The Sandbox

Amnesia, Art, Healing





I feel like I am coming out of some kind of dream state—sort of. I feel more like me—but a version that’s so much more known. Hard to describe. 


What do you feel less like?


I feel less like I’ve been feeling these past years. Confused, grasping, flitting from one view of self to another? 


What accounts for the shift?


Time. Decreasing therapy to once a week. Which makes me want to move to nonce a week. A view as I climb this mountain that what happened to me with Eileen will and is fading—that I needed whatever capitulation I’ve been having with the writing of complaint to put it further behind me. 

I can tell there is a shift because there is excitement in the idea of the Bad Therapy section of the website remaining but eventually being downplayed. I can just feel things moving in this direction. 

I can feel myself making room for other things. 

And those other things, whatever they may be, do not feel like more therapy and more of the same. 

I feel that the Sandbox will stay with me but its content and direction will shift with time. 

It feels like it’s happening before my very eyes. Not something I’m putting out there for a goal. 


What would be a new section of the site? 


Dunno. Art maybe? Hard to say? I’m going to just be open to it. 


How does the complaint feel?


I am still on the fence as to what to do with it. But the fence is oddly a comfortable enough place to be. It feels like I will decide soon and that the decision will be clear. 

Most importantly it feels like I am closer to being healed from the shock of that therapy. 

It was a combination of therapy, transference, dependency, a finding of self, a finding of my voice as a writer and an emotional affair between an unwell professional and a client who was deeply lost/meditating in her therapy. 

It was a lot to go through. And then the leaving it and spending another two years to heal from the confusion and pain—and also heal from my deeper past that brought me to therapy to begin with—it’s been a lot. 

But I think, though possibly I’ve taken the long route, that I have answered the question that brought me into therapy to begin with four years ago. 


Our obsession long ago. The trigger. Those dots are connected. 


Yes. And in connecting them I’m better able to resolve the question of commitment to Pete. And although it’s not yet official, between the two of us we have made the decision to marry. 

I’m scared. But I’m there. 

Real scared. 

But there. 

And you know, A, I think part of the reason for the obsession with S, subconsciously, was to I think go down the road and see if that was who I was. I had to see if I was gay. I felt gay at the time—torn up—compelled so deeply by not only a near stranger but not a very nice one. 

The obsession I see now was more trigger than truth. 

The road to this understanding has been thousands of pages. But I think the original spark for this journey has been addressed. 

A long time ago I wrote this…

I admit that I have mostly lost my way with Pete this year, but a voice, remote but deep inside, tells me that if it were not for the strength of his love, I would be unable to have this allowance, this losing of my way for a while, this meditation, this Sandbox. And also if there ever were a major repair that needed to be done, if the Sandbox’s foundation were to crack, Pete would be there to make sure it got fixed — and fixed with care. So even as my mind and body wander and wonder, I must also recognize who grounds me, who is, in truth, my life’s foundation. 

Placed in the Sandbox we currently have The Dummies Guide to Dissociation and a copy of an article called Multiple Selves, Singular Self given to me by Eileen. Adding to this collection we now type in Pete’s Christmas card:

“All I want for Christmas is you … right next to me. Merry Christmas, my sweet, sexy, beautiful, brilliant, creative and lovely curly haired girl. Love, Pete.”

So Pete, somewhere deep down where I currently cannot quite access things, I want to say that I love you and that life without you would be just, well, no life at all. The fire of my dependency on you, though, is so hot it is something I cannot touch right now for fear of burning up completely. But maybe in a few pages –– or more likely a few thousand –– I will find you again. And maybe, if I ever get there, you will be my final chapter.

I am uncomfortable with this to the degree that I don’t want finding Pete to be my final chapter. I’m not dead yet. I’m an ongoing concern. 

And that’s always what has bothered me about making this into a book. 

It always freaked me out to give myself some happily ever after that I needed to not only live up to but also, a forced goodbye to self and process that just keeps expanding as I allow it. 


So the writing feels somehow…inauthentic. 


Yes. It serves to evoke—to foreshadow where things will head. But it also puts me inside a book that ends in a way I don’t really quite get. It makes me uncomfortable. 


Perhaps though as we recognize that we have solved one of the biggest questions that brought us to this mediation we should honor it? Not by stopping the meditation or ending a book now that does not even exist, but by just sitting with it, high upon the mountain we climb? 


A sit with sounds good. 


The Bad Therapy and Eileen drama served to set our heart a fire; we were confused,, no doubt, but it also served as one massive distraction too. 

Just like an affair with any woman would have done. 


Yeah, there’s a truth to that. 


Eileen bought into it—she was likely looking in some ways for something similar. But the game she was playing was fueled by boredom and dysfunction. We have been blazing a path towards understanding self for a very, very important reason. 


That’s true, A. 


We sit four years later with this original question in our lap…answered. 

Pete is the one. The one we choose. The one we open up our heart to. The one we choose to spend the rest of our life with. The one we must eventually say goodbye to one way or another. 

We see that all our endings long ago, the ones we cannot quite remember, were so traumatic that we cannot commit to anyone—man or woman—for the ending it implies. 

We see and feel the pain of these goodbyes we never faced—we have lived within the shadow of this pain for years now—much, much closer to it—perhaps not always well understood—but we have, S, lived in various states of chaotic grief for years around all the leaving inside we had to do to survive. 

We left our mother and our father very early—unconsciously—to survive. We find these deaths in indirect ways for years now—in the thousands of pages we write—in the traumatic therapy—in the death we had there—the burning building we jumped out of to survive. 

We have been re-living leaving indirectly, been drifting inside an ocean filled with grief. 

And we begin, S, to emerge. 

And see that there is more to life than goodbyes and pain. 


Maybe, A. It’s a lot to take in. But I think you’re right. I’ve been confronting somewhat obtusely for a long time, all these losses. 


I believe as we sit on this mountain now resting, as we take in our view, as we sit with our commitment to Pete, we can begin to see all the grief, all the pages and pain it has fueled. 


I agree, A. It feels like a lot though for one morning, for one transcript, for me to take in this very, very important truth. 


So let us close now with solely the gentle consideration of grief in our mind, a thought in our back pocket that we now see might give us even further clarity as we move through our meditation and our life. We allow grief, the consideration of it, to have a color, a light, powdery blue, a blue that might fill in the spaces between clouds in an overcast sky.

We allow ourselves to consider our grief…its color…its tone…its presence in our life now and…then.