recovery – Page 21 – One Woman's Quest

Mickey Mouse Meets Gestalt

Looking out from under the big white wooden chair, I can see Mickey Mouse approaching with a kettle of boiling water. He’s going to pour the water on me, and even though my family are all around, and I am screaming, no one notices.

“I had this dream repeatedly as a child, from about the age of five.”

“What is the significance of the white chair?”

“My father used that chair to teach us how to skate. We had to push it around the rink until we learned to stay up on our own. I remember being very frightened, because my father wasn’t a patient man and I didn’t want to upset him.”

“What would happen if you upset him?”

“He would yell, call us names, tell us how stupid and incompetent we were.”

“Why Mickey Mouse?”

“I don’t know. I’ve often wondered about that. Mickey Mouse would have been the prominent cartoon character back then, and I loved watching the Mickey Mouse Club on TV. I really wanted to be a Mouseketeer.”

“In Gestalt therapy, the belief is that each aspect of the dream represents a part of you. Would you be willing to try something with me?”

I nod.

“I want you to put yourself back in the dream and let me guide you. Imagine you are five years old again, and let me know when you can picture the scene.”

I close my eyes and remember. “Okay.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Frightened, very frightened.”

“Tell me what’s happening. Talk it out.”

“Mickey Mouse has a kettle of boiling water and he’s going to pour it on me. I scream, but no one is paying attention. I can see my Dad and my sister Joanne, but they are not looking my way.”

“What do you want to say to them?”

“Help me! Help me! Can’t you see I’m in trouble? Somebody stop this from happening!”

“Tell them what’s happening.”

“He’s going to hurt me. That man is going to hurt me. Please, somebody stop it! Listen to me!”

“Tell them what you need.”

“I need you to hear me. I need you to see what’s happening. I need you to see me. Nobody sees me….” I break off crying.

“Tell me why you are crying.”

“My childhood home was very chaotic. There was always lots of fighting going on, and although I don’t remember much of the early years, my mother says I was always tossed over the fence to the neighbour’s house, so they could look after me. ”

“Why do you think this dream has stayed with you?”

“I never felt like I mattered in my family growing up. There was so much going on that I felt insignificant.”

“In every family there is a rivalry for attention. How did that play out for you?”

“Well my oldest sister was always sick, so she got most of the attention, and my next sister withdrew into herself, and later we found out she was schizophrenic. My youngest sister was a handful, throwing tantrums and being difficult to get along with. I tried to stay out of the way, and not cause any more trouble.”

“So what did you try to do to get noticed?”

“Achieve. I tried to be the smartest and the most successful?”

“How did that work for you?”

“It didn’t. I never felt like I could be good enough, and when I did do something worthwhile I got shot down for bragging about it.”

“Do you still feel that way?”

“Not so much. I’ve struggled with not feeling good enough, but I don’t need the glory anymore.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Maturity. Life experience. When I first learned how to do Therapeutic Touch I did a lot of volunteer work, and I soon realized that there were many people whose lives were worse off than mine, and that by giving a little bit of my time, I could make a difference. It felt so amazingly rewarding to help another, that I realized how unimportant everything else was.”

“So what would you tell that little girl today?”

“Well, first of all, I’d reach in under that chair and offer her my hand; then I’d pull her to me and give her a great big hug and tell her that I love her.”

“Tell her as if she is here.”

Come on, Sweetheart, lets walk away from all this commotion. You are okay now. I am here, and I can see you, and I’m not going to let that man hurt you.

Why doesn’t anyone see me?

Because they can’t right now, Honey. They can only see their own pain, but that doesn’t mean you’re not important. You matter very much.

Are things going to get better?

Eventually, but not for a long time. But I want you know that you will be okay. You will be better than okay.

Why are you here?

Because I think it’s important that you know you are perfect just the way you are.

“Do you feel better?”

“I feel like I have had a breakthrough.”

“How so?”

“I understand now that the little girl in me sought attention for a long, long time, and I don’t need to do that anymore. It feels lighter. Achievement is good in and of itself. The need for glory only taints it.”

“And Mickey Mouse?”

“Well that’s just what we become when we seek out fame and fortune, I guess. Burned.”

Humility

Good, better, best. Never let them rest. Till your good is better and your better best.

Dad made us recite this whenever he thought that we were giving less than our best effort. Like the time I came home with a 96% in OAC Relations and Functions. If I could get 96, I could get a hundred; I just wasn’t trying hard enough.

The message I heard was that if wasn’t the best, I wasn’t good enough. I told myself that there was no point in trying, but under it all, I just wanted his approval. Of course, I couldn’t be the best, so I learned to act like I was better by putting others down. As a young woman, I was constantly angry and intolerant of stupidity or lack of common sense. I had no patience for weakness, and though I hate to admit it, I found fault with anyone who I thought was better than me.

Lucky for me, I learned the importance of humility. Not all at once, but over a progression of events.

The idea of humility was first introduced to me by my Religious Studies teacher, in university. He said the humble man was the happiest man, because he could just be and appreciate life. I didn’t quite understand, but the idea intrigued me.

My second child added to the learning. Baby number one was a calm and very manageable baby: a testimony, I thought, to my excellent parenting skills. Other people clearly didn’t know how to parent, I told myself when I would see a screaming child. Then Ester came along, and shattered that illusion, humbling me in the process.

Perhaps the greatest lesson came at the age of thirty-one, when my mind snapped. A mother of three, I was working full-time to support the family, taking courses at the university to improve my qualifications, caring for my dying sister, and trying to find time to work out and diet so I would be more appealing to my husband. I thought I could do it all. I couldn’t it. The walls of my carefully constructed existence came tumbling down, and I was lost in a black abyss of nothingness, unable to function.

It was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Clawing my way out of the pit of despair, I came upon this quote (author unknown):

I turned to God when my foundation was shaking, only to find that God was shaking my foundation.

“Get off your high horse, and come down to earth where you can be more useful!” Not God’s words, but my interpretation.

Do you know what I discovered? Letting go of having to be the best meant I could start to celebrate the successes of others rather than try to bring them down – a much more rewarding use of my energy.

Oh, and I let go of the fear of not being good enough.

In fact, I decided that I am good enough.

No, scratch that. I am good.

Wait, even that is overstated.

I am!

Excuse Me While I Unload

Excuse me, but it seems I have been carrying around an extraordinary amount of baggage for some time now and I’m thinking it’s time to unload, so pardon me but I’m going to dump them out here, and do inventory.

Wow, what a pile of stuff! I don’t know where to begin.

Black lace catches my eye. I pull it out of the pile. It’s a woman’s hat, with a black face veil. I know this one. It is the veil of self-loathing. While I try not to wear it in public, I take it everywhere with me. It keeps me humble. The veil whispers: Don’t believe what other people say about you; they’re just being kind; they really don’t know you like I do. Boy, looks like I should have done this sooner; I think I’ll just set that aside.

Ah, there’s my graduation cap; my teacher’s cap. It’s a keeper. And my mother’s apron. That can stay too. My reading glasses, my writing pen, my friendship necklace. All those parts I want to keep. Oh, and that teddy bear – all Grandmas need teddy bears – definitely carrying that around with me.

What’s this big, woolly, grey thing? It’s heavy, and to be honest, it stinks like cigarette smoke, stale alcohol, and mildew. It reeks of shame. I’m not sure this is mine, but I’ve been carrying this around forever. Wouldn’t be surprised if it stunk everything else up. This needs to go. I might even have to get a new suitcase to start fresh. I’ll just put that one out in the trash can.

Better make sure the smell hasn’t lingered. Sure enough, the lining of the case has absorbed the stench. I’d better air it out also. Wait a minute, what’s that in the lining? Something is sticking out. It’s silver and pointed. Looks like a brooch. It’ a very delicate piece: silver leaves swirling around a peridot stone. Is this mine? It’s beautiful, but I don’t recognize it. Just my taste though, I’m more silver than gold, and I love the peridot green. I wonder how long it’s been here? I should try it on, and see how it looks. No, I’m not ready for this. I don’t have anything to go with it. I’ll tuck it back away for another day.

Will you look at that! A pile of mismatched socks. So like me, to carry around odds and sods hoping to make sense of them sooner or later. Thing is, young people don’t wear socks or stockings anymore, so all these do is date me; they don’t serve any other purpose. I think it’s time to let them go.

Wow, look at that! It’s a rusty old paintbrush. I used to love art – even won the award in grade eight – but I was advised against pursuing it – not intellectual enough – so I set it aside. Could this still be in me? I’d like to know.

Oh! A feather. I know why it’s here. I tucked it in here to remind me of my spirituality. I’ll keep that too.

My cookbooks can stay. Here’s an old ship in a bottle. It’s pretty dusty, and the vessel inside is covered in cobwebs. I’m thinking whatever dream that was has long past; no point carrying that around anymore. Time for new dreams.

This is kind of fun. Can’t remember the last time I took inventory of what I’ve been carrying around. Here’s some comfy yoga pants. Those need to come out more often. I can just hear my body screaming yes, please.

Hope you don’t mind if I carry on without you. I can see a few more things I’d rather deal with in private.

What have you been carrying around?

(Image: ok-woman.com)

What Is Right If Everything Is Wrong?

My father ‘borrowed’ his brother’s identification and enlisted in the war effort at the age of fifteen. He told me once that it was an opportunity to escape home. He trained as a commando. His mission was to go into enemy territory, scout out where they kept their ammunition, and get out without being caught. His instructions were to swallow a black pill (cyanide) if captured, and kill any soldier he should encounter, in order to keep his unit’s operation covert. He did not carry a gun; gun’s were too noisy. He was trained to kill with either a knife, that he kept strapped to his leg, or his bare hands.

He knew exactly how to render an enemy immobile, and apply pressure to end their life. I know, because he practiced on me.

He never let me forget that he was boss, and he could snuff me out in a moment.

He would do it in a state of drunkenness, in front of his male friends. He’d twist my body in such a way that if I moved, I would surely break an arm, or a leg. He’d hold me there, humiliated, angry, and make me tell him I loved him.

“Yes, Dad.” I would say, teeth clenched, breathing like a trapped animal.

“What?” He’d pull tighter. “I don’t think that was very convincing.”

“I love you.” I don’t know who I hated more, him or me. I felt so cowardly. Inwardly, I plotted revenge. He might conquer me in the moment, but not the long term.

How long he held me there, depended on how much pleasure he was deriving from the moment. He said he did it because he loved me.

“Your father loves you,” my mother would echo. “He’d never really hurt you.” I was not reassured. She said the same thing when he attacked her verbally, and psychologically.

She said the same thing when her brother tried to slip me his tongue. “Your uncle fancy’s himself a ladies’ man. He’s harmless.” Even when his own daughters accused him of sexual abuse and refuse to see him, she defended him. “Boys will be boys,” she’d say. “The woman has to control the situation.”

I was twenty-eight before I told her the reason that I disappeared when I was fourteen was because I had been abducted and raped. It took me fourteen years to build up the courage to tell my mother that when men behave inappropriately it is wrong. That they alone are responsible for their crimes, and that women are not to blame.

“I’m sixty years old,” my mother told. “And I’ve never told anyone.”

“What, Mom?”

“I always thought it was the girl’s fault. I don’t why I thought that, but I just did. I knew my mother would say so, so I never told.” She was only six, and riding in the backseat of her family’s new car, when her uncle took her little hand and made her fondle his penis. Her parents were in the front, but she didn’t say a word. She thought she did something wrong.

The abuse did not stop there. “My mother would make me visit my grandparents, even though I hated it. Grandma would be working in the kitchen, and she’d tell me to go and keep Grandpa company.” ‘Keeping Grandpa company’ meant climbing into bed with the old man. Mom didn’t explain any further.

The same brother that tried to french kiss me, was also a problem growing up, she confessed. She’d just shoo him away.

Her younger sister wasn’t so lucky. Their grandfather dragged her out behind the barn one day and raped her, while the rest of the children stood by helpless. Only the youngest son grabbed the shotgun and threatened to kill the old man. It was an empty effort. Years later, the family would shun that aunt for her inappropriate sexual behaviors.

A child may be born with an innate sense of right and wrong, but it is not long before she learns to question her own instincts. How do you unravel the corruptly tangled web of abuse and denial? How does a child who has not been protected from wrong, learn to trust in right?

For me, it has been a slow dawning realization that words have no meaning. A man can say and promise whatever he wants, but it is action that speaks the truth. Holding your child in a death grip to prove your prowess, is not an act of love.

Creativity and Self Definition

I dream that I am walking across an open field. The landscape is barren, and dry, and a wind storm is whipping up, with low menacing clouds. I am headed to the farm, where I raised my children, and where my ex-husband still lives. I am living in the city, in the basement of a raised ranch with hand-me-down furniture. While the apartment is bright, because of the high windows, it is still a basement. I am walking against the weather, despite the weather, because I want to finally settle something with my ex; call a truce. He is processing wood – putting it through a machine and creating little piles of wood chips and lots of sawdust in his large open shop. He keeps working and ignores my presence. My mother arrives in a car and has a present for him. My older sisters show up also. They are in the main house primping, and trying to show me how to make myself more attractive. I just want to clear the air, but there are too many distractions.

I always say that creativity is the process by which we define and then express ourself. In the dream, I am influenced by the women in my family, the inclement weather, and an ex-spouse who is preoccupied. I chuckle at the dream’s image of my older sisters preening, as growing up it was impossible to find a mirror that was not taken over by one of my sisters. It was part of the reason I chose to be a tomboy; it was easier than trying to get bathroom time for grooming.

In my family, women were expected to be pretty, under educated, and submissive to men. My older sisters were both beautiful, and took secretarial skills at school, leaving after grade 11, so they could get a job and find a man. I did not fit this mold. Taking after my father in looks, I had a receding chin, and wore glasses. I was also ‘gifted’ and aspired towards a university degree. I was outspoken and pro women’s lib. My mother told me daily that no one would ever love me; she worried about my future. I felt my mother’s legacy fulfilling itself, when my second, and former husband told me he had never loved me after seventeen years together. I left that marriage believing that I was unlovable.

I thought I had worked through all that. I am in a relationship now with a husband who constantly demonstrates his love for me. So why, in my dreams am I going over old territory? And what does this have to do with creativity?

Maybe the dream is reminding me that if we define ourselves within the context of our environment, then we are limited. If we are to expand our sense of self, we must be able to see beyond the landscape of our past. In terms of health, my mother has had numerous issues, including three rounds of cancer; my oldest sister suffered illness all her life; and my next older sister is debilitated by schizophrenia. None of them escaped the limitations of victimhood to experience either successful careers or relationships.

I believe that the purpose of dreams is always to bring positive movement in our lives. This one left me feeling hopeless, unwanted, unseen or heard – much like my childhood. I need to envision a new reality for myself. I need to create new possibilities instead of searching and re-searching the experiences that will never serve to define me as anything less than inadequate.

(Image: wallpapers-kid.com)