Transcript: Episode 74
74. All You Can Be
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[Short piano piece is played, lasting about 20 seconds]
[Skype ringtone]
I had therapy today, and it was really good. It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t a terrible session either. I don’t mean that she’s terrible. I mean sometimes the things I remember or learn about there are kind of terrible. I don’t mean the others inside. I know not to say they’re terrible. I just mean terrible things happened in the past, and sometimes the not so past.
Some of my memory time wasn’t that long ago, and we talked about that today, just a little bit. Mostly I was glad to be there. I could feel the relief inside me. Like there were so many who were so glad to see her, and so relieved to be there. And I learned just from that experience, that maybe that’s just one of the reasons it’s important to go, just because for those few hours, everything is okay. And for those few hours, we are really safe. And for those few hours, someone really knows us, and sees us, and hears us, even believes us.
So, I was glad to be there. And as soon as I saw her, I already felt better. But I was also proud of myself for making it there. We had to be pretty resourceful this week to make it to our session, and I’m glad things worked out, because we really needed it. I really needed it. I even had shoes on, which doesn’t always happen. I don’t know what the problem is with shoes, but it was rainy today, just like Dr. Barach said it would be. So, I was glad we had shoes. We brought things to show her. I wasn’t sure what it was all about. And some letters we wrote. And the notebook.
And in the notebook was my assignment from group, the one where I wrote a letter to the others inside, and she read it out loud, and we talked about it, the different pieces of it. And I even tried what I heard on the podcast with Dr. Barach, which I don’t remember doing, but I know that he’s been kind, and I think he’s a safe person. And I’ve seen his emails when we talk. So, maybe he’s a safe friend too. And I tried what he said on the podcast, about looking at her more, and seeing if that connection helps. And it really did. It was scary at first, and I couldn’t do it the whole time, but I did. And what I learned from that, was that her eyes were as kind as her words, and somehow because of that, more words came, and we talked about more things - things I hadn’t even written in the notebook, things I didn’t know I was going to say.
One of the things that I said in the letter was about how it’s scary to learn about hard things from the past, and how I was sorry that they all went through that. And I was sorry that I didn’t know how to handle it, and things like that. And things about how I want to learn, and I want to help, and I want to be present, and I want to face things instead of avoiding them, but also that it’s hard. And it’s going to take me some time, but I promise to try. I am already trying, that’s what Nathan, my husband, that’s what he says. “I’m already doing”, is what he says. I don’t even have to try, because I’m already doing it, but it still feels overwhelming. And it still feels overstimulating.
But when we talked about those things, about how it’s hard, the things from the past, or seeing them in the notebook, she stopped, and put the paper down, and took off her reading glasses, and looked at me, and I saw all that, because this time I was looking at her. And she said to me, “You know just because bad things happened, doesn’t mean you’re bad.” And when she said that, it was like swimming in a fog, like everything got further away, and foggy, and I thought maybe there was going to be some switching.
I thought maybe I couldn’t stay, but I really wanted to hold on as long as I could. And I really wanted to talk about the letter I wrote. And so I did stay, but it was one of those times where I could tell and feel that I wasn’t alone. And we talked about that for a while - about how bad things happening to you doesn’t actually make you bad. They’re bad things, or people make bad choices to do bad things, but that’s not the same as you being bad. That’s what she told me, and I wanted to say it here, so that I can listen to it again, and remember it, and not forget it, and maybe they’ll hear it too.
Sometimes when I’m there, it’s hard to focus. Sometimes I don’t remember anything, or it’s like I’m far away. Other times when I’m there, it’s like being in a concert hall, or a movie theater watching and hearing what’s happening, even though I can’t do anything about it, or say anything in response. And that’s happening more and more, where sometimes, I’m there, and I can feel others there too. And other times, I’m not there, but I am. Or I’m not there, but I can hear and see. It’s a new thing, but it’s happening more and more. And I felt that today, when she was saying that, about how bad things happening to you, don’t actually have the power to make you bad.
And while she was talking, it was like that zooming out feeling, where I was far away and distance, and also still there. And I thought I wonder how long I thought I was still stained by things I couldn’t stop, by things I couldn’t help, by things I couldn’t make go away. And when those things wouldn’t go away, I had to go away. I don’t know how to explain all of that. I don’t know what it means, or if there’s words for it, but I feel like I’m waking up somehow. I feel like my feet are in the earth, not yet growing, but definitely in the earth, the way seeds planted in April are covered in dirt that’s still cold, before the summer sun has warmed them. Before they’ve taken root. Before they’ve grown and turned green, and turned into flowers, and vegetables, and all things that stand tall, and are good and nourish our souls and our bodies. And I thought, What good is coming from this? How can so much good come from this? And we talked about it for a long time, what felt like a long time to me. Like what Dr. Barach said, about time slowing down and speeding up.
Today, with my therapist, time slowed down, and it stopped for a while, and I got to just be there, and be okay, just for a minute. And that’s what I needed, and I feel better now. After that, we painted. I don’t remember this, but I saw a note about it on my phone and in the new notebooks for this week. And I saw the paint tray in the back of the car, and paint on my hand. And I thought how funny it was that all I was stained with was paint.
It’s a long drive home - four hours to get home. And I stopped to wash my hands, and try to scrub the paint off. And when the colors melted into the sink, they made rainbows against the white porcelain. And I thought for just a moment that that’s what therapy is - painting with the colors, letting the bad things wash off, letting my hands be clean again, but still being able to see the rainbow that once stained my hands. But also letting it go. And I watched the water, until the sink ran clean too, and the water was clear, and cold, and crisp. It grounded me. And I wondered if that’s what it’s like, as we keep learning about each other, and keep learning about what happened, and keep going to therapy, about seeing the colors, but letting the darkness of it wash away.
This weekend, on Saturday, I went with my children to a painting party. I helped them, and my middle daughter was frustrated, because she tried so hard to mix the colors, that it all became brown and black. And I thought, Sometimes that’s what happens with therapy, if you go too fast or try too hard, or when you’re not willing to try at all. And sometimes, what you have to do, is just step back, and let it dry. And then you can add the colors on top of that, when it’s the thick acrylics that slide as you paint them. Or add water to them, to blend them, and move them, and drop the color in, when it’s watercolors.
And all of this I thought, just standing at the sink. And I looked up, and I looked in the mirror, and I wondered if that was me. And I wondered when did I learn about paint? What do I know about acrylics and watercolor or how paint moves? But I wasn’t anxious. And that’s what’s different about going to therapy, even when it’s hard. Even when it feels like your colors are all muddied. Because I’m not afraid, not like before, and I’m not anxious, not like before. And maybe what the therapist said was true.
When I was in that magical space, between memory time and now time, where sometimes I hover in her office, before I have to go back to my life with the husband and the children, and the notebook that’s waiting for more muddied colors - that between place, almost a place of fairies. But for me, it’s just safety. And in that space, at her office, she tells me I’m strong, and she tells me I am brave, and she tells me I am healthier and stronger than I was before. And that I’m healthier and stronger every day. And now, I can do things I couldn’t do before. And now, my cancer labs are coming back clear, and they’re talking about remission, even if I stay on the oral chemo. And now, I can go on walks every day, and run 5Ks with my children. And I’ve lost six pounds in a healthy way, from eating every day. And I’m not trying. And maybe I don’t have to try anymore. Maybe I just have to be me. Maybe I just have to stay.
I told her that my friends are coming. It’s been a hard thing for me, to learn to make friends, but I’ve been trying. There were two friends at church that I tried to make friends with. But one is too busy to really be a friend. So, I can be kind to her, and I know she’s safe to talk to if I want to at church. But I’m not going to tell her about DID or rely on her for any kind of support. Another lady is very kind, but only wants to talk about church things. And we maybe know more than she does about that. I don’t mean that disrespectfully. I just mean it limits what we can talk about, and she doesn't want to talk about anything else, except church things. And I love my church. And I love the truth there, and I love what healing it has brought me. But I don’t want church, itself, to be my whole world. And I don’t mean that disrespectfully either. I just mean it honestly.
And so I’m glad that from going to church, I found safe people just to sit by, even if they don’t know my story. Sitting by them, or with my family, feels better than being afraid to be there, because of things in the past. And feels better than sitting in my van all alone for a couple of hours. So that’s good progress, but it’s also smart, and good, and wise, and kind, and okay. But it’s also okay, even good, and wise, for me to know that that’s maybe the extent of what those friendships can be. And that that’s just okay. It doesn’t make them bad, or me wrong. It just is.
But I have my friend, Jane, who also has DID. And we have a lot of things in common that I don’t want to talk about right now. But it’s brought us really close together, as friends. And I’m grateful for her, and I know that I can talk to her about anything. And that’s a relief to me, to have someone who understands.
And then I also have Julie, my friend who won’t go away, who keeps telling me she’s my friend. She calls me “bestie”, like best friend, being silly and trying to emphasize that we’re friends, so that I won’t forget. Except, because of my ears, with my cochlear implants, I thought she was calling me “dusty”, and I didn’t know who dusty was, because they weren’t in the circle notebook. But now I understand she was saying bestie. And she’s fierce, and loyal, and protective, and kind, in good ways, without being intrusive. And I appreciate that she’s continued to be my friend, even while I was learning how.
And Donna is a new friend, who I’ve met, because she lives near our cabin. She does not have DID, but she understands a lot of things we’ve been through, and has endured them her own way. And her sharing with me, about things she experienced even as an adult, helped me understand some other things, which I talked about with my therapist today. And I talked to my therapist about it all by myself. I mean, I stayed present, and I didn’t go away, and I didn’t read the story from someone else. It was my own story, just a small one, and I didn’t give any details. It wasn’t really a conversation for that. And I wasn’t really ready to talk about it more. And my therapist never pushes me. She just stays with me.
And so while we were already feeling safe, and about how bad things happening to you doesn't make you bad, I told her something about my mom - nothing graphic. I just mean that I remember when she lived in my house - the yellow house that I built. Not the yellow house that I live in now. The one we had to sell to pay for my daughter’s medical bills.
When I built it, I found my mother. It was right before she died, but I didn’t know she was going to die. And she wasn’t well. She had some dementia, and I knew that the right thing to do was to take care of her. And I tried really hard to provide for her, and to take care of her, and I moved her into my home. And what I told my therapist was that she still hit me then. And I didn’t understand how that could happen when I was grown, or what was wrong with me, that that kept happening, even when I was an adult. Or why I couldn’t get out of that, even when I was grown.
The therapist told me that it shouldn’t have happened - not then, or when I was young. She told me that she was sorry it had happened, and sorry that it took a long time to find help. But she also said it wasn’t my fault, and that it wasn’t that I was bad. It was that she wasn’t well, and that she was not being a parent. And she also said that that suffocating feeling, when you can’t make someone else happy, that that’s because it’s not your job to make them happy. I could not make my mother happy. And the therapist said it’s like someone else asking you to breathe for them. You don’t have their body, or their lungs. And you can’t take a breath for them. Everyone has to breathe for themself.
And so, I could never be enough for my mother, because I’m not her, because I am my own person. And she had to breathe for herself. And even whatever healing she needed, she had to get it just like I had to find it with my therapist, even though she was four hours away. Or even though it’s really hard to get there. Or even though it’s really hard once we do get there.
And I thought that’s part of finding good friends too - people who are breathing their own air, even when you share hard stories. Jane and I both have DID, and we have lots in common, and we sometimes take turns supporting each other. But we also have good boundaries, and she doesn’t make me breathe for her. And I don’t need her to breathe for me. And so, it works okay. And I thought when I’ve had other therapists before, I think part of what went wrong, is when they got power for giving me air. And I thought about my therapist now, who in some ways is really good at giving me air. And maybe there is a time we all need that in the therapy context, when things are hard.
Like my daughter, who sometimes codes, and can’t breathe for herself. But even with my daughter, the goal is always for her to breathe for herself - to wean down the oxygen, to take her off the oxygen, for her to be healthy and strong. And that’s what my therapist does, is give me the safe space where I can breathe on my own, and just be me.
And so, maybe, if I’m going to just be me, I need to let the others be them too. Instead of playing Whac-A-Mole, or trying to avoid, or trying to get rid of them, or make it stop, maybe I need to care for them, and let them breathe on their own until we can all breathe together. All of us with our own things to share, our own stories to tell, our own pictures to paint, there’s so much there. And maybe it’s going to take a long time, but we’ve also come a long way already. And I feel better when there’s air. I feel better when I can breathe.
I found a poem by Nikita Gill, and I want to read it. It’s called Take This As Your Sign.
When will you stop being afraid
Of everything you can be.
I have never seen the sky, nor the earth
Wear their flaws like they are apologies,
Instead they defiantly present them as
their truth, take it or leave it, it’s up to you.
When will you realise that you can still grow
Forests from the scorched earth of your soul
Remind yourself that the moon even with
Her scares is still the fairest of them all
It’s the light she gives to the world that
matters in the end, the calm of her heart
When will you understand that
Those broken parts of you have learned
How to sing more elegant songs
Than the loveliest of songbirds.
Everything around you is asking you
To set yourself free, become everything
That you do not think you can be.
[Break]
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