In a funky place...

I haven't been online much, because I haven't known what to say. It's funny how I can find words for the horrid and painful things, yet lack words for the rest. For the past few weeks I have wanted to update you all about how things are going in therapy, but... I haven't had the words. I want very much to tell you how I have been feeling and what has transpired, but... no words. I'll take a quick shot, eh? I have to because this kind of a block makes me feel like a hack.

The short story is, I have come to some emotional realizations about my relationship with my therapist. I am still sorting it all out, but things have happened and things have changed. There was some healing between us last fall. I also had a realization a couple of months ago when my unconscious informed me through my dreams of my therapist's true nature. These things had a hard time sinking in because Rambo was still fighting a war (with the therapist) when it was no longer necessary. I think that was because he couldn't know it wasn't necessary because I had not accepted him into myself. Let that be a lesson to those of you who think you need to deny your anger and resentment. Do it and those things will run your life for you. I hope you like chaos. :-)

Anyhoo... where I am now... The therapist is on vacation. He has only been gone for two days and already the little girl despairs the loss of her mother. He'll be back in less than three weeks. He offered to speak to me while on vacation, but I felt it wasn't necessary. It just seemed over the top (because my pride wants me to be a grown up). He gave me his cell phone number and asked me to call if I feel I need to. I said I would call if I had an emergency. I don't plan to have any emergencies. However, I am stuck with a very sad and needy child and I don't know what to do (so I've been drinking). The wild feelings have been... well, they've been wild. I've considered moving to CA to be near him. I've considered learning how to use the freakin' web cam in this computer (this one I will do). I've considered another visit. I've considered that I might be a total whack job... but the truth is... (yikes!) I love him. I really do and sometimes I can't stand it. I don't mean any kind of romantic nastiness (gag!), I mean I just love him.

I swear to (Melvin) god (of leaves), if I had known anything like this could happen from a therapy, I would have boycotted for the rest of my life and just lived out my days in hell. I still don't know how this happened. Or maybe I do. Yeah, I do. If you could have heard how things went with us when my scary shit first started hitting the fan, I think you would understand. I think if you could know the life of deprivation I lived, then you would understand.

Friday morning I remembered a terrible story my mother once told me about myself. I had a 'blankie' when I was a toddler. My mother used to laugh about it and call me Linus (from the Peanuts cartoons). She used to take it away from me to wash it, and while she had it, she used to cut it smaller each time with a pair of scissors. She laughed at her own cleverness when she told me the story of how I abandoned it when it was reduced to the size of washcloth. She took my blankie, she put Tabasco on my thumb (I still sucked it), she took away my stuffed dog because I used to hit it, she took away everything I had to comfort myself and then she gave me nothing to replace those things. She gave me nothing. All I had left was the man who abused me. I remember waiting for him to come home from work. I remember one day when he took me on his lap and rocked me in his rocking chair when he came home. I laid my head on his chest and I can still hear the sounds. I heard the squeak of the rocker, I heard his breath, and I heard the beating of his heart. I was starving and my father rocked me. I took the sounds and feelings into my heart and I loved him. That is the ONLY comforting memory I have from when I was little. The only one! I don't remember my mother rocking me. She did not comfort me. My therapist did, though. Even though I told something that is supposed to be kept quiet. The kind of thing that my mother still insists is all in my wicked and lying little imagination.

Friday was a bad day. It was a day of longing. I was miserable, so I took a nap. I dreamed of him. I don't remember the context of the dream, I only remember him. I felt better when I woke up. Part of me says this is wrong; that it is dangerous to need another person this much, but the little girl doesn't care about that. Sometimes I think I must be a failure as a person for feeling this way, other times I am just overcome with greed for that which I never had before. Oh, I had 'love'... but it was always in exchange for sex. THIS is the draw of the therapist. He's no kind of pervert, and yet he cares about me. Maybe I don't know what to do with that. I have never felt this from someone who doesn't want sex, so this feels like heaven to me. And yet... it feels dangerous. That is not good because I rely on his help and support and it scares me when that feels dangerous. Maybe some of you will understand. And maybe I will get my shit together good enough to answer my email, too. Soon. I will soon.