The Sandbox

Amnesia, Art, Healing

 

12/24/16

7:24AM

Authenticity

 

I dreamed last night

That I could fly

But no one cared

So neither did I

I also dreamed a thousand other things and woke in between each instinctually blocking any storm or potential storm—any hint of what I experienced the night before. 

In one of these moments of being awake I prayed to the Not Gods. 

Please Not Gods

Please let me done

With these photos that haunt me

That stab me like unconscious knives

I can’t resolve

Please let me never think of Eileen

And her daughter

Please have them disappear from my heart

Not Gods Please

Oh Please Oh Please

A

And?

S    

The night was peppered with dreams and awakenings. In the morning I lay calmly, awake, with my childhood, like broken pieces of a plate in my lap. 

And I just sat with the sadness of what was there. 

It’s been feeling clearer these days. Ever since getting down that narrative, the Read This First page. 

And perhaps yesterday’s storm was about again trying to clear out the irrelevant pieces, the damage, the accident that happens along the way to the doctor’s appointment. 

A

How do you feel this morning about what happened yesterday?

S

Finger paint comes to mind. Fingers dipped in bright definable colors. One finger after another, one color after another. And before you know it there’s a new image, the original colors now something completely new, indiscernible. 

The new thought or concept being that past + present does not equal past + present but…something new.

I have this trauma I see that is me, for years, looking online at this therapist's life...that has not a thing to do with me. Every day the unconscious pain, the untangled transference.  

MLG

Two packs that we carry

Are no longer two

They’ve merged into something

Different and new

S

Teresa said that I went online because I’m questioning, sub or unconsciously, the surrogate parenting that was a nightmare with Eileen. 

Thanks to Blanket, Authenticity, Shard and Monkey—or versions of all you guys—I mostly parented myself. 

I got into therapy out of desperation. I needed to gain more consciousness of myself. I allowed myself to become vulnerable and got another new dose of bad/no/nightmare parenting. 

So I’m now in new therapy to heal from the old therapy, to perhaps heal in general and I continue with my reflex which is to parent myself, do the therapy myself, but I ache with loneliness too. 

I seem unable to work it out—always painting myself into this corner where I’m so alone. 

I hammer out my Ordinary People transcript and slam the profession for the bullshit; for taking credit for the crescendos and break-throughs, leaving the client in the dust whenever its not convenient for them. 

MLG

Therapists suck

A necessary evil

Some are okay

Some are the devil

They want to be god

But not after six

Not on the weekends

Or if the slightest bit sick

They want to be god

In their controlled little den

They want to be god

When it’s convenient for them

S

I’m a petulant child in a lot of ways. With my Sandbox I think I can use my sentences like swords. 

A

Necessary evil. 

S

Yes. I tell Teresa I play with her—her profession—like a dolphin toys with a fish—necessary food—but it’s patronizing and I know it. The metaphor is created to dehumanize and offend. To push away. 

T

Duh.

S

But I also see when I think about quitting therapy that I have really no issues with Teresa—I wouldn’t quit because of her. 

T

My voice is no longer like a stop sign?

S

No. Not at all. 

T

My heart is no longer shaped like a tool box?

S

Well there are tools in there but you’re not cold or automated. And there is a chance you could be smarter than me. 

T

Sometimes. 

S

I thought this morning about when you swim from Alcatraz to shore in the bay. You are dumped off at the rock and suddenly there you are, alone, in the middle of this enormous green expanse of water. You look up and there’s the Bay Bridge above you. To your right the Golden Gate. Alcatraz is right behind you. The water is a cold liquid mountain that is moving you as you begin your swim. You need to site objects that feel indirect in order to make sure you account for the movement of the body of water you’re in. 

You feel so…alone. Scared, perhaps. 

But what you forget…what I forget…is that there are kayakers around. Watching you from a perspective that is much higher. Boats too that can see. People that will grab you if they spot you’re too off course. 

I begin to see this as a metaphor more in my therapy; that someone has their head above water, able to see things I can’t, able to guide me, perhaps. There is someone, maybe at least at times, with a perspective that can help. 

T

Grin. Purr. Me. Sometimes. 

A

Pete sometimes. 

S

Still though I feel it’s mostly me in that forest…with my thousands of paintings…alone. Not with nothing to show but feeling crippled nearly by all that I am. 

How muzzled I still feel. 

I dreamed last night

That I could fly

But no one cared

So neither did I

A

We care. You care. Do. Not. Give. Up. 

S

Oh how it hurts…how it hurts…how it hurts. 

A

Keep working on your site. Keep putting up pages in our page farm. Our work is valuable. Our work is our truth. 

S

Oh how it hurts, how it hurts…how it hurts.