The Sandbox

Amnesia, Art, Healing

5/30/17

7:01AM

Authenticity

I skipped my entry yesterday, instead working on my cover letter around the complaint. I received some both helpful but extremely insensitive and hurtful feedback. I cried—a lot—then got back to the drawing board. 

I believe I am trying hard to gather the strength to file this thing. Going over it time and time again to remember and to keep getting clearer that what happened to me was wrong.

I keep going over parts of the whole thing in my mind. 

I know now there is no going back. That I will file this complaint. 

Crying in the car coming back from a hike, I knew, in those moments, that I was making the decision, that those tears represented a line I had crossed. 

I cried a lot this weekend. I cried for being treated insensitively. I cried for relief in finding myself alive after such a close call less than two weeks ago. 

I cried over things I probably don’t yet understand too. 

A

Keep going. Keep crying. Allow, allow, allow. 

 

5/31/17

5:57AM

Authenticity

I dreamed I was in a relationship with Teresa but I was finding it to be extremely if not excruciatingly odd. I could not deal with listening to my therapist’s voice in my life and in my bed. It was like someone had accidentally switched heads and put the wrong one on the wrong body. 

Is this about finally recognizing that bad boundaries are…wrong?

Dunno. 

A

Tell about the complaint?

S

I have a phone meeting with a friend of a friend—a woman who successfully filed a complaint against her therapist. I had heard of my friend mention her a while ago and I asked on Sunday if it would be okay to check to see if I could speak with her. Yesterday I got my answer in the form of a introductory email and then an exchange. She said she was really happy to be able to help someone as she wished she could have found some help when she was filing her complaint. 

A

Kindness. 

S

Yes. 

A

And?

S

I’ve been feeling lately like my world has been somewhat reduced to filing this complaint. Like I can’t find bigger fish to fry than this one. But I realize and trust too that this is a fish that’s plenty big and one I need to obviously take care of.  I also know that while this is a necessary milestone, I don’t happily see myself afterwards. I don’t see the destination, only the next step. 

I see this step as part of my narrative, the story that I write and have been writing about my life and my healing. 

But I also feel this drumbeat of berating going on. 

MT
Is this all you have to do with yourself? With a world that needs so much fixing…so much help…is this all you’ve got?  

S

And even worse I feel haunted, compelled and stabbed over and over in the heart with being unable to make something—make some sense—of this life and this world I find as I wake up to it.  

I think this is about telling your story and I’m not telling it either enough or in the right way. 

This not-enoughness chases me, nearly every hour of the day…

…not enough…not enough…not enough…

A

Are there moments where we are enough?

S

Less and less so these days. As the complaint seems to eclipse my world I feel embarrassed and ashamed. 

A

Where and how do we find those moments where we are enough?

S

In the clay, I think. 

A

We dive into the clay as much as we can. A place and a way to find that we can be enough. 

 

S

But even as I work in this world of clay, as my fingers shape new fish each day, I am haunted by this gnawing of my life lost and wasted in years of darkness. I feel teased and doomed by a sense of what could have been. I seem unable to get to the starting line of a race that I’m very, very late for. Why bother…why try…and what, exactly, is this race that I’m trying so hard to toe the line for? 

I know it’s that book. The book I need so badly to write but can't.  It’s my narrative, laid out, told in a way that I seem unable to grasp and to tell. 

I want nothing more than to create this horse and ride it but I...can't. 

I can write…I’ve been writing…but I am unable to write what I need to write. 

I am trapped in a cage made of words and sentences and paragraphs and volumes, unable to construct a ladder to take me to new places, unable to construct a kingdom I could finally and at last call home, I am unable…disabled…crippled…screaming inside for my self to be my self, to create something I know I must create but I am trapped...

...tied up, unable, disabled. 

Not Gods, please oh please grant me the courage to move forward, to find my way and my self and my story.

A

Allow, allow, allow.