Transcript: Episode 96
96. Being Okay
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[Short piano piece is played, lasting about 20 seconds]
We’ve had a week getting used to being back home. We’re starting to sleep better, and we’re able to eat again, and we’ve slept a lot. Our trip to Africa was really difficult, but not as difficult as it is for the people who live there. My heart is full of their faces and those sweet spirits and all that they endure. I’m grateful that we had so many positive experiences to continue to process with our daughter and remember with her. So that even after all we had been through, she can be proud of where she comes from.
We talked about it in therapy. We’ve talked about it with the husband, and we’ve talked some with our friend, who was there with us, but it’s starting to fade away - another experience in memory time and not so much in now time.
The therapist and the husband both said that the more we can talk about something when it happens, the less we have to save it up for later. And I know that even though it was difficult and impacted some of us from the system in different ways, there wasn’t any major splitting off, or breaking apart, or collapsing, or falling apart. And I think we did a good job as a team, and maybe I’m even proud of us a little.
I waited a little while to do a podcast, because I didn’t want it to just be about what happened in Africa, and I needed to be able to talk about it before I would know what to share or not share. So while I don’t want to talk about it today necessarily, I do want to talk about what I learned --
[Train whistle]
-- Which was that sometimes hard things happen, but also, that’s not the end of the world. A good therapist will never tell you that everything’s okay now, and a good therapist will never tell you that nothing bad will happen, because life happens, and sometimes there’s new traumas. And I think that that’s a place where I was stuck in therapy - this winter or this spring. Somehow wanting promises that life would never be hard again, and unfortunately that’s just not the case, because things being hard or life being hard or challenges happening to us or around us is just part of being alive.
[10 second silence]
So there are times when new trauma happens, or there’s times when you want to get to therapy and you can’t, because of the snow. Or there’s times when the weather is bad, with storms or flooding or even tornadoes. Sometimes they just threaten you and sometimes they throw a dumpster on your car. Marriage, even when it’s good, is hard work to do it right. Children, even when you love them, are exhausting to parent. Special needs, kids with challenges, are more work than most. But none of that is because they’re bad or we’re bad. And life being hard doesn’t mean that we’re failing.
Sometimes we even feel alone, even with so many of us inside, even though we’re learning to make friends. Sometimes reaching out to our friends is too hard. Sometimes interacting is too hard or too much, because of everything else going on, and so then we miss them more, and maybe even feel more lonely when we need them most. But also being healthy is knowing that they’re still there, even when there isn’t time or energy to connect or because of other things going on.
So all of this has been hard, but at the same time, I feel stronger and more stable than maybe I’ve ever been. I don’t like to think about my own stability or wonder if I even am stable at all. But for the first time I can see progress, because for the first time I can remember what my therapist’s face looks like, even though it’s Monday and I won’t see her today because of a schedule change for the holiday.
I know that if I have a question I could email my friend, Dr. Barach. I know that in the moment between caring for children and catching up laundry and washing dishes, that I could send a quick message to my friends, Donna or Julie or Jane or any of the others. I know that there are people who are listening, who email me, and I’ll get to talk to again, or that I could ask a question in support groups online, and those people will still be there, even though I had to take a timeout because things were so hard. And when things really were that hard, I was able to care for myself. I was safe, even while I was struggling. I stayed home and didn't run away. I didn’t hurt myself or drink alcohol. I stayed present with my children, even when I was overwhelmed.
In fact, one day last week-- If I can tell you a story -- one day last week I wanted to go to the park and call my friend, because I always feel better after I’ve been walking. And I knew Sasha wanted to talk to Julie, and I thought maybe we could record a podcast as well. And I came downstairs and my children were being terrible - very out of character, just bickering with each other and fussing. I don’t know if they were picking up on my own stress or if it was because the days are less structured with summertime, even though we still keep them in a routine, or what was wrong, but they were being mean and hateful, and I didn’t like it.
And besides my disappointment in my behavior and interactions, the bickering was also a trigger, and the fighting scared me. And I felt myself falling away and I felt myself growing distant. I even noticed my face turning flat and my skin turning cold. And I thought This is like the workbook. I’m avoiding. And as I began to fade and grow fuzzy, I thought This is it. I’m dissociating. It’s happening right now. I can feel myself dissociating. And for the first time, I felt it start as a process, as a coping skill to deal with my own children. And if my children, who I love more than anything, could be enough overwhelming to cause me to dissociate, or hard enough for me to cope with, that it would trigger a response of dissociation, or if my natural coping skill, when I was overwhelmed is dissociation, then no wonder everything that’s hard causes more of it, because I know I’m safe with my children, and I know I love them and they love me, and they’re really good most of the time.
So in that split second, I realized for the first time what was happening, and I was able to not just stay present, but to stop what was happening. For the first time, I said to myself, “This is dissociation. I’m about to dissociate. I am dissociating.” And I focused on the things that I’ve learned from the workbook, and I felt my feet on the ground, and I felt my phone in my hand, and I looked at my watch, which I can light up and see the colors, and remember the therapist and all I’ve studied there. And I felt strong. I felt strong, not because I was doing anything fantastic or amazing, not because of any reason other than I had the strength to stand in my own skin and stay there. And I knew that Em would come if I faded away. I knew it was Em who would come to yell at them and fuss at them and get them to behave.
But I thought, It’s summer time. They’re children. They’re learning. Everything is okay. And so I just stopped, and I said to myself in my own head, “I’m dissociating, and I know it’s Em coming to take over. And Em, I want to thank you for helping me with the children and for helping me be strong and in control.” But then I said, “But also, I’m okay, and I don’t need to be in control right now. The children are okay. The children have to learn and I can handle it myself.”
And when I said that, that I could handle it myself, it was like I flew back into my own body. It was like everything around me becoming 3D again. It was like my skin growing warm instead of cold. And suddenly I felt more solid, and I knew I could do it, and I knew I could stay. And I looked at my children and I very quietly and simply said, “I’m going to the park for a walk and to play.” And I looked at them and I said, “But you are misbehaving and you cannot come with me.” They just stared at me and blinked. My husband looked at me and smiled, and I got the keys and I left.
I did it. I took care of things. I didn’t have to fuss at the children. They could have their own natural consequence. I didn’t need to sacrifice my own self care to care for them. They were okay, and much better behaved in the afternoon. But I got my walk. I went outside and I walked to the park and I walked around. I listened to some music and I sat in a swing, a big swing for grownups, but that feels good to someone little inside, I know. And I cared for myself. I cared for my own team inside in a way I never had before, and I set boundaries on the outside, even if it was for my own children, in a way that took care of me too. And I was really proud of that.
I was so excited and so proud actually I wanted to tell the therapist, except I felt so good and so strong and so okay that I didn’t need to tell her right away, even though I have permission to text her, I waited to see if I could. Instead I wrote the story down in my journal, telling her what happened, when she can read it later, when she reads everything else, instead of bothering her extra that day, just because of a text, because it wasn’t actually anything urgent, and I wasn’t in crisis or needing anything, except to share that I was brave and I was strong, even if it was in a tiny way. It was good practice for me.
I’ve also continued in the workbook. The chapters in the middle in this section are about the simple things of caring for yourself physically. There’s some about sleeping and there’s some about eating, that chapter’s next, and a chapter about having routine in your day so that you can learn how to track time, and so that you can meet the needs of so many and balance things enough so that you can function too, in a way of everyone working together. I’ve learned a lot and I really am trying to do the things that I can do.
I tried in therapy to start looking at the notebook, I mean at the beginning from a year ago. It was too hard just yet, and she said I don’t have to yet. And maybe it was too much of talking about Africa, but I’m glad I tried, and I’m proud of me for trying, even though I just sat there and cried and couldn’t even turn a page, because I at least faced it. All my pages torn out from the notebooks and journals I’ve written in, she has organized into giant binders, and now I’ve seen it and now I’ve held it and now I’ve touched it, and maybe that’s the hardest part. So next time when I’m ready, I can try again, and maybe turn the pages too.
I’m walking every day at the park and feeling better. I go in the mornings before it gets hot and I walk around the lake where it feels peaceful. My hair is grown back enough I can feel the wind and I can almost even have a ponytail. The birds sing and the light shines in the water and everything feels better after I’ve gone for a walk. I don’t walk fast or push my body, but just being present with where I am and what I can do and doing something, because I want to live in my own skin. I want to stay present for my own life. I don’t want the Others to go away or to get rid of them. And I’m not ashamed of them in the same way I was before, but it’s my life too, and I want to be here for it.
Last week, my brother was supposed to come to town. It was already scheduled before Africa and arranged a long time ago. It’s hard for me sometimes to see him, because there are so many things that we know that he doesn’t remember at all, and because in his effort to make peace with the past, he idealizes the parents, and remembers the best of them, maybe in the way I remember the worst of them. I don’t know why those object relations split between us, to where he got part and I got part, and both of us in denial about the rest. Or where the truth is somewhere in the middle, or if our experiences were really so very different, I don’t know.
But it was planned a long time ago, a weekend to honor our grandfather who passed away. Except after starting therapy and being more aware of what’s in the notebooks, I didn’t want to do it anymore. My husband was going to go for me. There was an event, a thing for church to do. My husband was going to stay with me while I stayed with the children and sort of substitute for me, and I was proud of myself for saying that out loud, for working out a way to get out of it, but still do what I committed to do, for finding a way to balance what needed to be done, but doing it in a way for my own emotional safety.
But then our family had a funeral [train whistle], because a friend passed away, and it was right in the middle of the day where we were supposed to be with my brother. And instead of changing the schedule, he just canceled. So at the last minute, I was off the hook anyway, except my brother still came to Kansas City. He posted pictures with his family, touring the different sites and having different adventures, for a summer vacation, I guess. Except he never came here to see us, and I’m not sure why, and I’m not sure how I felt about it - if I was relieved because everything else was hard or if I was sad because he didn’t want to see me.
Our parents are gone, so he’s all I have left, and sometimes I wish we were closer, sharing the history that we do, but I also understand that if it’s too much for me to hold by myself, then maybe it’s too much for him to hold with me too. And so we just don’t see each other. And I think it’s sad somehow, and I wish that he were well and healing and had help like I do.
I thought maybe he was angry or knew about the podcast or was upset about something I had written, but I’ve not said anything bad about him, and try hard not to talk about our traumas out of respect for boundaries he has set, and respect for the healing that he’s just now starting. So, for many reasons, I’m careful about that, and we don’t want to just trauma dump on the podcast or elsewhere. But at the same time, I feel a new conflict, because I’m finding my voice, and I’m feeling strong and there are things I want and need to say out loud. And I don’t want to be silenced again, even by him, but I also know that I cannot heal for him, or with him, that he has to heal his own things, and I have to do my own work. And that’s part of why we left in the first place when we ran away at 17.
And that I think is the beginning of his hurt feelings, but we had to stay alive. And remembering the things that I remember, I’m sorry that we left him when we ran away so long ago, but I also don’t know how we could have done it differently. And there’s more there that I need to write in the notebook.
But it brought up a lot this weekend while he was here, but not here, and a lot of memories triggered while the focus was on a grandfather, who is now gone and never was. These things we’re writing in the notebook and talking about and I’m starting to learn things that now I know why I never wanted to know. I talked with my husband about my brother and he said we’ve not been disrespectful of anything and been honest in our sharing and he knew my parents - my husband did, just barely. So there are things he knows that I don’t even know. And all these family dynamics that get so twisted before you even get to the hard things, just the surface things being complicated enough that it’s hard to untangle, hard to sort out, and hard to know where you exist, where you start and where you end, who you are separate from them, and who you are because of them.
But my husband said that even if the brother gets angry or upset because of the podcast or anything else, that even if that happened that really it wouldn’t be about the podcast or about the things we said or wrote, but about his own grief, and his own issues with our parents. And that it’s okay for me to continue the podcast and it’s okay for us to continue to process the things that we need to in therapy, because they’re not our secrets. And the husband said they’re not the brother’s secrets either, and so he doesn’t get to control what we say or don’t say, and what we share and don’t share on the podcast or with the therapist or even with our husband.
There was something powerful in him telling me that and him sharing that gave the courage to try the podcast again. I had been still frozen, dissociated in my functioning, not wanting to make a move until I knew what move was safe, but this is my podcast. It is our story and we want to tell it and we want to share it and we want to learn together. And there are people who listen, who are becoming our friends, and people who listen, who are learning just like us, and we’re helping each other just by not being alone and by learning together. And there is worth in that, just like there is worth in me and in you and in us joining together to say that this is our story, even when our story is different, and even when Others inside know things that we haven’t even discovered yet, or say things that we sometimes are embarrassed by or confused by or frustrated with, or even in shock of sometimes.
All of us inside and other systems, all of us together, is how we break the silence, is how we say no more, is how we say you did not win, is how we say everything is okay now, even when life is still hard. And that maybe, just maybe normal hard life things, like the weather and storms and tornadoes and parenting and children, maybe we’re better at those things, maybe we’re stronger than most, maybe we have muscles of endurance that no one else even knows about or could imagine, because of what we've already been through together. And maybe that counts for something. Maybe that gives us a way to help people that no one else even sees or knows are there, much less understands how to help. And maybe the good therapists and clinicians and people who are trying to help and doing a good job of it, maybe they are the safe people who are our friends and the ones who help us hold ourselves together while we’re still learning how to do it.
And maybe there’s power in that, in good ways that not only empower our own systems, but each other as we work together and support each other. Maybe that’s what makes a family. Maybe family doesn’t have to be who you’re born into. Maybe family is who you choose and who you become and who you create in the world around you and to make the world a better place. Maybe when they say, “Everything’s going to be okay”, it doesn’t mean that life is never going to be hard again. Maybe it means we’re going to make everything okay, no matter what happens to us, because we’re a people, a community who don’t give up. That’s the only reason we’re still here.
Others did not survive what we have been through. Others could not handle what we have been through. Others cannot fathom what we have been through. But we are here still, strong and brave. And maybe that’s what makes everything okay. So maybe we are family for each other in good and safe ways, because we listen to each other's stories, because each of us has a voice, because each of us has the courage not just to endure, but to live to tell about it. And maybe there’s something powerful in the telling, even if it’s just telling the therapist.
I’m starting to believe her. Not that I ever meant to not believe her, but I’m starting to be able to hold on to the truth that she’s really there, that she’s still there, and that she legitimately cares, and that it’s really, and that there are real people in the world who are good and safe, real people who are my friends, real people who care, real people where it’s okay to relax and be myself even when I don’t know all of those Selves or what they will say or do or how to present it as me, my Self, capital S, my Selves.
But I’m still here and trying and have the right to do so, the right to be so, the right to just be me, whatever that entails, and that’s okay. I am okay. I am okay. That’s really big just to know that I am okay.
[Break]
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