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Dr. Bob is Robert Hsiung, MD,
bob@dr-bob.orgShown: posts 1 to 5 of 5. This is the beginning of the thread.
Posted by Marie Box on July 5, 2010, at 1:10:44
Can we just talk today, T? No goal for the session or anything... I don't want to make plans or fix things or listen to humorous or chatty anecdotes, really. I think that I want to talk. Just talk. Can I do that? I just want to say these things, maybe talk about them just because I want to talk about them. Because they are inside of me. All that I want you to do is listen. I want you to reassure me that it is okay to talk to you, to tell you whatever it is that I have on my mind. I'd want you to say that even if I were crying. I want you to tell me that it's okay, that it's perfectly normal to talk about my internal thoughts and feelings with you, that it's perfectly normal to cry in front of you. I feel weird crying in front of you because that is when I feel such a great distance between us, and I sense that you are studying or judging me, so I start to do the same to myself. When I'm crying, I want deeply to feel like someone is there with me, holding me, feeling close to me. That makes it hard to cry next to you because you do not truly fill those roles, and I start to feel so alone.
Recently, I've been thinking about my friend, G, who died. Tonight, I thought sweet thoughts. I've been reflecting on the night that I found out that he died. Someone brought me flowers. A, K, and I spent some time at A's house, just being together. We were just there, together. G was bouncy, but he had deep, dark eyes and a strong heart. When I meditate, now, I imagine the sensation of standing barefoot in a cool and winding creek. That is the image that makes me feel secure inside-or peaceful, anyway.
I went to the lake a few times. That's where G drowned. It was his favorite place, and he told me all summer that we would have to go there together when I got back up to school. I did go, even without him. The walk to the lake is beautiful, and when I go alone, I walk back around sunset through the woods. I am surrounded by fireflies. I don't want to go to the lake anymore, though, because I do not think that it is safe. I think that someone else could drown or get hurt there, and I want to tell everybody swimming there to leave. The first few weeks of losing G and those few times journeying back from the lake--those are sweet memories I have of grieving him. They were pure moments. Religious. It's harder to talk about the darkness. I didnt know how to stop crying sometimes, and I didnt want to disturb my roommate, so at night I would go for long drives. I would sleep in my car, in the freezing cold, in the parking lot of a church. I was scared that someone would break into my car and hurt me-or that a warden would tell me to leave. I thought about killing myself. I wrote my suicide letters to H because I wanted her to understand why I had to go. There are more embarrassing parts. I would go to the grocery at night and buy a cookie cake & wings, then eat it all in one sitting. Somehow, it blocked something, or filled something, or indulged something. I don't always know the best way to take care of myself, and maybe the things I did hurt more than they helped. I certainly found my independence, though. I could go to parties alone, could join organizations and therapy groups and find offices all by myself. I learned to manage my own health insurance and to get my car fixed. I got too fat for my clothes, but I managed with old t-shirts and 3 on-sale pairs of soccer shorts from Wal-Mart. When I ran into familiar faces at the cafeteria, I pretended that I was happy and eating with friends. I ate by myself, and I ate a whole lot. I hated that food but I kept eating it.
William Wordsworth and woodland walks healed me in some places. The crunching sound of leaves beneath my tennis shoes as I wandered through the park. Poems about nature, solitude, loss, age, and hope. I do love that feeling of my feet in a cold creek, the water rushing around my ankles.
I cried a lot that first summer away from home--no friends, an abusive work situation, and a broken, caged-in heart. I was so exhausted. I can't really talk much beyond that. I don't know how to continue or how to close this conversation. I find my comforts in magical golden beams and firefly dust--damp and deep forests--heroic quests and elfland rambles. Here is some of the sweetness and some of the pain. A bitter treat with a sugary coating, or maybe soft-baked cookies and a cup full of tears. Either way, I share this with you. I am giving a part of myself-a part of my memory-to you. Please hold it gently, and maybe let me look at it if I ask. I hope that you won't devalue it, but rather appreciate both the gift and the giver for all that they are. I am thinking of creeks and rivers. I am hoping that you will let this be.
Posted by Marie Box on July 5, 2010, at 1:13:56
In reply to Letter to T: Long, Creative, Necessary and Unsent, posted by Marie Box on July 5, 2010, at 1:10:44
Thanks to all of you and this wonderful forum. I read it frequently, though I don't post much. I find that, when I start to post, there is so much more in me than I expect. I suppose I didn't need to post all of that, but I was proud for finding my words for once. And it all started with trying to make a quick post on here. So, yeah. Embarrassing, but thank you. Your honesty helps me find my own. Soon, maybe, it will find a place in my life outside of just this website.
Posted by wittgensteinz on July 5, 2010, at 5:27:02
In reply to Letter to T: Long, Creative, Necessary and Unsent, posted by Marie Box on July 5, 2010, at 1:10:44
Marie Box,
I found your letter beautiful and vivid. Why don't you send it? I'm sorry you can't just talk with T listening - no goals, just free association. Personally I've found this strategy to be very healing - just talking, sharing, letting my mind go wherever it happens to take me (or wherever I'll allow it).
The imagery of your feet in the creek brought back a very nice memory for me of a cycling trip I took with my father through the Welsh valleys. I'm sorry you lost a friend and in such a difficult way.
Wishing you the best on your journey of healing.
Witti
Posted by Dinah on July 5, 2010, at 9:47:33
In reply to Letter to T: Long, Creative, Necessary and Unsent, posted by Marie Box on July 5, 2010, at 1:10:44
Thank you for sharing that. You express yourself so beautifully.
Why is it unsent? Can your therapist be trusted to be respectful?
I'm so sorry for your loss. The thought of bouncy with deep, dark eyes and a strong heart makes me smile inside. What a blessing it is to have someone special in your life, but how it hurts to lose it.
Posted by tetrix on July 5, 2010, at 12:37:51
In reply to Re: Letter to T: Long, Creative, Necessary and Unsent, posted by Dinah on July 5, 2010, at 9:47:33
I would totally send that to my T!
This is the end of the thread.
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