The Sandbox

Amnesia, Art, Healing

 

7/3/16

7:49AM

Authenticity

 

A

S, tell of your yesterday, your churn in the night too. 

 

S

I saw something online last night—a photo of Eileen. Anyway…triggered…feelings of this hit and run inside, of her forgetting me and what she did, of her hiding me and what she did to me away.

 

I was back in time, Thanksgiving 2014, feeling so hurt and un-held and confused. Me, my life which had become nothing inside but her, up against her life which had nothing to do with me—which wanted nothing to do with me. 

 

“It’s only therapy” she said in a way that made me feel so degraded for having taken everything so seriously. 

 

Oh A, it’s painful, so painful to revisit. 

 

So I read a few articles on therapist abuse, found a law firm that happens to be local, briefly considered contacting them and then I went to bed.

 

A

We’ve come very, very far, S. You mustn't get discouraged. 

 

S

Not when I go back to where I was a year ago—to the same feelings of wanting to sue Eileen—of feeling like the victim of a hit and run. The Eileen feelings hurt this morning. B?

 

B

Come up, up, up, S, onto my park bench. It’s okay to admit this for it is the truth that lives in our heart right now, the pain we work on healing. 

 

S

I thought this morning that perhaps I should go back to Eileen and say that an apology is in order. Something. 

 

B

We can consider this. 

 

S

Last night the pain of Eileen and what she represented—the chaotic and storming inside me she stirred up—the tease and frustration never understood—the see but don’t touch, taste but don’t swallow—the pain of never getting enough of what I needed and it being replayed over and over again without any resolution or insight—it all came crashing down onto my heart and in the form of wanting her dead, of imagining her dead, of putting a gun to her head, firing it and wondering how to clean up all the blood spilling out. I fall into a near-dream. But I’m awake…clear that I want her dead, want the pain of what she ignited inside of me dead, but never do I want to be attached to her death, to her, in any true or real life way. I want to be as far away as possible, to be disconnected from her, to only use my experience of and with her as a crow bar to open me up. 

 

I’ve never in my life thought seriously of wanting to kill anyone. Of truly wanting them dead. 

 

But I do want her dead. I feel her death will give me relief. 

 

A, this is my authenticity this morning. It is shameful but true. 

 

A

Allow, allow, allow. We have grown so tired of this drill, of going to bed this way. 

 

S

I thought instead of killing my own self if this pain does not let up. I do not want to live this way. 

 

A

Some people commit suicide due to therapeutic malpractice. 

 

S

Eileen represented what I always wanted—a tiny taste turned poisonous. 

 

We are turned away from. Abandoned. Left to reel in chaos until we leave before burning up completely. 

 

S

A, I am not sure I want to go on.

 

A

We need to find and to tell this story. And in doing so, we further and deepen our journey and our healing. 

 

S

Thanks, A. I am tired. 

 

A

Indeed. 

 

S

I am not sure what is next except to continue each day. And to work toward the publication of my story—so that I am not the only one who knows it. I will send this story to Eileen. She will know how damaging her therapy was. I will not share this story with any family members. These mountains I climb, this enormously difficult journey, will remain private. It will be a quiet book. Maybe ten readers or twenty. I will learn to accept this somehow and I think it will be kind of sad to do so but this acceptance will also be part of the journey I’m on too. 

 

A

Our work is outstanding, our language unique. Our Sandbox Confidence, lost to us for many many months, if not years, will, S, someday come back to us. 

 

S

Not so sure about that, A. 

 

MLG

We had flickers of confidence with E by our side. But our Sandbox Confidence left us a long, long time ago.

 

S

Truth. I remember in the beginning of it all feeling these surges of confidence, of being blown away by my ability to write like the wind, the pages pouring out of me and Eileen, there, seemingly blown equally away. I was on top of a mountain—a shaky and chaotic one—but still, a mountain nonetheless. But all that was truly part of a city built that was abandoned abruptly. A city that Blanket views from his park bench. A city long gone. And gone with it, my confidence. 

 

A

This morning we see and feel with clarity that our confidence in our process and what we do, in our art, has been lost to us soon after we find it. Our confidence was tied to the extreme love and attachment we had for Eileen. And as that became polluted so did the purity of our confidence. 

 

S

How will I ever get it back?

 

A

This is where our creatures help. We gain confidence in the journey we take with their creation. The galleries we contact, the hopes we now have of getting into another. And another. We build up our confidence in the world this way. And someday too, our writing and process will be loved and accepted too. Allow, allow, allow and someday we will have everything we wish for and need in our life.