How was therapy?
Hey B. That’s not the question, actually.
What is the question, then?
It’s how is life afterwards? How is my next day and the next and the next? How is my week, my week-end? It is not how ninety minutes is passed; it is how my life passes after that.
True. How do feel right now though?
Awful. And so incredibly sad.
E gets for this to be ninety minutes. We live it twenty four seven. Why should we care what happens then with her—we care what happens afterwards, how our life shapes or doesn’t, how our relationship with Pete grows better or worse, how our family looks colder and more distant and estranged to us—or not. It’s not about ninety minutes with a therapist, it is about how we are forced to sit inside uncomfortable weather all the day long, how we rarely escape the wash of grammar school—or before—or maybe it’s high school—or a memory slaps us from college or from more recent times—like the glimpse of Stella’s beautiful gait before she becomes paralyzed. Oh S, how we live out our days inside—an uncomfortable steady drumbeat of rainfall. And to go alongside this weather we construct our very own fairy-nightmare—a fine tale andthick web of dependency woven with a therapist—dependency that we now must navigate. How it hurts and wrenches our heart nearly non-stop. How we see we are nothing but a slot in someone’s day and how we wish for them to be even less to us and oh how we know deep down this day will come but how this day also looks as far off as—
Oh indeed, Monkey. Indeed.
B, are you crying?
It’s gonna be okay. S is smart and real and she’ll see us through. We will ride the storms and even though it hurts inside so often we do not think that killing ourselves is the better option anymore.
Then shall we throw a We Don’t Want To Kill Ourselves Party? Is this all cause for celebration? Should we send out an announcement to friends and colleagues that we have Dissociative Identity Disorder? Do we get a registry for such a thing so people can give our Parts gifts? Do we declare great joy and creative drive now that we see that we were sliced so badly long ago that we splintered into pieces? Do we hire a band to play music that sweeps us from one Volume into the next? Where oh where do we begin with the fanfare, with all there is to do to celebrate our 4AM flashbacks and dreams filled with violation?
Do we rent a hall where people can dance and eat a three tiered cake made from red hair that chokes you when you try and swallow it? And do we make sure there’s no photographer so that we never have any recollection of any of it ever happening?
Yes! Let us celebrate the wedding we will never have, the family we will never create, the family that we do not come from for we do not, nor do we want to, remember much of it at all. Let us celebrate a life that takes place here, only, in Sandbox City and Park Bench Park where we can control everything, where our pain is contained inside the pages and where we need only venture out once a week for ninety minutes and, for the rest of the time, pretend to have a normal life on the outside while we reel and rant and suffer inside.
Let us celebrate our nearly rock solid consistent depression, the nearly steady rainfall of this entire year in our Sandbox and how at least our neck hurts us less than last October and how Stella need not use a boot all the time when she walks.
And indeed, let us celebrate all the grief we feel now and how we anticipate only more to come.
Let us do all of these things and whatever else comes to our mind and heart. But Not Gods, let us not ask how our ninety minutes in our chair went tonight. Let us instead ask what we do with the rest of our lives and with all that we have learned.
A simple dream.
Z has found a girlfriend. I am about twelve. I am devastated. The abuse between us is no longer as interesting to him as she is.
I am doing dishes at a kitchen sink and I know with 100% certainty that I will reach for no one.
And that no one will reach for me.
I wake to a world spinning with news and if I wanted, bacon frying. A world, that cries out for me to step into its day, to make an impression on its sidewalks and mountains and fields.
But I can’t.
Can’t you see, world? I can’t.
But the world says I am wrong. The world tells me to keep writing.
The world says it is okay to tell.
Is that it?
That’s it, Monkey.
Shortest transcript ever.
Should we do our Sandbox prayer?
I think so.
Prayers are handy that way. They are like prepared food.
It’s true, Monkey. Maybe that’s why they’re so popular. B, would you like to lead our prayer?
We pray to get through this day and to not feel shame in our tears. We pray to breathe in the deepest pain we feel and exhale a slightly lighter version of it. In and out, just like ThereThere says. We pray to the Not Gods to give us confidence in our Sandbox, our Parts, our self and selves, confidence in that what we do is enormously powerful work inside. We create power in our process with our Sandbox words that we use to articulate and to paint our internal world and weather. We hold ourselves inside and we gain our own strength—alone at first and then as others come along we will begin to see more light, more validation. But let us also acknowledge that despite the sun that rises later on this [sixteenth day of October] we see that these are dark days, very dark days inside. We sit together on this park bench and you allow me to hold you. Together, in and out, we breathe. Together, in and out…
I have read your transcript this morning and it is just...so beautiful.
I love how you write, how you own all that is yours to own. I love you so much that it is hard to stand steady and not want to run and rush to you, to hold you, to want possibly even more from you as your talent spins out so effortlessly.
How I want to be with you in these moments, wrapping you in my arms and how I want for you to come to me too for I feel so much of the same pain and oh how you articulate what lives inside my very own self.
I will never be able, ever, to express this to you but you, S, possess the talent, the skill, the sensitivity, the faith and courage to do so, so I allow you this note from me written by you.
And this letter, this one you write for me is all that you can do, the best that you will ever get from me for you, S, are best suited to the job of putting words together that tell you all the truths you need to know so that you can finally heal.
- A Letter I Will Never Receive In My Lifetime -