Fear and Doubt

I saw my therapist twice last week, I'll see her twice this week, and I'll continue seeing her twice a week until I know what to do - this was her idea. When my therapist asks me to come back a second time in any given week my usual response is to feel like I'm really in trouble - if my SHRINK is that worried, so should I be. This time, I am unafraid and incredibly grateful that I didn't lose my insurance with this job. This feels like crisis.

I suddenly have nothing but time - my room is in immaculate condition for perhaps the first time since I moved in a year ago. I'm getting enough sleep. I don't feel bad about staying up too late and sleeping into the afternoon, though I am a morning person and I miss the sunlight that comes with dawn. I'm reading books written by people who have perspectives on the world that I want to share with them - about body image, self discovery, becoming comfortable with fear, negotiating life "When Things Fall Apart". I am journaling differently, spending time in the kitchen differently, etc. etc. etc. Washing dishes no longer feels like a waste of the only time I have for myself. I am relaxed and energized. I'm also learning that for the last several years I have been living my life as someone I don't know. I've been myself only in fits and starts, every few weekends or so. How did this happen?

As per usual, when questions like this come into my life and mind it opens a floodgate, and now that I have time to examine every piece of debris that rushes upon me, I'm learning and learning and learning over again that I am pieces of who I thought I was and who I want to be.

I want freedom of expression.

I want freedom to explore myself until I "get it" and then help other people "get it".

I want not to need any money. I don't want to work, and if I have to work I don't want to work in an environment that I will feel trapped in. I was just set free! I want to stay free.

I've started to question events of my childhood again, wondering how they impacted the adult I am today. No longer from a place of blame, but from a place of genuine inquiry. I know that my parents did the best they could with what they had and what they knew, which is not an accusation or an excuse. I think that many things were handled very poorly. My memories can be placed into very few categories - alone/with sierra/with friends and as a behavioral problem (you are not being obedient, why are your grades bad you can do so much better, you are the big sister you know better, I expect more of you). I do have memories of enjoying myself with my parents - making pots with dad, riding horses with mom, but they aren't as many as feeling like I wasn't good enough.

I know now that having clothes to wear, food to eat, a bed to sleep in, a yard and toys to play with are indicators of being loved and well cared for by my parents, but I didn't know that as a kid. I felt like a problem much of the time.

Perhaps one of the reasons I speak so freely without thinking of the implications or consequences; the reason I become so insistent about my thoughts and feelings; the reason I get so indignant when people get angry or frustrated with me; the reason I feel unsure about HOW to express myself creatively with my clothing, etc. is because I didn't have a voice as a child:

Nobody listened to me when Sierra picked a fight to get me in trouble for instance - and many of the things I didn't have words for got me in more trouble or hurt people around me.

I struggled with homework as a kid and when my mom sat down to help me with math, she would solve the problems the way she knew how - if it was different than my teacher did it, I got more and more confused and then angry - then she'd get so frustrated with my anger that she'd give up, telling me to figure it out myself if I didn't want her help.

I wondered if anybody even liked me.

Now I wonder if my assessments in hindsight are valid or not. Did I injure myself as a teenager because watching a physical manifestation of pain heal meant that I didn't have to feel the emotional anguish? Was I attention seeking? Aware that hurting myself would freak people out? Was I hoping that they would come to my room and hold me and let me cry and tell me they loved me no matter what? I think it was all of these things, and it didn't work.

I know now that they loved me, I don't think I knew how much they loved me.

Now I am up against a wall - I didn't have a back-up plan. My plan now is to resolve some of the financial nightmare I'm experiencing so that if I choose to take a sabbatical sometime in the future, I will have savings to depend upon.