, but the desperate cries of the steam as it rushes furiously out, only to disband in confusion as it wonders where it is.  A short while ago, this “steam” was calm and complacently together as its other self – water.  Now, it has been forced into a different state of being and a lot of confusion must be dealt with before it can return to the state of peace.

I understand those cries of the steam.  Everything was alright for so long.  Sure, some pieces were out of place at times, because we all have our boiling points, but which family doesn’t?  And then, suddenly, literally overnight everything changed.  The semblance of our Family System breathed its last breath and quietly died.

 Oh my goodness, no, please don’t worry.  I’m not still hanging on to those dysfunctional roots from decades ago, and yet…as Shakespeare wrote, “The wheel is come full circle, I am here.”  All of those horribly wretched times had their place in our lives.  I cannot speak for anyone else, but I have Watched, I have Listened, I have Learned.  

I’m not sure there can be anything more inwardly gratifying as experiencing one of those “Aha” moments in which your struggles, tears, and frustrations suddenly come together somewhat cohesively.  Past experiences don’t create “the” answer, it doesn’t erase the tapes which, though almost silent, still resonate in your head, and it doesn’t excuse anything, and yet, it’s all okay now.  Your soul is freer and celebrates its independence. I have returned to graduate school so that I can help others out of a hole I once was in.

After many years as being the Identified Patient in my family – you know, “the reason that everything was going to hell” – I was finally able to say (though, to be honest, I had said these words many times before), “Fuck you!  It wasn’t just my fault!”  I was always the one sent to the psychologists, psychiatrists, OT therapists, PT therapists,  speech therapist, Christian youth groups, rehabilitation centers…which ever “helpful” title could be found, there I went.   When none of that worked, I was shipped off to boarding school, which created a whole slew of other issues, but also many great friends and memories. Yin and the yang, right?  

Though very clearly given the role of IP, I was never blatantly told by anyone that the familial distress was due to my head injury and subsequent problems, but sometimes words don’t need to be used.  The situation became quite obvious in the way interactions shifted between the individuals I had spent my existence with.  The elephant in the room began to rot and decay, yet the only solution was for many, including myself, to point more fingers at me, the Identified Patient.  

Nothing hurtful was done to me intentionally, for within the family-in-crisis, members are struggling to hold onto their sanity as the life they knew spirals out of control. The glorious (and simultaneously frightening) fact about families is that they involve more than one person.  Each member plays their part and families are an orchestrated event, so when something happens, there is reaction.  It is therefore, most assuredly, only natural to consider the IP as the reason for the change in family dynamics.  However families live in a state of symbiosis; they all depend on one another to play certain roles, and when these roles are inextricably changed, the entire community as such, is altered.  This is not to say that each family necessarily has clear-cut parts (the hero, the scapegoat, caretaker, lost child, mascot & mastermind), but the roles we had before, whatever they were and however subtle, shift.

There are not, cannot, be clearly defined solutions for such families, for not only is the family a group of individuals, but the family is a system within itself.   The manner in which the family has operated, engaged, moved, reacted, and responded has been altered without permission.  Thus, in an effort to signal to family members and society that,  “Hey! This isn’t ok with me!” retaliatory events begin to take effect.  Disobedience, lying, arguing, substance abuse, depression, extra-marital affairs, avoidance, denial, suicidal ideations and attempts, and running away (both physically and mentally) take place.  Attempts to revert the family system back to homeostasis (the way that it was) occur naturally and subconsciously, yet the same players are no longer in the game, and so usually, without professional help, attempts are unsuccessful.

How did this happen in my family?  I’ll give a you a glimpse into my world, my viewpoint:

I was sixteen, had been in a car accident and I simply didn’t understand.  One day I was “normal” and the next (well, after coming out of the coma), I was a person who could no longer participate in the things I had always done and I didn’t – couldn’t - understand why.  Imagine being suddenly told that you cannot drive a car, when there doesn’t seem to be any reason why you shouldn’t be able to.  Imagine everyone suddenly treating you completely differently.  Why??  WHY ARE YOU ALL TREATING ME DIFFERENTLY??!!!  It didn’t make any sense. 

And, as most any child who is told “No!” again and again (as they had to, for I was no longer capable, of driving, of going to school, of hanging out with my friends as most  16 year olds do), I threw fits.  I was angry, I was hurt, I felt so belittled.  I am 16, goddammit!!  Why can my sister do things that I can’t do?  She’s younger than I am!  Why have so many things that I was so good simply been ripped from my life?  I can’t swim anymore (my left side was considerably weaker and my impressive ability to hold my breath was destroyed by a collapsed lung), I can’t go to concerts, I can’t go to my boyfriend’s house,  I have a ten o’clock curfew (this made me feel lower than almost anything.  I was so humiliated that I had to be home at 10).  It just isn’t fair!  The accident wasn’t my fault, so why am I suffering for it???

My behaviors became much more risky, which is a common symptom of head injury victims.  I became clinically depressed and suicidal.  I began cutting myself.  I participated in so many things I would never have even considered before.  I wasn’t myself.

And my family?  Well, they weren’t themselves, either.  Roles were shifted, re-categorized and re- written.  There was never a family therapy plan.  My father didn’t want to – that’s not “how you handled problems”.  My mother?  I’m sure she would have attempted, though that wasn’t how she was raised, either, but as a mother you are desperate to do whatever it takes to keep your family together.  My sisters continued on with their lives, with their schooling, hearing about all the things I did from friends, some of it true, most of it probably not.  What a wonderful way to grow up, huh?

But there is a solution, and to me it doesn’t include sending a family member away, especially since there were just as many ‘bad things” out there.  Though to be fair, a big part of it was to shield & protect my sisters, giving them the most normal life possible.

It’s in the past, now.  My father has died, from complications brought on by alcoholism, my mother lives in Colorado and surrounds herself with friends and the current offspring she is friends with.  I speak with one sister, and it is so very healing to slowly begin to rebuild what we can of our family.  Yet, so much has been lost.  It makes me sad, but that’s ok, it has to be ok.  I have my own history, I’ve been in recovery for twenty years, though not all those years successfully, I’ve had two divorces: one from a man twenty-three years my senior who was a blatant fill-in for my own father (it was a short, platonic marriage) and the other a lovely relationship with the father of my two beautiful children.  We still have a good, loving relationship.

I have two wonderful children, and as a somewhat professional attendee of therapy for half of my life, I know the cycle will end here.   We talk about things; we share, we laugh, we scream, we sing, we giggle, we cry.   It is our feelings, our emotions and is as acceptable as can be.  It is so beautiful.   If something traumatic ever where to happen, I will be on that  phone  to a colleague for an immediate appointment, because I very much understand where the lack of a qualified MFT lead my family. I will not let that happen with my kids.  Cycles can be broken and everyone has skeletons and dirty laundry.  It makes us the individuals we are.

Yes.  The wheel is come full circle, I am here.

(a)lone

Something is happening here and I am afraid.  There is too much afoot… are far too many coincidences for it to be a coincidence.

And yet…. What am I so afraid of?  I seem to be floating between two separate, but very real, realities of “I don’t want to be alone” and “I don’t want to get involved with anyone”.  My soul misses having someone to coexist with. It is the unequivocal “grass is greener” situation, because yes, while I thoroughly  relish having my own house and my own space, I also long for those gentle, intimate times of togetherness and interaction, of hand holding and eye gazing, and the morphing into a beautiful contentedness.  

But…why?

On our way to a Brothers Comatose concert the other night, friend of mine said, “Wow, you really think about this stuff, huh?” and he’s right, I do.  My instructor said some profound words in class the other night, “Our wounding comes from relationships, therefore our healing must come from relationships” and I couldn’t agree more.  It is no mistake why I am now in graduate school, for an MFT therapist’s degree: it is to recapture and repair the family I lost so very long ago.  Nonetheless, I simply wish I wasn’t trying to heal a lifetime in a 2 month period. 

In a stirringly haunting song by Hanni El Khatib, he  cries out, “Wait!  Wait!  Wait!  ‘Cause nobody wants to be alone.”  He moans this with that same desperation and loneliness I feel in my heart every time I see two happy people together, two people dancing closely together, their bodies united with the knowledge of oneness, or just walking hand in hand.  It’s been so long since my heart smiled from being in love with another human.  

About a year ago, I was told by someone to make the list of what I was looking for in a person.  I did this with every attempt at being ‘honest with myself’ and handed the assignment in.  He read the list with a smile on his face and told me ever-so gently that I needed to lower my expectations.   Sigh….

I have met some beautiful men recently, in real life, not this ‘wink system’ (which has lead to more marriages than any other dating service, by the way). There’s that guy whom I was married to for a decade. He’s a super guy and after our divorce, we shared with one another that we shall always love each other.  Then there’s the next guy.  He’s been a super wonderful person in a many different ways.  I’ve learned so much about myself and my (many) imperfections with this man.  I think, I hope, we will always have a good friendship.  Then, there’s the beautiful ‘text’ guys… helping my Ego realize that how I see myself  is not how others  see me and to just have fun. Let go.  It’s Life, not brain surgery….

Ok, so I do try to interact…I winked at a guy on that stupid Match.com.  I’ve actually forced myself to wink at many, because I can’t say I tried unless I participate, right?  Then... one of these winks responded.  Aw, hell.  I’m not sure I’m willing to go as far as actually meeting someone for coffee (except that world photographer who lives in Luxembourg….I’d meet him), but I’m forcing myself to at least get $15 worth of winks out of the $60 I spent on this stupid, stupid idea.

Well, shit.  What, then, shall I do?  Stay in my room and focus on yoga, school work, blogging and take Mabi to the park every day?  What kind of a life is that?  Everyone  tells me “As soon as you quite looking for it, it’ll happen.”  Well, dammit!  That’s a psychological mind-fuck if I ever heard one.  I’m not thinking about it, I’m living it?  Somewhat “coincidentally”,  I read a quote from R. Schuller which goes as follows:  “If you listen to your fears, you will die never knowing what a great person you might have been.” 

 If I have learned anything, it is that my fear permeates most of my decisions and stops me from doing those very actions which help me grow so that I may become the person I want to be.  I don’t want to hurt any other people, and yet, I am afraid: afraid of getting hurt, afraid of making a mistake, afraid of being alone, perhaps afraid of finding happiness?   Afraid of that desperately uncomfortable feeling I get when….  Picture the scene:  Nevada City, a freakin’ activist film festival, so there are hundreds of gorgeous young men with that scruffy facial hair, long, tangled hair, just pure deliciousness from my point of view.  So there I am, shooting pictures, when the one man to approach me is the very rotund “Bob”, in his early 60s, with breath that could be improved with a Tic-Tac.  He has decided we are going to be dance partners, pulling me right in front of the stage and we begin swing dancing; he’s swirling me in my fishnet stockings and cowboy boots around (trust me, there were hippies & activists everywhere, the outfit worked).  I haven’t danced like that since Billy Bob’s in Ft. Worth 20 years ago.  Wow.  He kept pulling me so close to him, pressing me into him, swirling me around him and then dipping me.  <groan>  WHY???!!!    

Well, I’ll tell you why.  Because tonight, my question to the Universe was answered with somewhat of a chuckle:  Just stop. Stop wishing, stop longing, stop searching, stop,stop, stop! 

 It (he) will find you and hopefully it isn’t Bob, but if it is, there ya have it.  The Universe has always provided me what I need when I needed it, so I must quit thinking I know and instead do my footwork; my studies, my Chandra Namaskar and my Tribe. 

I’ll leave the rest of it alone.

Home Less

It is 32˚ degrees outside. I have a heater two feet away from my frog-flannel-sheeted, duvet-covered bed, trying to make sense of this ridiculously stupid Match.com error I participated in, while outside, maybe 20-30 feet away in (I am assuming) the carport, there sits a human being.   Cold and coughing, he is undoubtedly shivering uncontrollably, and I am wishing I hadn’t given our extra blankets to the homeless camp two weeks ago, just so I would have had something for him here.

I surreptitiously attempted to find him this afternoon, to confirm my beliefs, but I saw nothing and I’m not foolish enough to go blazing onto someone else’s property to look for another trespasser.  I may be naive, but I’m not stupid.  Well, I’m usually not stupid.

It’s difficult to be sitting here in this semi-warm room (about 66˚ now) hearing his constant coughing as I wonder what his story is.  Why is he there?  What happened to put him there?  Drugs, alcohol and mental illness usually play a tremendous role in the lives of the homeless population, but some, like the father of someone I know, simply prefers to be homeless.  He says the streets are his home and he doesn’t want any other.  Ok, so there you have it.  But why?  What made this gentle man so fond of living without a roof over his head, to protect him from the rain, and walls, to shelter him from the wind?  What events in his life, which dominant forces drove this man down his Path?  What is his story? 

 I have always interested in people’s stories.  As a child, an adolescent, a 20, 30, 40 year old, it’s always been a wish of mine to approach a random stranger and say, “Tell me your story!  What was your greatest joy? What was your most heart-wrenching moment?” yet I’m not sure how kindly people would take to that, especially the homeless population.  It isn’t “safe” to tell a stranger those secrets which you, yourself, do not even dare think of.  What analgesic event took place and numbed the inner-fight of their Human Spirit? What diminutive words were said that erased the last vestiges of self-esteem?

There is rarely only one event in the lives of this self-discarded, feared, misunderstood population.  There is a circular causality in which many different variables play a hand in the outcome.  And, if there is no positive loop in the feedback system, signifying a need for change (i.e. taking that community college course to keep the job, go to that clinic to stay on the medication, asking for help to quit drinking), then the system remains in homeostasis, and the losses; of home, vehicle, job, support, simply continue.  Until all that is left is…nothing.  

It is difficult to climb out of that hole.  I was a fortunate one and can see how difficult that might be for a man in his 60s who has a serious addiction to alcohol or a long undiagnosed/untreated mental issue to even attempt a change.  We give up sometimes, because after countless vain attempts, we see little, if any progress. “Get a job!”  People say, but how?  Would you give a homeless man a job in your workplace?  How should he apply?  Just go into Wal-mart and sit at the computer?  Hmm?  Which “home” address would he put down?  As previously mentioned, it isn’t so easy, because along with those rudimentary things such as home address, another prominent need is the desire to participate.  

So, I’m sad. For him, for all of them.    I wish still I had those blankets.

My Beautiful Body

I looked at my Body today. I looked at her with a different perspective than I have become accustomed to per media influences (too chunky, too flabby, too wrinkly, too uneven, too saggy, too rough, too callused, thin nails, bad cuticles, gray hair, not enough hair, too much hair there, short hair, thinning eyelashes, discolored skin, ad infinitum).  Today, I looked at my Body with gratitude and honor, with respect and admiration.  This Body has taken me places.  She has done so much for me and it seems the only thing I do for her is complain.  

Sigh….  When will I learn?

When I was three, this little Body sat on a tricycle and rode it out of our gated driveway down Cardinal Lane to Midkiff, then all the way down to Loop 250 (which was a Farmers Market road then)before she was found by a neighbor.  That’s about two and a half miles on a tricycle.  

This Body was knocked down by the metal gates to our house, with the gate crushing the ankles under it, pinning me down.  I remember this well (I was 4 then).  Yet she held steady.  No crushed ankles.  This Body was flown off a bucking mare, face first onto the street when I was seven, with gravel stuck to my face, but no broken bones.  The left leg of this Body withstood the weight of that same fully-grown mare, who knocked me down and stood on my thigh for 5 minutes as I lay screaming. She simply looked down at me with disdain. Again, a nice horse-shoe shaped bruise, but nothing broken. At this point, my Body consulted with my mind and convinced it to stay the hell away from that mare.

When I was 16, this Body survived a crash into a house one beautiful Sunday afternoon in March. There was no pulse and no heartbeat for a moment, according to witnesses, but then she remembered her manners and sprang back into Life, with a head injury, collapsed lung, cracked collar bone, one broken rib, lacerations, contusions, concussion,  etc.  Five days in a coma gave her time to gather her spark and zest before she ventured back onto the highway of Life.

And that was the easy stuff.

I then subjected my Body to years of poison; of alcohol and any other substances I could find…again and again and again, trying to fill that desperate hole inside my soul which would not be filled.  I did this for years. I placed my Body in many precarious situations… in drunken, black-out situations…some involving knives from offended parties, headlights facing me as I was in the wrong lane, desperate rides in a car full of strangers, just to get that next drink.  In the middle of this liquid suicide, my Body carried a child, a blessed child who did not deserve to live in this self-created hell.  So I found his mother, and on September 16, two days after I had given him life, my Body almost died inside as I handed him to his real mother, the one who could give him what he needed.  My Body survived that, but barely.  For over the next two years I tried in every way possible to kill this beautiful Body:  alcohol, drugs, pills, razor blades; constant emotional, physical and sexual assaults from another Lost Soul.  Yet, she stayed true.  She refused to give in to my demands, because she knew better.  She knew there was still so much to do, so many more things to accomplish.  

My Body wanted to give me those gifts I had so long dreamed of…children, adventures, freedom from Self.

 

Eventually she gave me those glorious children; basking in the indescribable joys of Life within.  She held them and protected them from me, even as I took that which was not good for me.  She gave them Life and was overjoyed in the blessings of nursing them.  My Body exalted in the Miracle of Womanhood.

My Body knows.  My Body has separated herself from my mind, which was so often my downfall.  Consuming foods which were not good for me, I reached a point where the weight was painful and I had to do something to heal my poor Body.  I am grateful this recognition happened at thirty pounds, rather than more.  So many people seem to ignore their Body’s cry for help.

She has so often given in to my demands of fitness, despite physical issues which limit her.  My fallen barefoot feet have pounded the pavement, crying out in pain, yet she continued. My body enjoys the Life brought by yoga, a mindful existence with mind and spirit.  A blissful harmony which doesn’t violate, yet nurtures, instead.

Recently, my Body held another Life.  Yet she knew something was wrong as the connection between mother and child was almost completely silent.  My Body once again had to suffer the pain of giving up a life, yet this time before his truly began, as she screamed in anguish in the loss her Last Child.  She mourned immeasurably, though this time with her children, and the bond between the two children and herself became even stronger.

 

I can only hope my Body will endure much more as I work to change my treatment of her.  I intend to begin honoring her, for all she done for me and all she has given me.

 

I love my beautiful Body.