Uncommon Curiosity

I went to see my new therapist yesterday.  She lives in Rockridge, one of my favorite parts of Berkeley and an area I know well from college, so I felt right at home when I arrived.  She has a room in a old Victorian house, which is beautiful, but, sadly, lacks air conditioning…my peculiar chemistry leaves me panting and speechless in the 70s, as it was yesterday, so I’ll have to remember to bring ice water with me next time.

She was friendly and nice, although she has a habit of looking at me without blinking which was somewhat distracting, so I had to take breaks and look away every now and again to avoid getting into a non-blinking war (because you know those only end in heartache and bloodshed.)  She also has a habit of making me finish sentences I don’t want to finish which I suppose is a good thing, but left me struggling a bit yesterday.  Clearly not someone who’s gonna let me wiggle around anything, that much I can say for certain.

I told her everything that I could cram into 50 minutes – a lot of pain and truth and fear – and she listened with an empathy that surprised and disarmed me.  The area and culture I was raised in is very much a “get the prize” kinda place – eat your broccoli first, leave dessert for some vague time in the future, get over yourself and do what needs to be done – complaining just proves you’re not up to the task.  The results of this are clear to see – Stanford University, tech companies, Google, 200 hour work weeks (sure, laugh, but you’d be amazed at how many billable hours lawyers manage to work around here,) ridiculous wealth, flashy possessions and very little concern for “feelings,” as they usually just serve to get in the way.  She, much like Kyle, comes from a different path – one of understanding, nurturing, talking about feelings and letting the prize go if it’s gonna burn your hands.  I am Kung Fu, they are Touched by an Angel, so some of our conversation yesterday boiled down to trying to find common understanding (to be fair, I had a much harder time than she.)

The scary part was telling her that my husband had hit my son, and about everything that had happened before and since.  CPS, police, the court system, anger management classes, anti-anxiety meds for him, counseling for my kids…and me in the middle hating myself for not seeing that it would happen and prevent it.

I had a dream last night – in it *I* was the one who hit my son, and the meaning is pretty clear to me.  Pain fades into flashbacks and personality quirks, but guilt rages on long after it’s any use – condemning and tormenting me, and I punish myself over and over for something I didn’t do, but should have foreseen and prevented.

As I spoke, she didn’t flinch, she didn’t run away – she sat right there and let me talk and then asked me little questions that brought out big answers.  She asked me about my childhood without really asking – just guided us through the boulders of growing up in a bipolar household, past the signposts that were suddenly clear as day.  Of course I’d grow up desperate for a system of rules that were absolute, for a calm port in a sea of ups and downs, a place, like mathematics, where the truth didn’t depend on how someone in power feels.  It was humbling and yet wonderful to see how my odd little life fit into itself perfectly.

Ane, yet, the whole time, she didn’t tell me so much as guided me to tell her, and that was brilliant.  I stumbled onto someone who can challenge me and guide me to figure this out with her, and that is a wonderful gift.  Afterward I was jazzed and excited, but then the adrenaline crash hit me and I’m very thankful that Kyle was there to talk me through it.  It’s a hard thing to lay yourself out for inspection, but the two of them together made it really worthwhile.

So, yeah, next Monday, I’ll be back.  Can’t wait to hear what I’ll say then.