Comforting The Wounded Child

Thich Nhat Hanh says there is a wounded child in all of us in need of comfort and needs to be brought into our mindfulness practices in order to facilitate healing.  He talks about bringing her along on meditative walks, maybe even spending a whole week with her, etc.  As flippant as I’d like to be at this concept I can’t find it in me.  He’s right.  The wounded little girl in me has been sending up flares for me to pay attention to her for a long time now. I’ve just thought it was a way for my anger to flare at my Mom in retaliation to all of her self-centered demands for things like they never were when I was growing up.

Memories of being hit, of going hungry, of being isolated in corners while my mother slept have been coming up in my mind.  Of remembering, or rather not remembering, my mother ever showing me how to clean house, just demanding that it be done, and yelling or spanking me when it wasn’t done right.  Of being called stupid, weird, strange, fat, pig, etc.  I won’t allow myself to believe these taunts, beatings and shunning were malicious, intentional attacks on my as a child, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

I guess this harkens back to the whole “getting in touch with your inner child” psycho-babble of the 70’s and 80’s, but as I recall, that just encouraged the rich and self-indulgent to be childish.  This isn’t about getting in touch with your “child” but the “wounded” child.  Two completely different entities.  Christ talks about how we need to become as children, but He was talking in faith, in wonder, in guile.  The wounded child had her wonder and guile taken from her.  Luckily I still have my faith.  I need to work at bringing her back to that child-like state and get away from the angry, child-ish frame of mind.

It seems appropriate for me to comfort her and pay attention to her because I’m trying to re-raise me as well as my mom.  To not only be the mother to her she always wanted and for me to be the mother to me I never had.  An integral  part of that is going to be spending time with my wounded poppet and comfort her, tell her she is loved and wanted and that I am grateful she was born and is a treasure if to no one else but me, and I value that treasure beyond all worth on earth.

I’m not sure how to apply this concept though.  Do I schedule something on the calendar or do I try to remember it in my daily practice and life?  I hope she tells me what she needs because I don’t want to mess myself up more than I already am.

A Night @ The Opera

Went to see Turnadot at the San Francisco War Memorial Opera House.  Puccini’s final work.  My understanding was that he didn’t finish it.  I don’t know how much of it was finished before he died, but it was finished perfectly on stage.  The spectical  of opera always lightens my spirit and my mind.  The talent of the performers, the costumes, the stage dressing….AMAZING.  I’m blessed to have a friend who loves the opera and invites me along. Turnadot is my hero and my new favorite opera.  She was cold, unfeeling and sort of a man hater, but she melted and cried when she finally fell in love.  She gives me hope that I will feel again and maybe find love…beyond the concept anyway.

Had a bite to eat at the Blue Muse by the garage I parked at and played with my phone and just enjoying my own company.

The opera soothes the savage beast as well,  as shampooing the carpet.  Something far more respectable in my opinion.

Writing is Exhausting

So, I wrote 10 pages in my journal last night and it dried out my brain.  I’m worried that I won’t be able to do the amount of work I’m going to need to do in order to get my current project edited and scarier still, I won’t be able to put the work into the one I’m shopping around when it gets picked up by a publishing house.  Doing blogs doesn’t do it because, though I’m writing, I’m skimming the cream off the top of my brain, the ideas that are easy to reach and discuss.  Last night I was trying to figure out why my body was protesting the idea of getting some sort of bariatic surgery to help me get well.  I had to dig through dust and move through the psychic hoard with a shovel.  Though it wasn’t ‘creative’ that normally burns me out like this, it was work and it made me feel like I’d worked all night long even though it was only a few hours, I got it done.

What is the point of recovering if all I’m going to be able to write is light extemporania and not plumb the depths (okay, shallows) of my vast experiences to write about?  What’s the point of going forward with anything?

Indentured Servitude

It’s not all in my mind.  Yes!!  A lot of people seem to think that when I tell them my mother orders me around like an indentured servant, they don’t believe me.  Mostly because they just see her when she’s up for company and on her bestest behavior.  S and D were here to help me move around Mom’s room.  Actually, they had it pretty well done before I got back from getting blood drawn, but that’s not my point.  They were all getting along very well.  Then when I started to help orders started to fly at me.  S eventually got her to go to the front room where I made her breakfast and went back to work.

I whispered the question “How can you work with her ordering you around like that?”

Her response was rather shocking: “She just started that when you came in.”

I don’t know if I want things to change, honestly.  No, I don’t like the way she’s treating me, but I don’t feel like I want to go back to the loving relationship we had.  She hasn’t really treated me any differently, my perception of it was different.  Then she reminded me just how sharp her words are and it hurt because I had allowed myself to be vulnerable with her.  As long as she treats me like a hired servant I am comfortable with my decision to pull away from her again, at least while I’m trying to heal.  I thought building a relationship with her would be beneficial to me, helping her to have the mother that I need and helping me to be the mother she never had.  I think she needs to be in on this concept, and as stated before, I’m not willing to share.

The Anger Wins Again

The anger from the last few days has exhausted me, emotionally and mentally.  I’m sleeping, but not as much as I would like (like 15+ hrs).  The house is still a mess and I’m feeling like a slag for not getting it done.  Not to prove to my mom that I can but to prove to myself that I can.  I just want to curl up in a ball and hide from the world again.  I see nothing but manipulation spewing from my mother’s mouth.  I hate the anger and yet at the same time it’s safe, I’m safe when I have those barbed walls around me.  I wish I could just cuddle Sammy close to me and wait for the end of days, but parrots aren’t exactly the cuddling type, come to think of it, neither is anger.

Stung Again!

There’s this fable or tale or anecdote out there about the frog and the scorpion.  The scorpion asks the frog to take him across the pond, and the frog responded:

F: No, you’ll sting me.

S: No I won’t.  If I did we’d both die.  That isn’t in my best interest.

F: Okay

So, the scorpion mounts the frogs back and the frog glides out into the dark green water when the scorpion stung him.

F: Why did you do that?  Now we’re both going to die.

S: It’s in my nature.

I’ve been working with Mom in trying to build a better relationship with her by letting her in, and it has been going well.  Until, the reason why I stopped sharing with her came back to me today like a ton of bricks being hurled at me one by one, each deftly hitting every tender spot on newly exposed heart, she used them against me.  SHE EVEN USED THE SAME WORDS THAT I TOLD HER I FELT WERE HURTFUL.

Yes, it hurt, and yes, it’s my fault.  I keep forgetting that just because I’m on a fast track right now, I’m trying to grow and heal she isn’t.  Her nature is to be a manipulative bitch and to open myself up to that will only mean that I will drown, whether or not she goes down with me.

Good thing I have therapy tomorrow, huh.

The Ants Go Marching One By One

I sweear it feels like I have bugs crawling on me all the time, and some have burrowed beneith my skin and tickle me for fun.  I scratch and scratch and there isn’t even a welt when I’m done, so I know it’s not a histamine reaction, it’s just all in my head….Like I need the image of an ant hill nesteled in my brain sending out raiding parties to look for bits of me they can bring back to the nest to feed the little larval neurosis the queen gives birth to daily.

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