Saturday thoughts

Blogger just changed formats, so everything looks a little different right now. 

Therapy

Grandiosity (3 self)

Humility (9 self)

Dream

Fears

Anger and Passion

Writing

Present

I have therapy in about a half an hour. Sometimes I feel pressure to gather up my thoughts and present. I wonder if others feel this way about therapy. I'm struggling with my therapist and the format of therapy. Not sure if I am asking for the right things, not sure if I am trying to caretake too much. People have different ideas of what therapy is supposed to look like, and what would be helpful. I am seeking out therapy for different reasons at different times, and my agenda might change from week to week. Exploring a topic is something I do on my own, often I think I am looking for insight into how to do something, or a challenge that I have not heard already. Rarely do I get that from anyone. I like my clinical supervisor a lot because she is brilliant and insightful, but she isn't very present. Often times I am aware that we could do our entire hour long meeting in about 20 minutes if we were both focused. Maybe the breaks where she is distracted are helpful because they give me time to process. I don't know. I usually have the same pressured feeling there too, how do I show up prepared to accomplish something.  In therapy, I am often annoyed when he talks (I certainly talk to much when I am doing therapy with the kids but it feels different because I am very reflective, very much a critical thinker, and so when a therapist or boss talks a lot it feels like they are talking down to me (even though sometimes I think they are just thinking aloud). I guess I would prefer someone who questions, provokes, agitates to create more thinking. I can sit with, I can be patient, I can do all of those things, but that doesn't feel like its about me, it feels like it is about the other person.

Some of this I know is because my therapist is running back to back sessions. Some of it is because the sessions we have are spaced out and it takes a moment to get caught up. But there is a familiar irritation of feeling like, "Hey this is supposed to be about me, and it doesn't feel like it right now." Part of that irritation is how he openly compares our experiences, his life and mine, and the reality is there are some parallels, and there are many differences. I get the impression he expects my life to play out like his (I worry that my students believe this when I talk), and thus it feels like a father/son experience playing out. I share bits and pieces of my experience with the kids all the time, but more to validate, I try to universalize it a bit. I expect their lives to play out like their lives, not to follow my pattern.  I think some of the best things that have happened with my therapist is his unconditional positive regard, he calls it relentless kindness. I've tried to do that with myself. Tried to give it to others. There is a lot of forgiveness of just the human experience and challenge of negative thinking patterns. I have also greatly appreciated his book recommendations in most cases. I don't get the feeling of being manipulated into growth and in some case I almost wish I would (see grandiosity 3 self) 

I seem to be very reluctant to bring any of this up. There are times we have really great sessions, and other times that feel like duds. I know that I can be too passive, and this might be part of the problem. I am very accommodating (See humility 9 self). I have also not brought up a number of things that might give him a fuller perspective of who I am, cherry picking a bit to save face. I don't think I have made the decision to be a pig (all in) in this therapeutic relationship. Not fully myself, more my public persona. That of course runs the risk of not getting what I actually need, and just like in my relationships, maybe I desire the other person to show me they want it first. To ask the questions. To challenge. To push for a deeper conversation. 

The other day I was honest. I had a series of work things, plus I was just in a mood to be more authentic, more bold, sick of holding back. I made some calls, revealed some of what I knew to be true, and everything seemed to point to how 'brilliant' I was. This is the side Illy challenges me to reveal, and I challenge her to hide. The side of me that knows the human heart and experience. That can call things out with confidence, because even if the defenses are raised, they are raised because it's true. This was the side that confronted M when she was creating a relationship behind my back, and she didn't even realize it. I knew her better than she did, I knew the people around her and their motivations and hurts better than she did. And I could name the pattern (always politely) and regardless of her denial, it proved to be true. It was the side of me that knew our relationship was doomed from the beginning, and everything I did to prove otherwise because I desired it not to be true, proved to only make it worse. I let my desire get in the way of what I knew was true, and desire, and the urge to control, did not respect that intuitive truth one iota. 

I named patterns I saw at work. I challenged. I called it out. And they were true. I walked away feeling gloriously egotistic, feeling grandiose in the manic sense, and as I walked around the lake I felt powerful, and willed that power on the universe. Come at me bro! I know you, I see you. 

On some level I know that this is a side of me I subdue (and will get to the reasons shortly), but it is a part of me that felt good to acknowledge. That part of me that knew all the things, saw them before they happened, understood. It didn't protect me. It never will. But there was some truth there, and it wasn't intellectual 6 self, that's the thing. I have learned psychology and sociology and all the little things to improve upon my knowledge, to make the argument real, but its just heart knowledge. It's knowing how the heart works, and how we deny it and cover it, and bruise and heal... and acknowledging and naming the truth for a few hours felt powerful (even as everyone's defenses raised up). 

It is so painful to take responsibility. We all crave to be known, to be seen, but we are absolutely terrified of it. What is the response to being seen? vulnerability and fear. How many times have I called something and the person's eyes lit up and then they ran, lied, defended. How often has someone done that to me and I have responded the same. Fear and shame run us towards our worst selves at every opportunity to be our best. It's the natural response to being called out before you are ready. People don't seek growth and learning. Not really, we seek comfort and security. I don't let my therapist challenge me, I don't give him the opportunity, I seek safety from vulnerability, little bits at a time, testing the waters. And so does everyone else. My clients response to being called out on the real stuff, isn't a smile and a change, it's an argument and running. It's explosive. It's scary. I can tell myself its for their own good, but if they aren't ready, then arguably it just does more damage. 

And why do I desire this grandiosity to be revealed? This truth telling... Is this my anger coming out? Some shoving to say "Hey this is the real me that I have been denying! Hey this is the part you said wasn't true, well who was right?" And why does it feel like I need to do this now?  and why in a shove, when a step forward might be warranted instead of a leap. When other people get grandiose, I calm them down, ask what the function is... so what is the function here?  I want to reveal myself more, want to be seen, want to be special and I am not feeling very special to anyone. So I make a scene to be seen?  Yell and confront? Use my passion and my anger, and in the process scare people away... make them feel unsafe, feel unwelcome. 

Over the years I have tamped down so many parts of myself to make others feel safe, welcome... and sometimes I don't know where the balance is, because this humility has served me in my relationships and in my work, but it doesn't seem to get me what I actually want in return... haven't found the balance. Of welcoming others, and giving myself the space to be me. 

Last night I had a dream of being around people. It was one of the first dreams in a while that I have remembered that wasn't about work, or pure fantasy. Melissa and I were attending a party. She drove. We got to the party and were beginning to socialize and of course I felt all the ways I do at parties; overwhelmed, excited, put off, anxious as fuck, trying to reassure myself, looking for a role. And then suddenly I had one, something needed to be returned to the car. An excuse to take a breather, and I went with it and Melissa's keys. But though I searched up and down the rows of the lots, and the adjacent streets I could not find her car. My fears began to play out and I wondered if it was my fault some how. I continued to search, time went by and I worried people would be thinking I skipped out on the party. I feared I was letting everyone down. I feared I was missing my small window of opportunity. Finally I returned to report my struggle and Melissa reminded me where she parked and grabbed whatever and said she'd figure it out. I stood at a table overlooking a pool. It was a really big mansion, not a fancy party, but clearly the hosts were wealthy. I began talking to people, and knew that I was just putting off the inevitable of speaking to the hosts. I wasn't sure what their response to me would be, I had inside information, they would be cautious, would it feel warm? would it feel bitterly cold? I didn't know. I was simply trying to prepare myself to act confident regardless. 

Then I was at their table of gifts, maybe it was a birthday party?  A house warming? The gifts turned out to be mementos of the hosts. They were rather personal, and it seemed strange to have them openly displayed given the couple. And of course the couple was Becky and Mat, and their daughter was nowhere to be found, and they seemed entirely not themselves, not anxious nerdy people, but very rich and confident and shmoozey. They were socializing with folks, and our moment together was gloriously undertoned with looks, and surface level talk being overlanalyzed, and it felt superficial and stupid  and inside I was cringing, but outside it was Mike trying to pretend to be confident at a rich person's party... and that was it. After awhile the pleasantries turned to, better get back to hosting the party. And I returned to the table noticing a journal which had notes places on little stickers on the front and back. It was Becky's and it was hilarious -tiny little statistics quantifying the intricacies of their relationship - like "Today - codependency = %20" "Agitation due to hormones =%40" "Jealousy = 22%" and so on. I found it shocking that they were being so open about it, and laughable because it seemed so uniquely theirs, who else but these total geeks would try to quantify the human heart? 

I did my thing at the party, went from person to person, totally in my own head. I looked at people swimming, and checked out the architecture, and wondered how they got so rich, and why? Because none of it mattered. At a certain point I realized I was wearing too many shirts. I felt stupid and embarrassed because everyone probably thought I had gained 50 lbs, because I had 5 extra layers on. I took them off and felt less heavy, but not less sturdy. I looked in the mirror and realized I was less self-conscious, more myself, bad posture and anxiety and all. No big deal. 

I've been ping ponging back and forth all week from moments of confidence and excitement to moments of shame and self pity. 

Who could love me with this posture. These lanky arms. These bad teeth. My coffee stained tongue and sore throat. Who could love me with my boring simple life. My lack of interests. My overthinking. My empathy turned to complacency. My loneliness. Who could love my lack of stamina and selfishness. Who could love me with my fetishes, and my pickiness. Who could love me with my broken heart, and my fears oozing out. 

I am afraid I will die, and that my life hasn't or won't matter in the least. I know that is a common fear, but this week I was thinking about how I want to write something so that it outlasts me. But will I? meh

Last night I wondered if I should be asking people who have said they loved me, why? 

Today I was wondering why -if I have so many friends -I am planning  on and looking forward to spending my weekend alone.

This week I challenged the kids on being angry. Challenged them to be, but also to acknowledge why they are so angry. To say it, rather than display it, as it were. Why am I so angry and why do I internalize it into something that keeps me from being with others?

I was walking around the lake this morning, thinking about my passionate stances, the way I used to argue with people for hours or days. Used to write and write. But nothing changed, or it did, but I played such a limited role. I found that it didn't feel authentic to feel so passionate, and not do anything about it. So I toned it down. 

Our anger is necessary. We should be angry. I am outraged. But I don't know what to do with it that will be meaningful, and shouting to the wind does not seem helpful.  I was thinking that I am the kind of person who would give the fiery speech and then rely on others to do the work. In this world, more and more of us have microphones and less and less of us are willing to work. Maybe my voice could rise to the top of the pile of voices, but if it doesn't lead to something of weight, then it seems pointless. Passion that isn't anchored, is just vitriol isn't it? More hurt in the world. 

And so I want to write something that encompasses it all. The human condition. The big and little picture. The stories are there, and they inspire me, move me, keep me enthralled. But I am struggling to get them done. I lose momentum so quickly. 

This morning I went from my own anger, to my own disfunction, to the world's disfunction, to the story in just minutes, and then the loop came around again. By the time I got home, I knew I needed to write. 

I went to therapy, and it took some of the wind out of me. I feel like I am ready for a nap now and the paragraphs get shorter. 

On my walk this morning, somewhere in the midst of the spinning, it should be noted there were some plants. A tree with ruddy orange leaves, a spirited pink flower, a green bush, all standing out against the lake behind them. They caught my awe, and I stopped. Stopped thinking. Stopped feeling. Stopped walking. Just stared. I took in a few breaths. I waited for the world to spin again, and it didn't. People passed and I stared at the contrasts caught in the moment, and stayed with them in the present. Whatever happens. That was still there. It's easy to forget the present.