It Wasn’t My Fault
S, how goes the battle inside? And our new mantra, It Wasn’t My Fault, that we take like a pill in the morning to help ease the pain?
It’s been better the past two days. I’m not sure why. I think therapy helps, a targeted conversation that takes me through the paces inside. If I dive deeper into where all the emotion comes from, it deflates things a bit. At least temporarily. I do not see or feel this battle, however, being won or erased easily or possibly ever.
I feel snippets of kindness and beauty that I can remember, the morning I wrote to Eileen, early, telling her my dream. And her responding right away., saying how much she loved hearing dreams. It felt as if I were curled up in bed with her…the fog our blanket we both hid beneath....together
The dream talked about how Monkey felt like Snoopy to me, and how much my mom loved Snoopy. Eileen told me that she had a Snoopy club when she was little and oh Not Gods my heart just…melted.
Oh, A, it was…personal.
And I am trying very, very hard to draw a line and say that, in the end, it wasn’t personal—or that it shouldn’t have been.
Maybe the message beneath all of this pain—and the complaint—is that I was hurt because it wasn’t personal enough—I wasn’t given what I wanted or thought I wanted.
Remember our mantra: It Wasn’t My Fault.
For a few brief moments, like that morning, like that email, I was getting what I wanted?
Eileen never was truly what we wanted—nor should she have been playing with those transference matches, teasing us, setting our heart up for heartache like she did.
S, would you ever in your entire life, having been through what we went through, our transference as plain as day, done what she did in terms of leading us on, being so careless with our heart, picking us up, dropping us. It is beyond comprehension that she would lack such awareness of the pain she was causing in her actions.
Remember and never forget: we were paying her. This was a professional relationship or it should have been. We were paying her to help us but the dynamic became inverted. We were taking care of her—we even felt our case would help energize her practice, our Sandbox masterpiece putting her on the map.
Someday we would publish it and make her famous…elevated…held up high. We would use every ounce of talent we found to make her our queen.
Well, she can enjoy being the star of a very different kind of masterpiece. One that the Board will be reading.
You sound angry.
I’m angry because you are unable to find your anger this morning. Your anger is lost in that fog, that dream you sent early in the morning.
It was quiet that morning and that exchange whispered to you then…and now…that this was personal…that this was…magic.
I have just woken and I do not want to write in my Sandbox. I want instead to write to you. I want to tell you of this dream that took over last night and I want its contents to spill out in front of you.
In my dream I have fallen very, very deeply asleep. It as if every tired moment in my life has been wrapped into this one moment inside of me. At some point I do wake up and a friend is there; she tells me I have fallen asleep. I wonder for how long but she only smiles at me. I look at my watch and it is time for therapy but I see in a panic that I will be late.
I kiss my friend and she leaves and I begin looking for my car. I see it outside but I see in the driveway that another car is blocking it. Someone comes out and moves the car that is blocking mine but I see now that the car I thought was mine....is not.
I try and use this random sports car but I am unable to drive it--too dangerous, I decide. Desperate I ask around--anyone--can anyone anyone please help me get to E's.
Finally an old van pulls up with a bunch of kids. It is packed with crap but I gauge that although it's messy these children will not harm me.
So I get in and the van heads off towards you. But they do not have any real mission, no direction, and we wind up in a very cozy bar or tavern, it has an after-school type of vibe with lots of couches and pillows and a television set, but I am so panicked, so sad that I can't get to you. And I know that you will be worried sick, sicker and sicker as the minutes pass. I am rarely ever even late let alone gone for an entire appointment.
There is a message on my phone; I see that you have tried to call. But I cannot access it. I do not know how to use my new phone. I have ignored learning how.
I try finding your number in other places--in an old address book. But the number I see is so faded that it's not the right one anymore.
I beg this motley crew to help--help me to use my phone, help me to get to E, help me, help me, help me.
But they laugh; they judge this is not a serious a matter and no one digs in to assist.
It is nearly the end of what would have been my appointment and I wish only that you would come and get me--somehow, miraculously even though I do not even know where I am, find me.
I awake, only moments ago. I am laying on my stomach, not where I generally start out when I fall asleep. I have traveled, I conclude. And the dream, I feel, has lasted...forever.
Monkey tells me, "S, this is another Dumb Person's dream." He loves to poke fun at my obvious dreams that require no interpretation. And I suddenly remember that my mom has always loved Snoopy. And I wonder if Monkey and Snoopy are somehow related, found together in memory that I cannot seem to access very well. Oh how my mom and I create together and oh how she would have adored MLG and his evolution.
I tell Monkey that it may be a Dumb Person's dream but also...I say it feels like a love letter of sorts. A message to my own self that it is time for this impasse in my heart to pass.
So this E, is for you. No Sandbox, no Parts--just you and me, an old fashioned email like I used to send, and my dreams which seem to speak to me when I need them the most.
Good morning, S. I like to hear dreams. So, I represent your mom to some extent in this dream? (When I was a child, I had a special SnoopyClub)
whoops, that was an example of a boundary crossing that I made. What I said about my Snoopy Club. how embarrassing. I know that this morning's post was about you and your mother. I was moved by your dream, and I must have been feeling lonely, and I wanted to connect, but I did not have my therapist hat on...sorry...not a big deal, but an example of something that happens. a tiny Flood. I write this in apology for "making it about me" and maybe a clarification of how that happens?