Like many people, when I think of therapy, I generally think of dredging up the old shit that's dragging me down, exploring it, airing it out, coming to peace with it, and then moving on to the next piece of shit. My therapist, however, believes that it is better to just dump the old shit without giving it any more energy. Just jettison it, wipe the slate clean, and move forward. My therapist counsels from a Sufi perspective. Generally, I like this and it speaks to me more than any other therapy model has--but this idea of just getting rid of the shit without digging into it is hard for me to figure out.
I have a natural urge to really get in there, but only when the time is right. Which is why I've been putting off delving into some of the more traumatic stuff in my life--because I never feel like the time is right. On one hand, I think maybe my therapist is right--what will reliving it do? On the other hand, I feel like until it is dealt with in some way, it just sits inside of me, stewing around, and bubbling up in other ways that seem totally unrelated but aren't, and the only way to rid myself of it is to get it out there.
My emotional memory is caught in limbo. I am afraid of going back into the darkness, but I can't seem to find the light either. There's some kind of comfort in the idea of telling other people your story. Maybe I long for the sympathy; I have been known to enjoy my share of that. I think what bothers me the most about my hidden pain is that it is hidden. It bothers me, somehow, that people can't look at me and know what I have been through. I mean Hope, of course, but also the depression, the vulva issues, the other surgeries, the way it's scarred me inside, the way it's affected everything. I don't especially want special treatment--I just want people to know, for some reason. Maybe it's because I feel like so many health care professionals denied my pain, both physical and emotional, at different points in my medical past. Maybe it's because of society's emphasis on "getting over it" and "moving on," or even society's preoccupation with "being happy" (and the associated pressure that goes along with that). Maybe I resent the fact that people think I'm "fine" now, or count me among the "normal" people, when inside I still identify myself as someone who is broken in many ways.
The next logical thought is the old, "Maybe I enjoy being a victim." But I don't think that's a fair statement (feel free to weigh in here). I think maybe I just want recognition or acknowledgment (in what way, I don't know) for what I've gone through, and that doesn't come very often in this world, and especially not years after the fact.
It's odd because after Hope died, I tried so hard to just fit in with the world around me even though I felt so alien...and now, sometimes, I wish there was some kind of special mark that just arises on your cheek or something after you've been through the loss of a child. Like a medal of honor, of survival. A lot of us would have that mark, and that in itself would be comforting in a way. Terribly sad, yes, but comforting. To know that we are not so unusual.
Maybe that's what my problem is--that I still feel like a freak after five years, and I'm sick of the shame of it, the way I always have to think about it when someone asks how many kids I have, the way my heart beats a little bit faster whenever I know I am going to mention her name and the way my stomach drops in self-disappointment when I decide not to, the way I use her memory to punish people who seem to have forgotten. I shame myself by going around and around with her memory, telling myself that tomorrow will be the day when I really try to start talking to Bubba about his sister but knowing that I won't because it's just too hard to explain and then realizing that he is growing up not having a clue about her.
My god, it will five years this June since I lost my daughter. Five years. Having her and losing her was the defining moment of my life, even more so than having my son. I don't know what that means about me, or whether it's good or bad, but it just is.
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4 comments:
therapy- i think there's a difference between working out the past by reliving it for a time, and just wallowing in it and getting sucked back in. i think that's the difference between a good therapist and a bad one- knowing when to say when.
i think our deadbaby experiences define us more than our alive ones because they become a part of us. our living children can't be denied their free-will and physical independence, but our dead babies will live inside us and become us, for better or worse. i can't shake the feeling lately that i have so much to learn from her but i'm disgusted that i'm getting something good from her death. i know that in being a better person because of her i honor her memory, but it just feels wrong. being utterly screwed up feels right...but i know it isn't.
Weird. I was just writing about this.
For me, it's just the trauma of it. I just feel like I was marked by trauma. It's not really grief. I think I wanted a baby for all the wrong reasons. I wanted a baby so I could have the life that went with the baby. So when I lost the baby, I lost the life. Then I alienated all my friends. Even now those friends have babies 9 months older than my kid. Always 9 months older. Always in a different grade. Always a reminder of that life. And those friends made different friends while I was furious at them and at the world and I really lost those friendships.
A friend just had a baby with another old friend of mine who I was pregnant with in my first pregnancy. She said that their new babies were "best friends." It was like a little dagger going into my heart to hear that because I should have had that and instead I'm the alone one who is the outsider now.
Okay...well...I totally WANTED to write that on my blog but I'm always afraid of pissing people off. So thanks for letting me get that out here.
I like the idea of dumping old stuff without talking about it, but I have no idea how that would work in practice. Then again, getting into old stuff is what psychoanalysis is all about. My therapist believes you act based on your hidden shit, so it's better to name the hidden shit and bring it to the surface because then at least you know what you're dealing with.
I haven't gone through what you have but I've gone through some other things, and I very much identify with the feeling that I look normal on the surface but am deeply scarred underneath. Like this quote: "But you've still got a crack running up your side, big enough for a sapling to grow out of. Only no one sees it. Nobody sees it. Everybody thinks you're one whole piece, and so they treat you maybe not so gentle as they would if they could see that crack." Sometimes a little gentler handling would be nice.
You're such a good writer--I wonder if writing a little story for Bubba would help you? It could be a way to honor Hope and make it easier to tell him about her. Just a thought.
I'll never forget that book that LilCherie shared, I think it was "What Happy People Know." I didn't read the whole thing, but did read the part about how traditional therapy says you deal with everything and move on, but that doesn't work because we always carry a little bit with us, as memories or emotions. It's never just dumped out and gone unless we have a lobotomy or something.
That's where my backpack analogy comes from. We all carry our emotional backpack. Sometimes our backpack gets so full that we have to dump everything out and sort through it. We may find some things in there we're ready to get rid of. Some things, we'll organize, put pencils in their cases, papers in a folder, and then put them back in the backpack. And some things are such a jumbled mess, like a ball of rubber bands, that we can't begin to pick them apart, so we cram it back into the backpack for another time (and this might go on for years).
I don't believe we can just "get rid of" our emotional baggage entirely. We can transform it into something more manageable, more of a memory than something painful. We can deal with the emotions and work through the issues, but the memory remains and also sometimes the emotions that go with it.
I understand the feeling of wanting others to know what you've been through. It may be why I often spew about losing my son to strangers. And it's not just losing him, like you said, it's so many other struggles and painful events. It makes me look at others differently, too - that maybe, like me, they have been through things that didn't leave obvious scars. It makes me a little more sympathetic to others, sometimes. A little more patient with humanity.
I will always consider myself broken, not whole, cracked and chipped, since losing Eroll. People sometimes do say, "So, you're over it?" and I always respond, "No. I'll never be over it, but I'm moving through it." You never get over some things, especially losing a child. But you do find ways to function again, to repair the chips and cracks as best you can, even though you're never quite the same and the scars remain.
I wish we were all more open about loss, especially when it comes to pregnancy and infant loss. It seems like whenever I do decide to share my story, someone tells me they had a similar loss, or they had a miscarriage, or someone close to them did. Even the men sometimes share it. I think we would all be dealing better if we were more open, knowing that we aren't alone and having the understanding of others who know the devastation that losing a child is.
Losing Eroll will always be a time that changed everything for me.
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