Repaired: part two

Between Thursday and Monday, we emailed about the stuck thing. First it was me worrying and seeking more reassurance that this wasn’t a terrible idea, and then I finally wrote out a part of it. (Mine is in italics, Bea is underlined)

So, Monday, you should read what I wrote about the stuck thing. I guess it’s just a matter of feeling like it’s okay to tell you about the stuck thing. I was feeling like maybe it was okay, maybe you got that this was this stuck thing and I can’t let it go but I’m really not sure if I’m over reacting and being silly and I am so afraid that you will put up a wall and leave, or not be there emotionally or be upset that I’m not over this or that I am making a thing out of if or that I am bringing it up again. I know that this rupture feels like it’s in the past for you, but I feel like it’s just right there, right behind us and could easily swallow us both up again. I feel like me being upset or confused or hurt or not over things that happened during that rupture is sort of keeping it alive and I need to let it go. It’s disconcerting to have something be so stuck and be so upset and scared and worried because of it, and to feel like more than anything, all I want it to not have to deal with the stuck thing, for it to just not exist. 

Yeah, it definitely seems that we need to address the stuck thing. It doesn’t seem like we’re going to move on without doing so.

I think you are right, this is a new thing for me, this idea of bringing something up again after it is done and over with, and….question another person’s feelings about something. I mean, really, the way to deal with a situation like this stuck thing is to just, well, forget about it. Shove it to the side, bury it, let it go. Pretending like that does work because eventually you sort of forget about it and the feelings just go mostly numb around the thing you buried, and before you know it, it really is no big deal. And questioning someone’s feelings? Disagreeing with them? No, no, no. That is not how these things are dealt with. The thing to do is to agree with the other person’s feelings. Then nothing bad happens. I know that is not how you do things, and so it probably seems crazy but it is how I have done them almost my entire life. I hope that by writing about small bits of it, it won’t feel so bad to give you the few pages of writing describing the stuck thing. Or, just this little bit could blow everything up and then I guess…..well, I don’t know. I think there was a plan for if that happened.

Well, we’ve all developed our various strategies for coping with things and getting our needs met. They work until they don’t, right?! That’s why we usually get to a point where we’re ready to give them up, scary as that can be.

What can I write or say that will tell you a little about the stuck thing without ruining everything? I don’t know. Everything feels like a risk. Maybe we talked about this already, but I don’t think so. Maybe I should have you give me a summary of what we did talk about (joking…sort of).  I mean, some things I know we talked about…..really, all of our sessions since (and probably including) the bad Wednesday, it’s all bits and pieces because I was having a lot of trouble being present enough to really remember. I know one session you said something about the teen being very present and here and not far away, and I wanted to laugh because I was in that weird here but not here space that I’m so good at seeming very grounded and present in, and sort of going between far away and that weird space. Otherwise, it would have been impossible for me to show up at all. I don’t even want to tell you that because I know you have this thing about me being present and in the window, and I get that, but I am so scared and so anxious, I just cant be super present right now. Well, Ms. Perfect can. Her sessions I remember pretty much in full. And like today, the grown up can be present as long as it’s all just surface stuff. Which is pretty much using Ms. Perfect’s coping skills. But anyway. Please just let this be. The teen can’t be all that present right now, and well, I need to be able to be far away to even show up. Maybe, if being more far away starts to feel safer, then I can be less far away. I’d say I have been less far-away than I was. So there’s that.

I’m beginning to think there’s a real physiological difference between the not here when you’re out of the window and the “here but not here” when you can talk and really be engaged, but be “not here” in a detached way.  What I mean is, it looks completely different from the outside. I don’t want to describe the physical ways they differ because I don’t want that to be a trigger.  The day I thanked the teen for being present I could see it was not the adult, but whoever it was had the language thing online and expressed herself without difficulty. She had a bit of an angry, defiant vibe, and spoke her mind in a defended sort of way. I guess I wouldn’t have said you seemed grounded and present as you, adult Alice, but it sure felt like this part was functioning well. You know how cut off parts can feel like “not me?”  I wonder if that could be part of “here but not here?” I’d sure like to talk more about this so I can understand it better. (Sorry if shrinky—just trying to sort this out)

There’s so much worry.  Worry you will think I am making a big deal out of nothing. Worry you will be upset with me for bringing this up again. Worry you will decide I am acting out, or being a drama queen. Worry that you will decide the stuck thing is just me distorting things yet again and displaying borderline behavior. 

If it’s a worry it needs to be brought out.  If it’s a distortion we’ll talk about why that is happening. We’ll work through it.

So, maybe first I should let you know that even though I have access to some reasoning right now, it’s a very thin grasp. This is emotional for me, it is painful and terrifying and all of the abandonment fears and attachment nonsense feel really triggered because of how extremely scary and vulnerable making even writing this much feels. I can say without too much worry that the stuck thing is about our rupture. I can say without too much worry that it is about me not understanding your feelings about something. You already read those things and didn’t get upset, so there’s not a lot of worry about saying those things again. There is some worry though. And I guess that the worry goes along with the stuck thing. Well, it is part of it….I mean, I guess the stuck thing is a lot of worries or fears combined with me not understanding something you feel and maybe disagreeing with you about something all sort of mushed together. So is this worry the stuck thing in real time? Ugh. I don’t know.  But maybe I could explain the worry, and we could start there.

The worry is that you told me you had no negative reaction to anything I said, but then later, you said you did have a negative reaction and it was very clear that you did. That makes it so hard to talk. In this current instance, maybe on Thursday you had no problem with me not understanding why you feel a certain way about something  but today you might have a negative reaction to it. I’m so afraid of saying the wrong thing, or of saying it the wrong way, all my words are trapped. It’s like I can’t express anything without having an anxiety attack. Just the thought of sending this makes it hard to breathe and makes me light headed and I feel like I need to go hide right now. 

Negative reactions—where to start?!  I think there are several things I want to say, some of which I already explained. There are a lot of things I have to factor in when I have emotional responses to things that come up in therapy—and realistically, I’m always going to have emotional responses on some level, whether I’m aware of them or not. When things are complicated I have to take the time to figure out if I am having an emotional response.  First and foremost is always, why am I having this response? Is it my stuff? It’s probably in some part my stuff, so what stuff is it?  I can’t respond until that is figured out.  Usually these responses aren’t giant, so when I say I can contain your stuff, or I’m not having negative emotions I guess it’s more accurate to say that they aren’t “emotion mind” level responses. Then—and here’s where the wall and boundary thing comes in—if I’ve sorted through the “my stuff” part of the reaction and there’s still feelings there, I have to look at what was sent my way. This last time, as I’ve said, it took me a while to know what to do with that, and my negative reaction became part of the wise mind understanding that boundaries were needed.  So it wasn’t until after I had sorted through the “my stuff” piece that I could choose to use some of my real, post-reflection reaction to let you know what the negative impact was.  Does that make sense? I wasn’t trying to be dishonest about the negative reaction at first—I was trying—in my mind—to do my professional job of offering containment and doing self-reflection on “my stuff.”

Does that make sense at all? I guess the truth is, I always have some sort of reaction to most things, which is normal.   It’s okay if I have a negative reaction to something you say—it’s not really different than a neutral or positive reaction in my mind. It gives us information. I admittedly—like most people—have less negative reactions when I’m trying to work with a struggling part that’s not being mean—I don’t feel any mean from you (teen) right now. Even if I have a negative reaction I will take ownership of it, and I’ll still like you and won’t leave.

I write Bea back, but then I can’t send it. Instead, I write her to let her know I am working on a response but it is taking me longer to process this than I expected. She writes back that that is okay, that thinking and taking time is good.

Repaired: part one

Repaired. Things are fully, and truly repaired. Not erased, not magically all better, but repaired. The wound isn’t just covered with a band aid, it has been stitched together and healed. It is still tender and sore, and there is a scar. The scar is okay, though. It’s evidence that Bea stayed, and I stayed, even when it was hard. Its evidence that she didn’t leave, that she truly listened, that she wanted to see me and help me. It is evidence that she cared enough to help me stitch the wound.

The last two weeks have been about painstakingly stitching together the wound. They have been rough. I’ve been in this constant state of feeling like something very, very bad is going to happen. I’m okay, though. I got through it.

Early Sunday morning, on July 1, the teen had a bad nightmare. She woke up, and couldn’t calm herself down. She was overwhelmed and alone, and badly needed an anchor. So, she sent Bea an email, with only emojis.

😴🧟‍♂️🐍😈☠️🌪⛈😱😢🙈🙈🙈🐢🐢🐢. 🤝? ⚓️?

Bea responded:

🤝⚓️🏄🏼‍♀️🏝🌞🌈

And that paved the way for Monday, July 2. It was enough of a tentative connection that I reached out and wrote to Bea in my notebook. Bea read everything I wrote, and we talked. I told Bea there was this stuck thing and I was struggling, but afraid to even try fo talk about it. Bea suggested to the teen that the adult could help her when things feel intense, and that would help the teen not rage at people, and not push people away. The session is foggy, because I went so far away at that point. The problem was that the adult had tried to help before, and it only messed everything up. After therapy, I went for a walk, and I wrote a lot. I wrote about the adult doing the best she could to help teen, and how it still messed everything up. I wrote about feeling like Bea’s stuff was all mixed up in this rupture and how I wasn’t sure she was seeing clearly.

Between Monday and Thursday, we emailed and talked a little bit about the belief everything would be ruined, if I talked about the stuck thing. It was tentative and careful, and lots of emojis were used, but it helped some.

I didn’t see Bea until July 5 because Wednesday was a holiday— the fourth of July. I had a lot of writing, but had simply pared it down to 1/2 a page, describing the stuck thing. It takes over half of my session to hand Bea the writing. I’m anxious and scared that this is a bad idea.

I’m trapped. I can’t really talk to you because of X, but to be able to talk, we need to deal with X. There are no good choices. I could tell you the stuck thing has to do with our rupture. I could tell you that it’s partly something I don’t understand about your feelings. I don’t even like saying that much. It’s too vulnerable making, too scary. If I tell you about the stuck thing, it’s going to blow everything up. I can’t do it.

“It has to feel awful to be stuck in that place.” Bea is gentle and present and she sounds so kind. I’m hiding under the blanket, shaking, because I am so afraid something bad will happen.

“You know,” she says slowly, “If there are things I have said or done that you don’t understand, I’m happy to explain them to you. If this is stuck, we need to deal with it, it is stuck for a reason. That’s okay. We can deal with it, together.”

But she won’t want to deal with it if I tell her. She will go away again, and having a sort of here secure base is better than no secure base at all. “I just can’t. Everything will blow up. You won’t like it.” My voice is teary and quiet, but my words are sure and certain.

“I don’t know what it is, so I can’t promise it will be okay, but I can tell you that I am here, and I feel very centered and present. Whatever it is, I don’t think I will react emotionally. Actually, that is a promise I can make you. I won’t react emotionally to the stuck thing. I will listen, and I will do my best to explain and help you understand.”

“But I don’t want you to not be here, to be shrinky. That won’t help.” I’m almost whining. The idea of Bea going back to the detached shrinky place, it’s distressing.

“It is important to you that I am here and attuned. I feel very here, very attuned, very aware that this is the teen’s experience. Maybe I should explain that this rupture, it feels in the past to me. The recent past, but the past, and so I don’t think I will react emotionally because I have some distance around it.”

“But I don’t,” I tell her.

“I know that, too. And that is okay,” she reassures.

“I just can’t. I hate that this isn’t okay.”

Bea is quiet for a minute, and then she asks, “Is this a new experience for the teen? Maybe a new feeling or experience for the teen to not pretend everything is okay?”

I shrug. I don’t want to say yes, or no. Maybe it is, but if I tell her that then she is just going to make this all about my past.

Bea continues offering all the reassurance she can give me, and just as I am feeling like maybe it is okay to give her the written explanation of the stuck thing, our time is almost up. Bea says she will read it before I leave, or I could email it (which prompts a loud “NO!” from me) or we could wait until Monday. I can’t decide, and Bea tells me it is okay to wait. Before I leave, she says if I want to email small pieces or even clues of a sort, or even if I just want to email to check in, that is okay. Basically, whatever I need is okay.

Ruptured: Ms. Perfect

Wednesday. I get to Bea’s office right on time, despite not sleeping well the night before and waking up late. I feel steadier than I have in weeks. Things don’t feel repaired, and I’m still unsure of Bea, but I don’t feel like the ground is falling away under my feet anymore.

When I walk in, we chat a little, just normal stuff, nothing serious or deep. This feels normal, familar. It’s me and Bea talking about regular, boring life stuff, and it feels like an oasis from the storm we have been in for weeks. I start to realx, and feel like Bea is really here and herself.

Before long, though, we are discussing teen stuff, in a weird random way. It starts with a conversation about clothing, which seems beign and random. We’d been discussing small town life and ideals as compared to the larger area Bea I live in now.

“I never worried about having the *right* clothes growing up. My mom always just knew the popular brands and that’s what she bought.” I shrug. It’s not strange to me, it’s just how things were.

“Did you ever want to wear something different?” She’s curious.

I think. Did I? I’m really not sure. “I don’t think so. I was so….I mean, Ms. Perfect was just so in charge back then, and that’s what I was. Blonde. Cheerleader. I looked and dressed like everyone else who was……I don’t know. Popular.” I could say well off, or in the in crowd, or something else. But it boils down to popularity. All of our parents were friends. We all went to the same church, were members of the same country club, had vacation houses in the same small touristy towns on small lakes, we all participated in the same activities, we had known each other since we were in diapers. It was also very clear what was expected of me, and I performed perfectly. There wasn’t really a wants or needs about it. I was who and what I was expected to be.

“No part of you wanted something different?” She asks again. This time, I’m sure that she is going somewhere with this, or looking for some sort of information. It’s the slight change in her voice, maybe.

“Well, no. I don’t think so. I’m not sure there was another option, anyway. Once, my brother tried to shop….what is that store, the more edgy punk store….”

“Hot topic?” Bea asks.

“Yes! He wanted to shop there. My mom threw out his clothes he had bought and replaced them with her choices from the gap, banana republic, j crew, the buckle. He was not going to look anything but perfect.”

“That seems extreme to me, to control your teen’s wardrobe like that.”

“Really?” I’m surprised. “It’s just how it was. Part of the presentation of how we looked. You know, that sort of thing matters to her. I don’t know.”

“Yes, I can see it mattered. I guess I just didn’t realize that your mom’s need to control things and present a pretty picture extended that much.” Bea says slowly.

“Once I had light pink streaks put in my hair,” I tell her.

“How did that go over?” She asks. She is back to being curious again.

“Not well. But it was acceptable. I was still mostly blonde and the streaks were little and baby pink, so it was a girly choice, so it was tolerated.”

“Why did you put streaks in hair?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. Now, as I write this, I think I wanted something that was just mine, not something my mother chose for me. But wheh Bea asked, it was just a thing I did.

“Teens usually havs reasons for doing what they do. Especially with hair.” She pushes a bit, maybe trying to see if I am willing to dig underneath.

“I really don’t know. It was just something I did.” Thinking about it now, my mom wasn’t at the salon with me that day, so when I went for my usual highlights, it wasn’t a big deal to add pink.

“And your mom was okay with it in the end?”

“Well, it washed out quick enough. So then, it was fine. I mean, she just liked things to be how she liked them.” I feel sort of odd. Not far away, just sort of, going through the motions of this conversation.

“Like what?” Bea asks.

“I don’t know. How we behaved, what we did, what we wore. She just wanted things to be normal, I guess. She doesn’t deal with things outside of that box of normal very well.”

“No, she really doesn’t.” It’s an agreement, but maybe something more, a question or a prompt to keep talking.

“She would just….ugh…I don’t know, ignore me if I didn’t behave how she liked. Everything from not picking up my room to I don’t know what.” I sigh. I’m in a weird mood. “You know that she would just ignore me if I was talking too much, just literally walk away. She didn’t like feelings either. Some feelings weren’t allowed. Well, it wasn’t really a rule, not something spelled out, but I knew…..she made it clear. I suppose now I would say she dissociated.”

“Really?” Bea sounds surprised and, in my mind that surprise means she doesn’t agree with me, so I backtrack quickly.

“Well, maybe not, maybe that is the wrong word. I was just thinking like, if I was crying, so upset, she would just sort of check out until I stopped. She just wasn’t there. It was so obvious that certain things wouldn’t be tolerated. Sad, tears, mad, hurt, anxiety, she would just zone out.”

“Not be there, not really interact with you? Just be sort of robotic, spaced out?” Bea asks.

“Yeah.” I nod.

“I would call that dissociated,” she says. “So you knew when she was not there, and that was a signal you were being too much?”

“Yeah. Or she would just tell me, you know, I’m a drama queen, I’m overly sensitive. I don’t know. She would send me to my room until I could behave appropriately.” I blink back tears. Even now, this stings.

“It’s such a shame that being sensitive it seen so negatively, instead of helping kids understand they are sensitive, and that is okay.” Bea says.

“But it was okay, mostly, because I knew what was and wasn’t allowed and so things were okay. I didn’t get sent away very much. I knew how to behave right.”

“That makes me sad for the girl who had to hide her feelings to be able to fit what her mom needed her to be.”

“Buf then she didn’t go away or send me away, and it wasn’t so bad. I mean, it just….ugh. I don’t know.”

“So the teen never got to express herself for fear of being unacceptable.” Bea’s voice is sad.

“I guess. But I knew how to be what I was supposed to be. So it was okay, my mom didn’t….” my voice trails off. I was about to sound so melodramatic, I can’t believe it.

“Didn’t what?” Bea prompts.

“Didn’t have to get away from me.” Now I am really blinking back tears as I hide my face. “Can I have the blanket please?”

Bea covers me up, and I cry.

“Can I say something that might be a little shrinky?” She asks.

“I guess.” I’m wary. This tentative okay-ness between us feels like the smallest thing could shatter it.

“When we talk about attachment, and being securely attached, I always had this….well, it doesn’t matter. The more you are telling me about your mom and how she interacted with you, her expectations and her reactions when they weren’t met, I’m wondering if Ms. Perfect was around before Kenny. If maybe she was what some mignt refer to as a false self.”

“I wrote about parts like you asked. I wrote about Ms. Perfect…maybe you should just read it.” I get out my notebook and hand it to her.

When I wrote about Ms. Perfect, I wrote that she was maybe a little girl at first, a little girl when I was a little girl, and she just grew up with me, excpet I still think she is an older teen. I’d written that Ms. Perfect was the one my mom always liked, even loved.

“So, what I am thinking is a bit like what you wrote. I’m thinking that Ms. Perfect was…. created to be this part that your mom could accept. Ms. Perfect was the part that was able to be securely attached because she was what your mom could accept.” Bea is speaking very cautiously, very carefully.

Writing this now, I think Bea is right, my mom couldn’t accept any part except Ms. Perfect, and it’s Ms. Perfect that is securely attached. I wonder if Ms. Perfect has controlled things at times when I would have acted out with Bea, because, well, she didn’t want to have Bea go away or send me away. I need to think on this more. My thoughts are muddled right now.

“Okay….that makes sense,” I agree.

“And that leaves the rest of the parts…well, with more of an insecure attachment. Which is why we have this teen part with the borderline rage acting out when it feels like you were too much and I am leaving.”

“Because the rest of me didn’t get secure attachment because the real me wasn’t acceptable to my mom? So then I had to be Ms. Perfect so that she would….accept me?”

“Well….in a nutshell, yes. Having Ms. Perfect run the show meant that you could get your needs met. The real you, or even the parts couldn’t get attachment needs met because your mom had very specific things she could handle and stay emotionally present for.” Bea says gently.

I don’t say anything. I’m struggling to wrap my head around this. There must be some secure attachment for the real me because of my grandparents. I don’t know.

“This is all separate from the kenny piece. This is all developmental trauma stuff. Of course, already being capable of separating things and having this false self to run the show and be accepted would have made it even easier for him to take advantage. But this development attachment trauma stuff, talking about this now, I can see so many parallels between my behavior that bad Wednesday and your mom.”

“That’s what you mean by it being about the past?”

“In part, yes. We react to things that may be happening in the present, but it triggers old hurts, old beliefs, and we react like those old things are true, even if they are true of the present situation.”

“What parallels?” I ask.

“Well, your mom went away when your feelings were too intense for her to cope with, or accept. You came here that bad Wednesday feeling pretty triggered, and I wasn’t really here. And then in our email when I told you that I was making a choice to avoid the emotional piece, that mirrored your mom, too.” (I think there were other parallels she drew, but I can’t remember now.)

I don’t think I said more, and can’t remember what else Bea said. I was busy thinking what it means if parts of me are insecurely attached, and Ms. Perfect is securely attached. Where does that leave the whole of me? I have no idea.

We wrap up the session by looking at our calendars and scheduling an extra session for Thursday. Wednesday is July 4, so next week would have been a one session week otherwise. Bea’s schedule is tricky, she doesn’t have mornings open on Thurdays or Fridays, but I decide to take an afternoon appointments and ask a friend to watch Kat. When I text my friend, she tells me that she would be happy to take Kat that day and that she is glad I finally took her up on her offer to help.

Ruptured: A tentative anchor?

First of all, I would like to thank everyone for the out pouring of support and empathy that you have shown me. I have read all the comments and I will respond to individual comments at some point, but for now please accept my thanks and gratitude. You have all helped me to feel not so alone and lost in this rupture. This story is far from over, but maybe, maybe there is something healing happening. I’m not sure yet, and I have a lot of fear and apprehension. Thank you guys for all the support 🧡

This is a long post, mostly made up of emails. My emails are in italics, and Bea’s are regular font and underlined. I am working on writing my thoughts anout this all but it is a muddled mess in my head. I’m honestly unsure what I am feeling.

On Wednesday, Ms. Perfect showed up to therapy, and she and Bea sat and colored together. It was a nice, calm session, and it felt like Bea was just being Bea, and as if she might really be there. Of course, it is easy to be there with Ms. Perfect, she doesn’t ask for anything, and she is not difficult.

At the end of the session, as Ms. Perfect was leaving, standing across from Bea in the doorway, Bea looked at me, and it was as if she were looking for the real me. She asked me to check in via email again, and then, looking right at me, she added she would really like to hear from the parts, and not just from Ms. Perfect. The teen peeked out then, and looked at Bea. She looked right into Bea’s eyes, and there was only sadness and compassion there, this look that said she really did want to know how the parts were doing. It was only a moment, and then Ms. Perfect was back, saying, “If that’s what you want, I’ll try.”

That connection was enough for the teen to write an email, and even though Ms. Perfect didn’t like it, the email was sent. That was enough to start a real conversation with Bea and several back and forth emails led to this:

(I am so uncertain about even sending this, so unsure that it is a good idea, so worried that if I start this conversation you won’t allow Ms. Perfect to show up to therapy on Monday. Please remember that Ms. Perfect is tough and nothing much rattles her or even hurts her, but I am not tough. Not right now. I still haven’t found my shell.)

Yes, I— the grown up— am aware that Ms. Perfect is running things. There are cracks in her facade this time, I’m stronger than I used to be, and that makes it much harder for Ms. Perfect to box me up and run things. Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m allowing it at this point because it’s easier. I’m not sure. I feel numb, empty. I don’t want to think or feel right now. It’s too overwhelming and painful when I do. It’s much easier to just let Ms. Perfect run things, because then I don’t have to think about anything. And yet, I’m not entirely comfortable with letting Ms. Perfect captain the ship, either.

I feel very hurt. I feel like I can’t talk to you about anything right now, but there is also this sense that I need more than Ms. Perfect showing up to therapy while meanwhile I’m writing emails and notebook entries I don’t share. Yet, that’s all I can really handle. There is this feeling that Ms. Perfect can’t go anywhere until I can cope with all the feelings and function in my life again, and that won’t happen until I deal with everything and can feel that I have a secure base again. But I can’t work through any of the stuff because then you and I will end up right back where we were before Ms. Perfect stepped in.

Ms. Perfect says that the adult and the teen are too twisted together right now— really anytime teen stuff comes up— to separate the adult and the teen which presents a challenge. The challenge here is that you are waiting to deal with the teen and her feelings until there is enough of the grown up present to be rational, but the grown up can not be rational when the teen stuff is front and center. The grown up and the teen are too intertwined, and the thoughts and feelings can’t be separated. If you think back to the beginning, when you were working with the little girl, for a long time the adult couldn’t be separated from the little girl; their feelings, thoughts and beliefs were one and the same. It took a lot of hard work to even begin to separate the adult from the little girl.

I don’t know where this leaves us, I truly don’t. I only know that when the cracks in Ms. Perfect’s container start to widen— usually late at night— I feel very despairing. I feel lost and alone and sad. So very, very sad.

And Bea wrote back, asking if the teen could speak about the hurt a little bit more.

The hurt. I feel hurt. And just I don’t know how to talk to you about it anymore.

I know that from your perspective I am welcome to talk about things. But from my perspective, it doesn’t feel like a good idea. It feels like a very risky, very dangerous idea. It didn’t work out so well the last time. It went very, very badly. So badly that Ms. Perfect had to step in. That’s never a good sign.

Part of the hurt is that it doesn’t feel safe to talk to you anymore. Part of the hurt is because going the last 3 weeks feeling like I have no secure base has shown me exactly what a secure base provides. It’s like I can really see exactly what I missed growing up, and I know what I’ve lost now. And that hurts. It hurts to see you because you were my secure base and now……it doesn’t feel like you are.

I feel hurt because I write and I write and I write, and for the first time in a long time I can’t give it to you, I can’t share what is going on behind Ms. Perfect’s facade.

I feel hurt because I feel like you think everything that has happened between us is my fault, because of my stuff and my behavior.

I feel hurt because you aren’t here. I know that you not being here is my fault at the moment because I’m hiding  behind Ms. Perfect. But it hasn’t felt like you are really here since that Wednesday. I’m hurt because I’m afraid to even mention Wednesday to you, and it has been a very long time since I was this afraid to say anything to you.

I feel hurt because I feel like I have to weigh and measure every word I write, like I have to be so, so careful in communicating with you.

I just feel hurt and sad and scared and worried.

I’m trying to figure out what part I hear in your email so I can best respond.  It feels like a very vulnerable part, far away from Ms. Perfect.  I feel like it’s the teen, but you didn’t say that, so I don’t know.

I’m sorry it feels so unsafe to talk to me, and I know that feeling you’ve lost your secure base is a terrible thing.  I definitely don’t blame you for any of what happened—I started to write that I blame myself, but then I stopped because really there’s no need for there to be blame anywhere.  I think we both have owned our contributions.

I want to clarify something—it was a choice for me not to give empathy to the raging, blaming teen, not something that I couldn’t do.  The decision was reached after my feelings led me to realize that the teen needed a clear boundary set about this in order to learn the appropriate way to communicate her feelings.  I know she didn’t know anything differently, but this is now a chance for her to learn those missing skills.  Modeling “taking it” by empathizing when she was out of control in emotion mind would have sent the wrong message to all the parts.  In large part we learn how we ourselves should be treated by experiencing the good boundaries others set.  So this was not about me being unable to contain, but about a choice to contain in a boundaried way. I expect the teen to be unhappy about that—and unsure of how to proceed as she feels her way along this new path—but I want to make sure she understands that she can freely express her feelings, and maybe the Kimochi “you can be mad, but it’s not okay to be mean” is really the best guidance for her.  I know she has some important things to say!

Everything I write back feels wrong. Everything I have to say feels not okay to say. Everything I want to say, I just can’t do it. I tried. I really tried to at least start to work on this. But I just can’t. I’m in tears again over the fact that I can’t talk to you, that I can’t just write and say what I need to say, that I can’t tell you about it and have you be there to help me sort it out.

And then I’m wondering what the point of saying anything is when it’s just going to put us back to this (which is something I keep writing at the end of every unsent email):

Now, you are going write back something very general, maybe some logical explanation or a reflection and then go on to say that this is a conversation better had in person and that you don’t feel comfortable tackling it via email, that we both know from experience that things can easily be miscommunicated. And then I’ll be upset and hurt and feel unseen and unheard and I’ll write back to say that I’m not talking about this in session because it doesn’t feel anywhere safe enough to do so and I just can’t do it. So what is the point of even sending this email? Of even trying to talk about this? We will just end up right back where we started with me unable to talk to you face to face and struggling to show up to your office and you unwilling to discuss and tackle this via email.

See? Everything is screwed up and there is nothing that can even be done about it. I have pages and pages of things to say. But I can’t say any of it. This is why it’s better to just let Ms. Perfect run things. Things don’t hurt when she’s in charge.

I think starting with one chunk that doesn’t feel okay to send might be a good start?  I feel like email is absolutely okay for this.  I really do want to help you sort through this and repair the mess.

This feels like a bad idea. Like very bad things are going to happen. Please please please keep in mind that I am confused and scared and vulnerable that it is even harder for me now to sort out my thoughts and feelings than it was a few weeks ago, and that it is even harder now to contain my feelings— it’s either out of control feelings or Ms. Perfect with no feelings. I don’t know what to do. It feels like a much safer plan to just let Ms. Perfect continue to show up to therapy and to ignore the rest of this. Maybe I shouldn’t even send this. I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. 

I’m sorry it feels so unsafe to talk to me, and I know that feeling you’ve lost your secure base is a terrible thing.

Everything…I don’t know. It’s so much harder to deal with everything knowing there isn’t someone to help catch me when I fall. Ruptures….I don’t think you even know how bad they are. You’re gone, and then there’s all the feelings about that and there is whatever gets triggered when we rupture and always always nightmares and flashbacks hit me full force like they know I’m already down and are just attacking me and I get triggered over every stupid little thing and I can not contain any of it. It’s awful. Nothing is okay. 

I want to clarify something—it was a choice for me not to give empathy to the raging, blaming teen, not something that I couldn’t do.  The decision was reached after my feelings led me to realize that the teen needed a clear boundary set about this in order to learn the appropriate way to communicate her feelings.

I wish you had just realized that in my very first email,  I was doing my very best to write out a mess of feelings, of fear and sad and scared that were incredibly intense, that I was trying to tell you how the things you said and did impacted me and exactly why it felt like I couldn’t talk to you and shouldn’t be in therapy. It feels so nit-picky to me to criticize the precise wording I used. I know that how I wrote things was very upset and sad and hurt and scared and that it could have been worded or clarified better than it was. I know that you felt it was mad and mean and ragefull. That very first email I sent? I wasn’t even so much mad as I was feeling rejected and terrified and confused and hurt.  I also made a point to write that I was writing what I had written in my notebook— which you know are in the moment, messy things and not carefully thought out writings— because I knew that what was written wasn’t fully formed, or perfect. I couldn’t, I can’t, try to sort through all those feelings and thoughts and beliefs and fears and make them clear and concise and exactly how something “should” be written. I need help to do that. I feel like if you were really in your window and really back and not emotional over what had happened on Wednesday it would have been clear to you that I meant “when you did x, I felt y” rather than blaming you for “making” me feel a certain way. You have always been able to see beneath the surface of the messy words and thoughts and grasp the meaning and the feelings before. The worst part is, you didn’t try to help me sort it out. It’s not fair to decide someone is being mean and then not even talk to them about it. I don’t know, I can’t express everything around this in writing, and this is certainly not clarified or perfect enough to send you. It’s probably just going to blow up in my face again. 

Your choice to ignore the anger was also a choice to ignore the very real, very scared and vulnerable and undeserving feelings. I feel that your response was mean. It left me completely alone, and even more panicked and terrified because you ignored my feelings. It would have been better if you had told me then that you were choosing to ignore my feelings because you felt I was being angry and mean. That would have been honest at least. Instead you just ignored them, gave me explanations and logic, and wrote that you had felt no negative reaction (which clearly wasn’t the entire story). And when I became more upset you told me that you felt you had responded with your most present and attuned self. But that wasn’t really the case, because you had made a choice to withdraw emotionally. 

So this was not about me being unable to contain, but about a choice to contain in a boundaried way.

Stop telling me you were able to still contain everything. You didn’t contain anything. Not for me. Ms. Perfect stepped in eventually and did that. You just disappeared behind the logical rational therapy robot wall. You told me I could be angry. You told me I could be honest. You told me that I didn’t have to be perfect. You told me that messy was okay, that we could make sense of messy together. So, I shared messy, angry, honest, and  imperfect feelings with you. And you left. I understand that you made a choice. I understood that the first time you said it. I understand that you believe you made a choice not to empathize or support me emotionally, but that it is okay because you were still able to contain everything. But who gets to decide that you were still able to contain things? You, or the person who needs the container?  My experience of this is that nothing feels contained to me, is that the container broke and you disappeared behind the therapy robot wall and that’s theories and reflections and explanations. If I had felt contained, Ms. Perfect wouldn’t be here right now with her rigid control of everything. 

This is a big chunk for me to try to tackle, so bear with me if I miss something—just bring it up in the next email—I’m not trying to ignore anything.

I apologize for needing time to decide how to handle what was going on in the moment with this. It was my own struggle with boundaries that laid the foundation for this—I am getting better, but I still tend to take on more of other people’s “stuff” than I should.  In the past I haven’t set good boundaries with your parts in these circumstances.  That did make this harder for you than if I’d established good boundaries from the start.  Moving forward, however, I think I’ve got this under control so that it’s healthier for both of us and will allow you to grow as you need to.  The fact is, it’s not okay for any teens—parts or actual teens—to rage at others like that.  No matter how hurt, scared, whatever it’s just not okay. It took me time to sort this out and find the boundary, and I really, really do apologize for that.  

I know that boundaries can feel mean. I know you may be mad about this for a long time, but my heart tells me I did the right thing.  It wasn’t support I stopped giving, it was the enabling of a pattern of response on your part that isn’t helping you. I don’t expect you to see this right now, and if we need to disagree about this I’m okay with that. I have much empathy about that!

I get that you feel I didn’t contain this emotionally for you, and that I left.  And that you’re really mad about that.  I get that the lashing out is because of those feelings.  I hope that even though I do understand that, you can respect that I’m no longer going to soak up that rage. I’m here, though, and I’m listening, offering support and willing to engage. It won’t be until your wise self can rein things in a bit more that we’ll really be able to repair this. I trust the process.

I’m not mad about that. I just don’t understand why you couldn’t have helped me figure out how to say what I was (am) feeling without being mean. Because I still don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know how you think I should be saying something. I don’t know what you think is and is not okay. I don’t understand why its not acceptable that something a person said or did impacted me and led to me feeling a certain way. Why is that not okay? I understand that I wasn’t…didn’t…use the right words, that I was mean and mad when I wrote them, but why couldn’t you see that what happened on Wednesday brought up every old fear and caused so much pain and that I needed help talking about it in an acceptable manner? Why couldn’t you help me figure out how to do that? I can’t learn the lesson you want me to learn if you just shut me out because I’m being mean. I’m not even mad. Not really. I’m hurt. So hurt that I don’t have words to explain it. 

I’m not lashing out right now. At least I don’t feel like I am. I know that every email after I felt ignored was me lashing out. I was mad and I wanted you to listen to me. Actually, I wasn’t just mad. I was scared because you had left and I didn’t know if you were coming back. And the more I yelled and screamed to be seen and heard, the farther away you were. And the more scared, and angry I got. But I’m not screaming now. If anything I’m just crying. 

Please please listen and please please please please try to see the feeling and meaning of my words because I know I’m screwing this up and I’m not trying to and I don’t want to upset you or make you go really far away again and I know that me feeling cut off from you is on me right now but at least you are more here than you were before and please please just don’t go away again.  I don’t want to fight anymore. 

I’m not asking you to soak up my rage. I don’t think I ever was. Maybe it came off as mad and mean. Maybe it felt like that is what I wanted. And I’m sorry my mad feelings made you feel like you had to soak up my rage. I’m really really sorry. Maybe being mad and mean was easier than being vulnerable and feeling like a turtle without a shell. I think all I wanted was to know— to be reassured — was that you don’t feel those things….I was so scared, so, so scared on that Wednesday that this was the beginning of the end, that you were really starting to feel like I shouldn’t need therapy so often or so much support. I was so afraid that you were going to be writing up a treatment plan to be all done with me sooner rather than later. I was so scared that I had needed too much and caused the entire mess on Wednesday. That because of all my neediness the last two weeks (prior to Wednesday) that I had just pushed you to a breaking point and that was what everything you were saying about insurance was really about— that all the things you were saying about insurance company thinking were what you were thinking and feeling because of me being too much. I wanted, I needed to know that I wasn’t too much, that I hadn’t broken you, that this wasn’t because of me. I was terrified it was because of me and that you were never going to bring the container back, never going to fix it. I don’t know how to even put words to those desperate, awful, terrified, abandoned feelings. I wanted you to understand how I felt, I wanted you to reassure me again and again until I could hold on to that, I wanted you to not be gone. I tried to explain how bad I felt, to ask for what I needed and I did a terrible job of it. I was mad and I was blaming. But I wasn’t really blaming you in my head….I was blaming me. This is all so complicated. I still can’t sort it out. The feelings are still there, and I still don’t know how to ask for what I need and explain them without messing everything up again.

But that isn’t fair..I don’t think it can be reined in until I feel like I have a secure base again. But I can’t feel like i have a secure base without repairing this. I’m afraid that you won’t believe there is a wise self back on board until I agree with what you say, with what you think. And I just don’t know. I’m scared. I’m very, very scared. I don’t feel okay. Not okay at all. And that makes me afraid. I don’t want to have everything messed up forever and ever. 

Maybe…I know you don’t like to email so much, that it is all a lot to deal with via email. I want to say maybe I could talk on the phone. Or at least listen. But I’m afraid. I’m afraid you will say no phone call. But I’m afraid if we do try to talk on the phone about this, then you will expect me to talk on Monday face to face about it. And I don’t know if I can do that. I don’t want to waste your time, I really really don’t. I just..it’s hard. It’s really really hard. And I’m afraid you might agree to a phone call and then I won’t be able to talk anyway and that will just make you not happy with me. 😭🙈🐢⛈🌪😭😭🐢🐢🐢🙈

I found myself wanting to find a way to give you hope about the fixable nature of this. The fact that I feel more “here” to you is a good sign, I think. I think we have to try to find the “helpful thoughts,” right?  I know it’s going to be hard to find my writing too, so why don’t I just answer each highlighted paragraph here in a separate paragraph, one after another? Hopefully that will work!

This is just going to take time. I have to be consistent and trustworthy. That’s the bottom line. I know that, and I will do everything I can to be that person. That actual bad Wednesday came from lack of awareness, and felt out of the blue like these things always do. And I realized it right away, as you know, but there were no take backs:(

I do wish I could be an anchor again, even if a tentative anchor right now.  I feel helpless about this….

I know you don’t see what I’m talking about with the rages, and I can definitely speak to this and help that. The sheer volume of writing that would be makes me think it has to be in person—and you don’t have to talk at all, I would just explain it and you could write more about it for me to answer if you want. Does that sound reasonable? I definitely don’t want to shut you out of this— it’s just too much to try to write.

Okay, now I’m already running out of time, so I’m going to have to consolidate the rest into this paragraph—and much of the rest can go into my verbal explanation if you agree that would be okay.  I know the bottom line of all this was your terror of abandonment. And it’s so easy for me to say, “Of course I would never kick you out of therapy and abandon you!!!!” but that doesn’t stop the terror that you feel in every fiber of your being.  I know that, and I want you to really, really know that I will not do that! I would never put anyone through that—a literal abandonment.

I have to go. I know I didn’t begin to get through all of this. Let me know if I can explain things on Monday. You can write as much as you want and I’ll happily sort through it. I can do a little this weekend. And phone would also be okay if you would find it helpful.  

Maybe. I don’t know. I just don’t know. I don’t want to trick myself into believing something that isn’t true and ending up more hurt. I’m trying. Even helpful thoughts feel dangerous right now. I can make a list of things but I don’t know if I can really believe them. I’m afraid to believe them. 

Helpful thoughts (are these true?)

Fact: Bea wants to repair this, she said so

Fact: Bea came back, she feels more here now 

Fact: Bea does believe I should be in therapy and that I need support therapy gives me, she has tried to schedule more sessions this summer so I’m not dealing with a lot of once a week times but I haven’t been able to look at our calendars

Fact: Bea doesn’t think I am too much, she told me so 

Fact: Bea is not leaving me or getting rid of me, she told me that would never ever happen 

I don’t understand. Lack of awareness of what? Of me needing too much? Of you just not being you that day? Maybe you’ve told me this already. I don’t know. Until Ms. Perfect showed up, I was so dissociated every time I showed up to therapy that I really don’t even know what we did or didn’t talk about. Or rather, what you said or didn’t say because I am pretty sure I wasn’t talking. I don’t talk much when I’m that far away that I can’t really remember things. But I wasn’t trying not to listen or not to remember or not to pay attention. I just couldn’t. I couldn’t be there. It’s too much. It was too hard. It hurt too much. 

I know what you are asking is reasonable. I know that, I do. You aren’t asking anything of me, not really. But it is terrifying for me to be told “we’ll talk about this later.” It’s like being called to the principal’s office or something. You aren’t being unreasonable but I’m afraid to let you talk. I’m afraid you are going to end up being shrinky and logical and not here at all emotionally and I just can’t cope  with. I’m afraid whatever you have to say is just going to hurt my feelings and it’s so much easier to read an email and then to melt down and cry when I can hide at home under my blanket with no one to see. Even letting you talk about things and me not having to talk feels so vulnerable and scary. But now I feel like I put us on this path because I emailed and wrote real feelings and now I’m stuck and just 😭😭😭. I’m afraid you are just going to tell me I was mean, that you don’t like me because I was mean and that you can’t work with me anymore because I’m not a nice person. I don’t want to be mean. I really really really don’t. I wasn’t trying to be mean or hurtful or anything like that. 🙈😭 And I don’t want you to hate me for being mean. 

Yes, these helpful thoughts are all true. Very much true.

The lack of awareness was that I was full of anxiety and needed to deal with it outside of our session. It had nothing to do with you. I don’t intend to have shrinky or therapy-kicking-out things to say whether in email or in person. Whatever you need—give it some time and see if it comes clear.

7 wakeups until I see Bea

😔😭🙈🐢🌪🌧⛈🌨

It’s not the end

I’m sorry to publish two posts back to back like this, but I wanted to let you all know how things ended up.

As most of you are aware, this was a really tough week. I struggled, a lot. Although I haven’t responded to comments, your comments and kind words– just the care shown and support offered– did help. It made me less alone, and reassured me in so many ways. While I don’t think there is anything super triggering in this post, maybe just be careful, just in case, because I’m not all here right now, and I would hate to trigger some one because I am not paying enough attention.

___________________________________________

Driving Kat to school, I am acutely aware that I must make a choice today: to go to therapy or to go home. I don’t know which to choose. It makes my head hurt when I think about it, so I stop thinking about it. I take Kat into school, and go through our morning school routine, all the little things that help her to transition to school. She lets me go easily this morning, and I walk to the car feeling off balance.

I don’t need to think, my mind and body automatically head towards Bea’s office. My heart is frozen, and the evil ugly butterflies are flying around in my stomach full speed ahead. My arms feel numb, and my chest is prickly, tingly. I can’t breathe. I don’t think I want to do this. I don’t want to see Bea. It’s going to hurt too much.

I get to her office and park the car. I’m frozen. All I can think is *she will send me away* and *she is going to leave* and *I can’t do this*. I begin to get my things together, but it is as if I am moving through thick mud; taking a long time to put my phone in my bag, to shut the car off, to grab my car keys. I stare into my bag. The large sized pink polka dotted notebook (I bought it when I was having my mini criss and my beautiful orange notebook was at home. I needed to write, so I bought a new book.) is sitting in my bag. I stare at it. Do I want it in my bag? Do I want to give it to Bea? It’s really vulnerable. The middle of the notebook is okay. But the beginning is horrible. The teen is pissed at her and struggling not to hurt herself. And the end, Little Alice drew the pictures that are stuck in her mind. They are pretty disgusting and terrible. I finally decide to carry it with me, so I can always throw the notebook at her and run away if it feels like too much.

I walk up the stairs slowly. Heart pounding. I can’t breathe. I’m so scared. Despite all that, I put one foot in front of the other and climb the steps. Bea is waiting at the door for me, and she opens it to let me in.

“I’m glad to see you,” she says. “I know it wasn’t easy to make it here today.”

I can’t look at her. I try to say hi, but no sound comes out.

I sit down fast, almost like I’m afraid if I don’t, I’m going to run out the door. I curl my legs up, and stare at the puppets in a bucket on the floor. I’m playing with my hands, the edges of my sweater, picking at my fingers. All that nervous energy has to come out somewhere, I guess, and the rest of me is frozen.

When it’s obvious I am not going to say anything, Bea begins. I’m half listening, and her voice is so far away. I don’t want to hear what she has to say. I already know she is going to take away email, or my extra session time, or possibly even fire me. I was hurt and angry and I behaved like a brat and now she is going to punish me.

“I want to apologize for what happened this week. I missed the mark, and I am sorry about that. I take full responsibility for this rupture,” she says softly.

Wait….what? She’s sorry? But it’s not all her fault. I know that. I wrote it down, somewhere. I tried and tried to understand and make sense of what had happened in between my meltdowns over flashbacks and nightmares and body sensations. Bea is still talking, but I am struggling to hear.

She is saying something about being sorry, and that she had always argued with colleagues that email wasn’t a problem because the clients she offered email to understood what she was meaning and she understood what they meant, and it just worked. “We need to make a plan,” she tells me, and that sentence breaks through the fog. I don’t respond, because now everything in my is frozen and I’m so scared she is going to say the plan is no emailing, or only ever emailing but her not responding or something equally terrible. “I have some ideas about a plan.”

I shake my head. I don’t want to talk to her about a plan.

“We can wait and talk about a plan in a little bit. I see you have a new notebook there. Did you want me to read?” She asks.

I look over at my notebook. There is so much vulnerability in there. I pick it up, and flip through it. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” she says. And then she waits.

I flip through the notebook, again and again, numbly. I’m aware I’m doing it, I’m just not really here. I stop in the middle of the notebook, where I had rewritten my email. “I don’t think….it’s not all your fault.” I whisper. It feels like I haven’t used my voice in years.

“It’s not what?” Bea didn’t hear me, because the sound in my voice just disappeared as I was talking.

“Your fault. I wrote….I wrote that….I said….. I said polka dots but you heard stripes and you responded to stripes but I really needed polka dots. And I think…..I wasn’t so clear. I mean…..I don’t know. Never mind.” All of this said with a mumble and a whisper, while I refuse to look at her. Thank goodness Bea has become fluent in Alice speak (most of the time).

I honestly don’t remember what she said, but I know she apologized again, and she said if the teen was mad, it was okay and she could let that mad out. I shook my head at that and told her no one was mad anymore. She sighs and tells me, “I hope that all the parts know they can be mad and share that with me. I feel like the teen gets mad at me, just like my kids do, but my kids let me have it. They don’t hold back. And I can take it. I hope the teen knows that I can take it if she is mad, and that won’t make me go away. It won’t make me mad back, or make me care any less.”

I sit very still, very quiet, but I’m listening now. She continues, “I feel a bit like I do with my kids right now, when they are struggling and hurting and there is nothing I can do to take that away. I don’t like seeing you in so much pain, and I am so sorry for the pain I caused. I never want to stir up those abandonment feelings. I am not going to abandon you, not ever, there is nothing you could do that will make me go away. I do feel very badly that my response felt so bad to you. I didn’t want to make you feel like this, and I honestly felt like I had responded in the way you were needing. I had no idea I had been so off base, and your second email did surprise me. If I could take away this pain, I would.”

I’m still so scared something bad is going to happen, I’m shaking. I open the pink notebook to the middle page. “I rewrote my first email. I wasn’t…well, here.” And I hand her the notebook.

“Do you want me to start reading here?”

“Yeah. I….it’s….the beginning is where all the mad is at.” I cover my face in shame.

“So there is mad! Good! I’m glad to know its there!” I can hear a smile in Bea’s voice, and I shake my head. She is so weird. Who gets happy that mad showed up?

Bea starts to read and I grab the cloud pillow that is behind me on the back of the couch. She pauses and then asks, “Do you want your blanket?” She sounds so gentle, the way you would speak to a very emotionally exhausted child. Before I say anything, she says, “You know, I’m just going to get it and set it next to you, okay? That way it’s there if you want it.”

After she sets the blanket down, she starts reading. (I don’t have the pink notebook, the little girl wanted to leave it and all the scary pictures with Bea, so I’m going solely by memory.) I’d written that I wasn’t very coherent in my first email and so I didn’t get my message across. I wrote in the notebook: this is what I should have said.

1) I’ve realized that when I am far away, my reactions tend to be bigger than they should be, because that is the only way I can feel them, and I am having a very big problem being present right now and managing my reactions.

2) The little girl is so afraid you keep bringing up the grown up and wanting the grown up to help her. She thinks this is because you don’t want to have to listen to her or help her anymore.

3) The little girl is really triggered. She is having flashbacks and nightmares and these body feelings that make her feel disgusting and shameful and bad and they make her want to go away forever and ever.

4) The teen is so triggered by the little girls flashbacks. All of this has triggered her suicidal ideation, her need to self harm and she wants to throw up in this extreme way. It’s all so big, and her need to do something is next to impossible for the grown up to contain.

5) I need help. I’m balancing on this very small edge and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep myself from falling over it.

“Right away, I can read this and tell, you were really struggling. Things were really bad.” Bea says almost immediately.

I don’t say anything, so she goes back to reading. I’d written that I didn’t understand why she didn’t just tell me she was really busy, but she was there and listening and she knew it all hurt and she cared and that even though she couldn’t respond much, I could keep writing and pouring out the toxic gunk, it wouldn’t hurt her, and she could help contain it. The Teen had written *that is what the Bea I know and trust would have said.*

I don’t know what was going on for Bea, but when she spoke, she was very serious. “The teen is right. I didn’t make it clear that I was listening and that it was okay to keep writing. I went more the explaining route, instead of just focusing on the feelings. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t…I mean, I just…ugh. You were talking to the grown up, explaining things, but it wasn’t the grown up that needed to be talked to.”

“No, it wasn’t the grown up that needed me to talk to her. The little girl needed soothing. I don’t think— I didn’t realize when I read your email that morning that you were screaming HELP. I read it, and heard “help”. I mistook your email….I experienced it as the little girl just needing to hear me say *I’m here and nothing I said in session means I am leaving*. I thought explaining why I brought up the grown up would help. I see now why it didn’t. There wasn’t enough grown up on board to hear that. The little girl needed to be calmed in order to calm the teen. Had I realized it was a HELP, I would have responded differently. My second email, I honestly was so surprised that you were upset by the first email, and I didn’t even see that you were trying to scream HELP again, or that you were upset because I had not responded to HELP. I went right to teacher mode, trying to explain to the parts that I didn’t have a lot of time, and that I had them in my mind. I suppose I was sort of trying to say *calm down guys, I am here even if I can’t write a long email back.*” Bea talked a lot, and she was really honest. She was human, regular Bea.

“You were really in teacher mode.” I say seriously.

“I know. And that’s not what you needed.”

Our conversation went like that for a while. Bea explaining what was happening on her end, me saying that *I know* and Bea apologizing again for missing this crisis and not realizing the little girl needed more validation and soothing. (The thing we realized is that had she known, she could have sent one email most likely taking care of the little girls needs. She apologized for not having the time to read my email throughly enough to read between the lines, and I told her that I knew I could have been more clear in what was happening. I think I get afraid to shout HELP, because I don’t want to be accused of being a drama queen.)

At one point, I’d written out what she had said in email, and what the little girl took that mean. As she read that, she stops and says,”This all had to feel terrible. These are awful things to be told, aren’t they?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“I know this is what was heard, but let me make sure that all the parts know, this is not what I meant. I do not think you are too much. I don’t want the grown up to be the only one helping the little girl. I want to work with the grown up. My hope is….because all of this goes on inside, and the grown up can be inside, too, it would feel really good for the little girl to have the grown up be able to sit with her. But it’s okay if no one is ready for that. It’s okay. I’m here, and I’m not leaving. The grown up is supposed to be an addition to the little girl’s support. We aren’t taking anything away. I’m not being taken away from the little girl. And anything the little girl needs to share is okay. It’s not too much, it’s not going to contaminate me or break me. Okay?”

“Okay.” I whisper the word.

She goes back to reading. “On, look here. You even say that maybe I was still emotionally present but the teen and the little girl took the teacher feeling they were getting from me to mean I was going to be pulling away. And it felt like a wall.”

“Because maybe both things can be true. Maybe you were emotionally present, and maybe it felt to me like you you weren’t there. Maybe you responded in the right way to what you heard me saying and maybe your attunement was off in your response to what I had actually been trying to say.”

“Yes. I heard help when you meant HELP. I was going to ask about the third email, when I had time to sit down and respond more throughly, but here you already answered that. That email still was misattuned, and had that same teacher trying to get the class under control and explain things to them feeling. It just wasn’t what you needed. That’s why I’m thinking, in the future if that happens, then instead if continuing to email (I cringe, I knew it), we schedule a phone call. So we can talk this through before it gets to this point.” She doesn’t sound mad, or annoyed, or anything else.

I shrug. “You aren’t taking email away?”

“No. No, that is not the answer. And nine times out of ten, email works great for us. I feel like taking away email would be a terrible idea. But sometimes I will be busy and not able to put 100% of my attention on your email the way I can when we are face to face. And sometimes that means I miss the mark in a huge way. Maybe we need a signal. Like message me HELP in all caps when I miss the mark like that. But seriously, if we schedule a time to talk, then I can spend 15 or 30 minutes focused just on you. And if we need more time, then during the phone call we can schedule another call for later. And then you won’t be sitting with all this pain for so long.” She explains. And she sounds okay with this plan, and even more so, she sounds serious that taking away email would be terrible idea.

I breathe a sigh of relief over the plan. It’s okay, even though phone calls are hard for me. And then little Alice is running the show. “It was a really long time. And none of the yuck went away and it was so hard because I thought you left and I lost you and then it was just me and all the awful thoughts and feelings and the teen wanting to do scary things to herself and it was so so bad.” I start to cry then, and so I yank the blanket over my head and hide.

“It was really bad, and I’m so sorry. I wish I could help you understand that I’m always here, even if I’m not right there every moment. I wish I could help you trust that I am always able to hold you in my mind, even if I am busy.” Bea’s voice is soft and kind.

“But I can’t hold onto that. I get so scared every time that all my ick is going to make you hate me and need to leave so I don’t get the icky on you.” Little girl voice, crying and trying not to.

“The ick isn’t yours. You aren’t icky. And no matter what icky things happened, or what icky things you tell me about, I’m not going anywhere.” Bea’s tone is warm and caring, but also serious. She wants so badly for the little girl to get it.

“But…but….you were too busy to hear me. You didn’t see me when I needed help.” I cry.

“I know. That felt really bad. That’s why we are going to make a plan. I thought about you a lot this week. I was worried, and I felt bad that you were feeling so bad. You have to understand, you have a place in my heart, and you will always have a place there. That doesn’t just go away because I was busy, or because I was misattuned. That doesn’t mean I stop caring, or that you aren’t in my heart anymore. All the parts of you have a place in my heart. I care about you.” She says gently.

“I don’t want to hurt you or make you feel bad. I’m not supposed to matter like that.” The words come out of Little Alice’s mouth and they surprise me. It’s the push pull of attachment issues and relationships. I hate you, don’t leave me. Care about me, I don’t deserve to matter to you.

“Well, too bad, because you matter to me. That’s a relationship. Just because this is a therapy, it doesn’t mean that it’s not a real relationship or that I don’t care about you. You matter to me, and with that comes feelings. It’s okay. You deserve to matter to people.” Her words make me freeze again. I matter to her. I have a place in her heart and it won’t just go away because of a rupture. Things don’t work like that. I don’t know what that means to me, and it hurts to think about it, and so I don’t.

After a few minutes of me not speaking, Bea asks if I want her to finish reading. “Yeah. But just from where you are. Not the front.” The little girl might be beginning to believe Bea that she isn’t leaving and that she cares, but the idea of all that mad being poured out at Bea, it’s more than the little girl can believe is okay.

Bea goes back to reading. She’s found the pages and pages of dissociative, confused writing just spilling out onto the page. “You really needed me. This was too much to hold.” She says quietly. Her voice is so sad.

Hearing her say those words, just the very act of Bea realizing how bad it all was and how much I needed her lets loose the floods of tears I hadn’t even known I’d been fighting to hold onto. “I really, really did.” I gulp the words out, between sobs.

“The little girl did drawings? Where are they….” Bea is mostly mumbling to herself, just thinking outloud, and just when the little girl is starting to speak up, to tell Bea not to look at the drawings because they will contaminate Bea with all of my disgustingness, Bea says, “Oh, here they are.”

My heart freezes, and I want to disappear in that moment. The little girl was at a loss for words, the pain of all that she was trying so hard to hold onto was too much for words and so she drew all the images and nightmares and feelings. (Okay– these descriptions of the drawings could be triggering.)

The first picture shows Bea, in her sunny office with her comfy couch standing on one side of a thick door with a giant lock on the door knob. I’m on the other side of the door, curled into myself, with greenish-black slime covering the walls, and a box with an open lid and a big lock on the floor. Coming out of the box is a black shadowy ghost like creature with horns and red eyes. Black ooze is leaking out the bottom of the box. “You really felt like I was gone. This is so scary, and it’s too much for one little girl to handle. It’s too much for anybody to handle.” The picture seems to hit Bea hard; that imagery of her on this sunny okay side, with the lock on the door while I am stuck in the room of horrors all alone.

The next pictures depict a bruised arm, a black shadow monster with horns on top of the little girl while another part of her is sitting huddled on the floor, curled into a ball. There’s a picture of a girl drowning in green toxic slime, and a clawed hand stopping her from escape. There is another picture of a girl with her limbs and head all separate, just floating around like balloons, there is no torso, no private parts, nothing that can be hurt. Bea makes a noise as she flips through these pictures, not a gasp and not a sigh, but a sad noise, regretful. “This was all so scary, and you really needed me.”

“I did. I’m sorry, but I did.” I cry.

“No, no sorry. You are allowed to need me. You were feeling some real big, real scary feelings. They didn’t feel good and you didn’t feel safe at all. I’m really glad you shared them with me. I can see how really bad this week felt. That is a lot to hold onto. It was really hard, I know. You did a good job. Writing and drawing, that was a good job.” She sounds a little like a teacher again, but now she is a kind and open teacher. One whose voice is affectionate and caring and who gets how bad it all felt.

“You were just gone and I couldn’t and the teen couldn’t and she was being scared too and the grown up isn’t always so strong and I just wanted to go away forever and ever.”

“I know, I know you did. That’s why when all the parts are here, we are going to make a plan, so this doesn’t happen again, okay? We will make a plan and keep you safe. You are safe now. All those really, really scary things are over. I know they don’t feel over sometimes but they are. You are safe now, and we aren’t going to leave you alone like that again. Okay?” Bea tells me.

I sniffle, nod. “Okay.”

She tells me that we have just a few minutes left. I don’t want to leave, I really really don’t want to leave but I say okay, and tell her I can go. “Take a few minutes. Even if you don’t want to be fully present, I still want the grown up to try to get back online, at least a little bit.”

As I am trying to get back to a place where Bea will let me leave, I peak out from my blanket and quickly glance at her. She’s the same Bea.

Bea sits forward in her chair, and standing up, goes to set the pink notebook next to me.

“I don’t want that notebook back. No. I don’t want everything in it.” I’m in that weird place where the grown up is back online but not fully in control either and so the little girl manages to shout out her wishes at Bea.

Bea walks over to her table desk, where she has her planner and crafts and paints and projects kids ask her to save and her notes and who knows what else. She puts the pink notebook there. The little girl likes that it’s there. She doesn’t want Bea to get rid of her pictures, not yet, and if they are safe on her desk then maybe they can look at them next time and talk about it.

“Can we talk some logistical things for a moment, before you go?”

I nod. “Alright.”

“Are you going to you mom’s for Thanksgiving?” She asks.

“No, to hubby’s sister.”

“Then you will be in town. Kat doesn’t have school, does she? Can you still come on Wednesday?”

“Are you working Wednesday? I didn’t think….I mean, I don’t want…” I whisper. I’m trying to say I don’t want to make her work when she wasn’t going to, or take time away from her holiday but the little girl is screaming that she wants to see Bea and the teen is trying to convince the little girl not to be too much.

“I was planning to come in to see you if you were in town, and under the circumstances, I think we need to have a session.”

“It’s okay, because I don’t want to make you work when you weren’t going to and I don’t want to mess things up and I don’t want….”

Bea cuts me off. “This isn’t you messing anything up. Nothing is messed up. I do think, if you are able to, that it would be a good thing to have a session. You really need to experience me being here right now, so I think it’s important.”

“Okay.” I whisper.

“What time do you want to come?” She asks.

“Anytime in the morning. Whatever works for you.”

“Can you come at 8?” She asks.

“Yes, I can be here then.” I stand up and grab my bag.

“Okay then. I’ll see you Wednesday,” she says, smiling.

Just as my hand is on the door knob, I stop and look at Bea. “Are we okay?”

“Yes. I’m okay. You are okay. And we are okay. This didn’t damage us. We’re okay and I’m here.” She says softly. She’s standing next to me, because she always walks me out to the top of the stairs.

I nod. “Okay.” And then we say our goodbyes.

I’m okay when I leave. I’m sort of sad and just emotionally drained. The parts are still stirred up and I am still a little numb. I’m all sorts of mixed up, but mostly I believe Bea is here now and she gets how bad everything feels.

Is this goodbye?

I know I’ve posted a lot in the last day. I’m really close to walking away from Bea. I’m more hurt than I’ve ever been. I haven’t sent this email yet, I’m letting it sit in my drafts so I can really think it through.

Bea emailed me a more in depth email last night. It’s clear in that email that she has decided the teen is simply venting all her rage at Bea. She’s decided that the teen is angry that the little girl has shared so much and made herself so vulnerable lately. She actually wrote: The teen feels she needs to step in and fight against me because the little girl has let herself be too vulnerable. I was just thinking yesterday that it almost seemed too easy the way we were working on things.

You guys, I can’t believe this. I don’t know how we went from okay to this mess. I’ve mostly shut down and gone numb because how am I supposed to cope with the big bad scary ideas and images and feelings that I allowed myself to let out, because I believed she would be there to help me, and now my secure base has decided to hide behind a locked door. I just don’t see a way through.

Dear Bea,
I’m not okay. I’ll be fine, because this numbed perfect part of me kicked in Friday morning and so I’m no longer feeling anything at all. But it is a fragile bandaid, and underneath that, I’m not okay.

I want to cancel therapy this week. I don’t want to see you. It feels like walking into therapy right now is only going to rip off the fragile bandaid I’ve applied and make things worse.

I understand that you are busy and stretched thin. I understand that you can not be available all the time. The thing is, though, every time this happens, and I need you, you put up this wall. I understand that it is you setting a boundary so you can practice good self care, but it is painful. The boundary in and of itself may or may not feel hurtful, but that is not the issue.

I think we can both agree I am extremely sensitive to any changes in your emotional availability. Your first emailed response clearly upset me. Upon further reflection, I don’t believe the problem was that you didn’t respond in a way that that felt helpful, but rather a subtle shift had taken place that triggered me. Unfortunately, that shift is so subtle, I can not pinpoint it. Whether it was the tone, or the language used or something else all together, it set off alarm bells in my head that despite the reassurance you are still here, you are in fact, not here. Obviously, your second email explained that you are busy and stretched too thin, which made my reaction clear to me.

This situation has happened before, at other times when you have felt stretched too thin. It makes since that if you are feeling this way, a shift would take place and you would pull back emotionally. Everyone does this at times. To me, it is like instead of a door that is easily opened, there is a very solid door that is firmly shut. You may be on the other side of the door, telling me you are here, but the reality is, I’m sitting in this room of horrors alone. In the past, we have talked it out, repaired the rupture and agreed that you would tell me when you are stretched to your emotional capacity and that you would simply focus on validating any feelings that came up as a result of the work done in therapy or due to any triggers. We agreed that it wasn’t helpful to have anything else happen, because it all feels clinical and cold to me.

You can’t change this right now, and nor should you, because the door is clearly shut for a reason. But I can’t do this. It is unfair that you let the little girl open the lock box holding this big bad scary idea that she couldn’t do anything to stop it, and that she didn’t do anything to cause it. I emailed because I can’t handle this on my own. I emailed because it’s too big and too overwhelming to hold by myself. The little girl feels like you lied. The teen feels like you said you would be there, and then you turned shrinky and clinical instead of actually being there. The parts don’t trust you right now. Even the grown up is questioning why she trusted you enough to let the little girl open that box.

I understand you are human, and that you have a life and obligations beyond me, and my needs. I understand that you can’t meet all my needs, and nor should you. I understand that I am an adult and as such, I am responsible for myself. That still doesn’t change the fact that I am feeling abandoned and like you betrayed the little girl’s trust.

I just can’t do this right now.

Alice

It’s Wednesday and I hate her

I walk slowly down the steps, out the door and onto the sidewalk. I’m numb, empty of all thoughts and feelings. Right now, I’ll do anything to stay numb. If there were any feeling here, I would feel as if I don’t matter at all. I would feel abandoned and alone. Bea’s words keep replaying in my head. “Yes! Notice that, this new idea. Let it really sink in. This is a great place to end things for today. Take a few moment and notice what that feels like. Notice the boundary the blanket creates and notice this new idea. Let yourself feel those things.” 

I hate her. I hate her. I wasn’t done. She cut me off, not wanting to hear the negative nearly intolerable thoughts and feelings. She doesn’t care. She wants to focus on the positive and get me out of her office for some reason. I feel rushed, in a way I have never felt rushed out her door before. I hate her and I don’t need her. I’m never going back. These awful feelings are never going to end, and she just made them that much worse. 

Of course, later– much, much later when the grown up Alice has some control over things, an email is sent to Bea, and she responded: I want to tell you what I was thinking at the end of the session–not that it should be all tied up nicely, but that it’s better for your brain if you leave feeling the resource than the yucky stuff. So I was trying to flip the switch to that instead of the yucky, but it sounds like it felt invalidating that I basically turned away from the feelings you were having? And maybe that made the little girl feel invisible and like she wasn’t being seen or given attention? Reassure her that next time we can surely spend lots of time with her!

The teen reads this and shakes her head. Lies. It’s all lies, she thinks. Bea does not care. She was simply following stupid SP protocol of things needing to end with some form of resource learned or used, some lesson or some growth or some crap like that. It doesn’t matter anyway, because she doesn’t need Bea. Bea is not going to spending anytime with the little girl, the teen will see to that. She’s so angry. Bea left her in all the crap feelings and thoughts, left her right when she almost had found the courage to say something about the after and the body memories that keep popping up because of the after memories. The teen was curious about things Bea had said, and she wanted to talk about it them. Not now, though, not anymore, never again. I hate her. 

Never mind that the teen is deeply curious about this idea of feelings or thoughts being stored in the nervous system. Does that mean these are thoughts of feelings that she never really got to have before or are they things she felt and thought that are just stored some where in her? Sure, the grown up has done a lot of reading about this, but for some reason that information isn’t easy to hold onto. The teen had wanted to talk about it. To ask a question, maybe. What does it matter now? I trusted her, and for what? She doesn’t understand. She doesn’t get it, and she never will. I hate her for making me feel abandoned and as if I don’t matter. 

Dear Grandma

These are my words I read on Saturday, at Grandma’s service. I miss her so much. Not having Grandma and Grandpa here makes me feel lost. I told Bea it’s not like I lost my parents, but I lost something more than “just” grandparents. She said I lost a secure base, the people who have been my safe place since childhood. Some children run to their moms or dads. I ran to grandma or grandpa. I’m so lost right now. 

Dear Grandma,

I wanted to write the best eulogy ever for you. I wanted to make sure that everyone at your funeral knew what an amazing person you were. But every time I tried to write, the memories got in my way. And then I realized if those people are at your memorial, then they knew you and they all know how much goodness and light you had within you. 

The essence of a person is in the details. These days, that’s where I find your memory lives, too. In the morning, when I’m mixing eggs for breakfast, I remember your smile and patience as I “helped” you to make breakfast. I can picture you and Grandpa sitting at the table, listening intently to whatever I had to say. If someone had something they wanted to share with you, you always took the time to listen. When you turned your attention to someone, you made them feel as if they were the only thing that mattered in the world at that moment. 

The other day Kat (my daughter) needed a skirt for her outfit, so we got out your sewing machine. Working with her on that skirt, I could so clearly feel the love and care you showed to twelve year old me as we made a skirt for one of my dolls. You somehow saw past the mistakes and deemed it beautiful. In fact, you called it perfect. I don’t know how you did it, but you always saw the beauty in everything and everyone. It’s a rare gift to see the world like that, and everyone who knew you is blessed to have had you in our lives to show us the beauty that exists in all things. 

Growing up, I thought all my cousins– from both sides of the family– belonged to you. That’s how you were: if a person was important to someone you cared about, then they were family and that was that. When I introduced my then-boyfriend, now-husband to you, he called you ma’am. You laughed and shook your head, saying, “It’s Ginny or Grandma. You’re family now.” That was always your way. 

You taught me that family is more than blood, that family can be the people we choose to love and bring into our lives. You were a living example– for every member of the family you created– that love is what matters most. I know that we will all do our best to honor your memory and the life you lived by living in the moment, laughing often, loving one another, showing kindness wherever we can, and finding the joy in all things. 

The world feels emptier without you here. You’ve left a hole in our corner of the universe, and it’s not one that will be easily– if ever–filled. I’m trying to be brave, and to be thankful for all the time we did have because I can clearly hear your voice. “Pumpkin (pun-kin), it’s okay. Don’t waste your life being sad. Don’t you be a ding bat. I am okay.” And I can picture you, asking to see that water turned into wine trick, and enjoying a glass of dry red. I love you Grandma. Thank you for always showing up for us and for being proud of your family. We will never forget you. 

All my love, 

Alice 

Some things I can’t talk about……..

Trigger warning for talk about sex….

Sex is such a confusing thing to me. And shameful. So very shameful. Logically, I know it’s just a biological drive, nothing shameful there. But emotionally? That’s a different story. I don’t understand why I seek out this thing that terrifies me, disgusts me and hurts me. I don’t understand how I can want to be touched like that. I hate that I feel like half a wife because I don’t typically have sex with my husband. I hate that I am sickened and confused and embarrassed. 

The day we get back from camping passes by in blur. I know I felt bad, overwhelmed. That night, I crawled into bed and snuggled up to hubby. There wasn’t a grown up on board at that moment. Maybe the little girl, maybe a teen part, was running the show. It’s like I could see it happening, but not stop it. At first it was just cuddling, and nuzzling, but then she sat up, and straddled her legs on either side of hubby. She started it. I started it. Kissing, and touching, and she was fine with all of it, until hubby turned his focus more on her, and touching between her legs. One moment, he was hubby and things felt good and she wanted it, and this next moment, it wasn’t hubby anymore, and something bad was going to happen, and I couldn’t handle it. The touching felt nice but like it was too much, too intense and I wanted to squirm my body away, but I couldn’t. And I knew, I just knew, he was going to hurt me after this, because it would be his turn to feel good, and it was going to make me hurt. I started to cry, and scream at him to please don’t hurt me. After that, I don’t know. Hubby stopped, right away, and I hid under my blanky, crying all night. He sat up with me, but I couldn’t talk.  

And now, hubby hasn’t touched me, even to hug me, or hold my hand, or kiss me good morning. I say I hate being touched, but now I feel like he saw exactly how disgusting I am, and he can’t even stand to hug me. I don’t want to be his broken, sick wife. 

I feel like there is more I should say about this. But every time I catch some of the words I want to use, others escape. 

(Also, I’m way super embarrassed about this post, but I honestly can not sit alone with this stuff anymore right now. I feel like I’m losing my mind, and I hate this aspect of myself. Does anyone understand? Am I the only one? How do I cope with this? I’m so lost.)