The Sandbox

Amnesia, Art, Healing

12/26/16

6:51AM

Authenticity

It’s 41 degrees.

Yesterday…similar.  I ran twelve miles and it felt effortless. It’s a Monkey sun rise, too—just a hint or orange through the trees. 

MLG
Barely is the beginning of everything. 

S

I had a series of difficult dreams. One was a termination with Eileen; it was noisy, about her, I felt scared that my file would be shared and mocked. It reminded me not of my final termination session with her but bits and pieces of sessions before it.

I woke and laid in bed for a while; the brain type I experienced was a stitching together of narrative and flow—a painful merging. This was not narrative clicking below to flow. It was the two living together, merged in one sentence. No click needed. 

I began to feel this stitching together in the context of Eileen making me feel special. It was a moment in time, truly, where I felt my gifts in writing were being both discovered by my own self and someone else simultaneously. 

I thought back to how it all seems to make so much sense—this witnessing piece gone awry—this me alone with everything that I am being unable to share my self. How looking online at Eileen and her daughter seems to bring up the pain of me trapped, unshared, unwitnessed. 

A

What else?

S

I stitched together the Flood; it was an abandonment, with absolute clarity for me this morning. With such clarity I could possibly remove most of the words around and about it and call it simply that. 

All the confusion and details seemed to fade into the background. 

Abandonment. 

Eileen claimed she was just being quiet in those moments I met with her. Claimed that her consultant said it wasn’t worth trying because parts of me would be just too young to understand. 

But I call…bullshit. 

It was abandonment. 

A

Yes. 

S

And Notice….the same. 

A

Yes. 

S

I realized that she never abandoned me technically; she did not punt me to someone else. And I think I always felt that this truth somehow negated or downplayed the emotional abandonment. 

A

Your mother never left physically.

S

But this morning it was all very clear. 

B

Once Notice is given it cannot be taken back. 

S

Right. 

B

S, up, up, up onto my park bench

S

Hey B. How do things look there? It it cold?

B

You tell me, for you are up on the bench with me right now. 

S

It’s very cold, B. I can remember perfectly two years ago how our view of Sandbox City during December of 2014 became clear to us; how we admired the twinkling lights but also knew that we’d also never be going back. Sandbox City to this day remains abandoned.

B

It was a home we built inside ourselves with a surrogate mother/professional who mistreated us. We cannot and will not ever forget. But we continue to heal for healing is what happens naturally if we allow it to. 

S

How do you feel these days, B, about…everything?

B

We continue to gain clarity which isn’t always easy. It is an ebb and flow…chaos…clarity. And it is hard at times to endure. 

S

Truth. 

B

When we look online a few days ago we feel as if we are falling off the mountain we’ve tried for so long to climb. But we see in falling and failing we are getting up and healing. 

A

In healing we fail. And in failing we heal. 

S

What did we learn in this failing and falling?

B

We learned that our deepest pain lays in the witnessing that we lost—the finding of self in front of another, the clapping of the hands that we so very deeply and desperately needed and wanted for our entire life. We learn that the brief taste of this and then the abrupt, for years not well understood sudden abandonment of this taste—we learn that this is what perhaps hurt us the most in all of what happened to us the past few years and long, long ago. 

It is what we so deeply, deeply missed in our growing up and in some respects, our current life, our emotional life, our Sandbox life. 

S

So the fall down the mountain a few days ago was more like a crash course in this clarity. The deep, deep pain of losing our witness. 

B

I believe so. We also get clearer—and closer—to the pain of childhood and the pain of the therapy that replicated the abandonment in childhood. 

We see Teresa now too as a different fish we play with; one that seems to know better, one we hope knows better. 

MLG

Kayaker

S

I wonder if my putting transcripts—past and present—up on the website is my way of staying hopeful that someday someone will come look and see. That there may be witnesses in the future. 

B

Fishing starts with throwing in the line. 

S

I’ll go see if anyone came today. 

A

It will take time, S. 

S

No one.

A

Have faith in our work. Our work works. We work. One does not wake after fifty years to put this puzzle together overnight. Give it time. Try and find a perspective of self that honors a process so deep and wide. 

S

Thanks, A. I seem to move forward through negativity. 

MLG

Wrong is the beginning of right. 

S

Exactly. And wrong is always painful. So in getting better, every day, it’s about mostly hunting down the wrong or at least recognizing and feeling it. 

A

When the climb is steep there’s not much in the way of plateaus. Not a lot of resting spots with magnificent views.

S

Not at all. 

B

This is the nature

Of this kind of healing

Appreciate the relative

Departure from reeling

We sit more with truth

We do not gallop away

We may feel more somber

But we’re wiser today

S

Thanks, B. It’s nice to hang out with you. 

B

Of course. 

S

Do you think Eileen thinks of me? Misses me?

B

Of course she does. 

S

Is it okay to cry?

B

Arms around you. I will absorb your tears. I am, after all, a blanket. 

 

***

Dear Eileen, 

I’ve been in such enormous pain trying to sort so many, many things out. Including the therapy which is now clickable and categorized on my website as Bad Therapy

I feel niggles of sadness putting my time together with you beneath these two words, Bad Therapy, but I suppose, at least presently, the experience doesn’t seem to fall under anything else that better describes it in just a few words. 

I can’t say it was Good Therapy. 

I can’t say it was a Good Experience. 

I refuse to say it was Hard But Good For Me.

A few days ago I said I was sick to death of lemonade and silver linings and I think I’m going to stick by that. 

While in therapy with you I felt that it was all happening for a reason. Though enormously confused and sad I deep down thought it was all for the good. 

Twenty months away I see that this isn't the case; and with more clarity I recognize that this was mostly my lemonade-silver lining reflex at play. 

I’ve composed many letters to you; none of them sent. I believe this will be another that I add to the pile. 

But it’s the day after Christmas; we spent two Christmases together in this place, in this Sandbox, and it’s just hard not to think of you, hard not to see you in the cold, grey sky that I see outside my window now as I tap, tap, tap away. Hard not to remember you spending your time in New Mexico, me envisioning you dashing off here and there and me…waiting, wishing, hoping for a note from you. 

Me wishing I was the most important, most interesting, most exciting part of your life. 

I see and feel the transference, the aching desire for you to fill needs from long ago. And the brief unconscious and painfully blind hope that you would. 

I see the pain and wrong turns and rejection I felt in the therapy. 

And I see the resonance of them back to a childhood that comes into slightly better focus now. 

It is cold here now. And I like the temperature married to the wind and the clouds. It feels like home. 

You felt like home. Writing to you, writing for you. 

You made me feel so very hopeful. And it set me on fire. 

And still, to this day and moment, I burn up in pages. 

And although you are gone, I refuse to give up that hope that I will be seen someday and known for all that I am. 

 

This is my view, every morning as I write in my Sandbox.  Cool and cloudy today right now, most mornings I begin in complete darkness. As I look up from my transcription I can see the trees barely beginning to fill in with an orange back drop. As the words flow out and the sun rises, the trees emerge. Each day, this is my view. Each day, this is my process. 

This is my view, every morning as I write in my Sandbox.  Cool and cloudy today right now, most mornings I begin in complete darkness. As I look up from my transcription I can see the trees barely beginning to fill in with an orange back drop. As the words flow out and the sun rises, the trees emerge. Each day, this is my view. Each day, this is my process.