The Sandbox

Amnesia, Art, Healing

4/9/15

6:42AM

Authenticity

 

MLG

I would like to speak. 

 

S

Okay. 

 

MLG

I would like to tell a story. 

 

S

About?

 

MLG

I don’t know yet. I need to tell the story first and then I’ll know. 

 

S

How will you start?

 

MLG

Like every good story starts. 

 

S

Okay. 

 

MLG

Once Upon a Time. 

 

S

Sounds good. 

 

MLG

Once upon a time in a bedroom community on the outskirts of Sandbox City in the town ofSublimation Hill there lived a Not So Magical therapist named E and her Highly Imaginative client named S. The Not So Magical therapist had the shittiest boundaries in all the land. And the Highly Imaginative client had the wildest hair and the curliest imagination ever. Or rather the wildest imagination and the curliest hair ever. 

 

S

Go on. 

 

MLG

One day the Not So Magical therapist came back from shopping in Sandbox City with something for the Highly Imaginative Client to drink. It was a Not So Magical and Very Mundane potion called transference juice. 

 

S

Yes. 

 

MLG

Regardless of how mundane, S is very, very, very very hungry and thirsty so she drinks and drinks and drinks much like a baby who is nursing for the first time in her life. This non-stop dosing occurs from November 21, 2013 until January 6, 2015. Without her knowing, as she is drinking up a storm the Not So Magical Therapist with the shittiest boundaries in all the land becomes…magical. And with that, S loses all sense of time and space and common sense while E continues to feed her the very mundane but still powerful potion. 

 

S

Why didn’t the Not So Magical therapist give her anything else?

 

MLG

That’s the only thing available for Not So Magical therapists to give their clients. It’s cheap—and effective. Like Prednisone. But also, like Prednisone it is both the best of drugs and the worst of drugs. 

 

S

Okay. 

 

MLG

So together they live in their therapy house as S, the Highly Imaginative Client, begins to lose touch with reality and falls deeper asleep under E’s cheap trick but effective transference induced spell. As the weeks and months tick by the house gets louder and noisier and more run down. Eventually, all the neighbors around them move out due to the noise and nuttiness. Bulldozers come and remove all the empty homes leaving just one lonely house at the end of a road—a now dirt road for the bulldozers have removed too all sidewalks and signs of civilization.  

 

S

Is this the ramshackle house?

 

MLG

Indeed. The Ramshackle House at the End of the Road on Sublimation Hill. 

 

S

Right. 

 

MLG

With no one else around it that becomes clear that it is about just these two, in this ramshackle house, with E feeding S the only thing she’s got: transference juice. This feeding that takes place has sexual connotations as well…maternal transference, nurturing, and all that shit. Both the Not So Magical therapist and the Highly Imaginative Client have huge leanings in this direction for they never got what they wanted long ago from their mothers. At least this is the theory/legend around the ramshackle house at the end of the road. 

 

E

I love this house. I get everything I need here while I still—

 

MLG

—remain loyal in my marriage. We know, E. We know. 

 

E

Go on. B, make me some popcorn while I listen to Monkey’s story about ME ME ME.

 

MLG

We interrupt this story to tell E the way that this story goes is not her way. Not to spoil the ending but please note that the Highly Imaginative Client eventually does vomit up all that transference juice and realizes on the phone call yesterday that not only can you be an asshole and really bitchy but loads worse than that, you have no awareness of it. In summary: You Suck. 

 

E

Huh? We talked on the phone? Not true. Right? Did we talk on the phone?

 

ALL

Yes. 

 

MLG

Anyway, back to the story. The Incredibly Not So Magical Therapist—I mean Really Lacking Any Magic—relies on this transference juice of hers for…everything. As time goes by and as the story gets thicker and more tangled up S falls into a stupor so bad that cannot stop feeling these horrific chains that have been wrapped around her heart.

 

S

How did the chains get there?

 

MLG

Good question. On March 14, 2014 E writes an Accidental Letter to S. It is written in her color—green. And it talks about her secrets—things the client is not supposed to know.

 

S

The Great Turquoise Flood of 2014. 

 

MLG

The letter is read by the client who is mostly asleep and in a drug induced state. By this time the client is addicted to the stupor and cannot live in the world without it. The Pretend Letter is an unplanned accidental nudge to S that she will no longer be able to obtain her allotment of the transference juice—that she will need to come out of it and face whatever it was that brought her to this place of being drugged by the Not So Magical Therapist to begin with. 

 

S

Whoa. 

 

MLG
But when S begins to come to, groggily, it is clear that S is not ready for reality. So E goes to a doctor—Dr. D, to figure out something because she’s run out of ideas. Dr. D tells E to continue dosing S to keep her sedated. Under Dr. D’s direction, S remains sedated for another two months until May 21, 2014 when there is a Sudden Crisis of Unknown Origin where E says she needs to not leave but rather flea their home in six weeks—for good. This becomes known as Notice. 

 

S

No reason?

 

MLG

Personal Reasons. 

 

S

Right. 

 

MLG

E’s sudden announcement of her departure along with her Non Reason shackles S’s heart in chains. From hereon in every time S breathes it feels like she is under water. And she is—under water—for she produces many tears and she cannot stop inhaling them. 

 

S

Yes. 

 

MLG

S moves out of the ramshackle house and she and her beloved side-kick Blanket take up residence in Park Bench Park—also on the outskirts of Sandbox City. 

 

E

(crying)

 

S

Oh hush, E. You’re the asshole who caused all this. 

 

B

I still reside in Park Bench Park. I stand—and sit—for never forgetting—never forgetting this Not So Magical Therapist who doses us with transference poison and then abandons us abruptly with no compassion. 

 

MLG

During this time E does not really leave but does not ever explain why she said she was going to. Confusion abounds. Also during this time B and S get married; B serenades S by becoming Ray Charles and singing A Song for You. 

 

B

You taught me precious secrets of the truth withholding nothing…

 

S

You came out in front and I was hiding…

 

E

What the fuck about me?

 

MLG

The ramshackle house, intermittently occupied, nearly explodes with anger and fighting for many long months. The chains that shackle S’s heart make living each day hard. Her heart is sad without understanding despite in her mind developing many theories and possibilities as to why the Not So Magical therapist would leave her. 

 

S

What about the transference juice?

 

MLG

E is still administering it to S through IV drip when S sleeps. 

 

S

Then what?

 

MLG

Eventually the Highly Imaginative Client’s heart begins to break down from the chains wrapped so tightly around it. Break down—and drown too. The tears and sadness threaten to take her away to places from which she will never return. 

 

S

So what happens?

 

MLG

On January 6, 2015 S decides that this person she trusted with her heart—the heart now in chains drowning under an ocean of sadness—she concludes that this person is not good for her. And she concludes that if she is to live out the rest of her life in clarity and in health, she must…

 

ALL

—save herself.

 

MLG

The Not So Magical Therapist has done great damage. She has little understanding of how this potion she administers hurts and harms the Highly Imaginative Client. She has no idea of how her inconsistent and sometimes very insensitive behavior doses and spikes and harms this client.

 

E

It’s only therapy. 

 

MLG

She has lost track of her own powers as a therapist and of her client’s enormous pain in this process. Her focus is on her own self, her own sanity, her own space, her own clarity, her own health—physical and mental. 

 

S

Okay. 

 

MLG

So the client does what the client does best for her entire life; she makes a planet full of lemonade out of all the lemons that spill. And she saves herself. 

 

S

How does she save herself?

 

MLG

There is much talk about boundaries but they mean nothing to us except a word. Except the day S decides in her heart that in order to live she must puke up the transference juice. Vomiting is a highly painful act—a reverse peristaltic process that goes against everything. But her heart beats to the rhythm of health and survival and with that…up, up, up comes the juice.

 

E

Up, up, up? B? Can I? Onto our park bench? 

 

B

Fuck off. 

 

S

Go on, Monkey. 

 

MLG

The vomiting up of the transference poison is, we learn, the beginning of a boundary S puts up around her heart. A wall, constructed with enormous effort but with hope too that eventually it will bring her healing and health. 

 

S

Boundaries keep us safe. 

 

MLG

We put distance between us and the Not So Magical therapist. 

 

E

Fuck you. You shall pay you know. Seventy five dollars for this story to be read. Seventy. Five. Dollars. I’m laughing all the way to the bank with my prize. 

 

S

Not to worry, E. You’ll get your reading money. I would never take advantage of you. 

 

E

Nor I you.

 

S

I’m not worried. You don’t have it in you. 

 

E

Oh yes I do, Wildly Imaginative Client. Oh yes I do. 

 

S

So then what happens, Monkey?

 

MLG

E reacts negatively to the transference juice vomited up at her feet. Her magic is fading fast and all the non-sex she was getting in the ramshackle house she abandoned but never really left has turned into fighting only. As S wakes up, groggily and painfully, it becomes clear, as the sunlight and wind stream through the run down house, that a divorce is in the making. The marriage is loud and productive but only in producing pain. In these early weeks in 2015, also known as The Year of the Argument, the No Magic therapist capitulates and gives S a few names of other therapists including one that is over one hundred years old. E does this handing off of the names, not surprisingly, carelessly. 

 

S

Right. 

 

MLG

And then things get quiet in the house. No sex. But no arguing either. And then S goes to Barcelona and it is there that she comes back and discovers, about a half mile from the Ramshackle House…Lake Clarity. 

 

S

Yes. 

 

MLG

She is able to swim—and think—in Lake Clarity. And while she does she begins to consider how unsafe things have felt. How she has been poisoned for seventeen months by this Not Safe, Not Special and Highly Insensitive therapist. How she allowed herself to be drugged and dragged around by the transference juice and how she was handled, while in this drugged state, so…inelegantly—to put it mildly. 

 

E

So what have we learned about boundaries?

 

MLG

We learned that you have none. And that you carelessly and selflessly serve us up a recipe of disaster: transference juice + shitty boundaries = pain and confusion and long-term loss and lack of productivity for the client. 

 

E

So are you quitting therapy?

 

S

No. But we may be quitting you. 

 

Dr.PhD

Could it be any more obvious?

 

 

The End

 

I wake in the middle of the night. Again…aroused. Why I’m not sure. But I have waking dreams about the ramshackle house and what seventy five dollars can buy me. Only seventy five extra dollars a week and I can buy me my muse. I think back to Gala and realize that, in some important ways, she was bought. Dali became rich and he not only supported her, he bought her a house where she could fuck other people. He paid her to contain him. In return…he got his muse. 

 

E

Grin. Purr. Shitty boundaries. Muse. 

 

DrPhD

Professional, specializing, serious, focused. 

 

E

Ramshackle house…fighting…fucking…fighting. 

 

DrPhD

Experience, writer, poet. 

 

E

I adore you…I love you so much. History, chemistry…shitty boundaries….love, love, love.

 

DrPhD

I’ll keep you safe. 

 

E

I’ll spread my legs. 

 

4/10/15

7:04AM

Authenticity

 

Hey A, can you help?

 

A

Absolutely. How can I serve? How can I help you to figure out where you have been, where you are right now and where you would like to go? How can I reach deep inside you and figure out what has hurt, what is hurting and what to do about it? How can I make this dialogue with you about you—about you feeling better, getting wise, getting stronger, becoming more confident? How can I step away from all that is me, jump into your shoes and feel everything that you are feeling? How can I be wise and compassionate and true? How can I be your ally in every sense of the word?

 

S

Thanks, A. 

 

A

This, S, is the attitude that everyone’s therapist should have. Instead…

 

E

Fuck you, S. Fuck you. It’s not an emergency so fuck the fuck off. 

 

A

Defensiveness every once in a while maybe…maybe you could handle it. But to expect now when you go into therapy an argument, defensiveness. even a therapist who lashes out at you—says you are hostile—accuses you of being abusive for how you contain your anger at her in your Sandbox…how could you not feel unsafe? Your therapist cannot handle your anger and sadness at the enactments in your therapy and because she cannot handle them—or you—properly—you do not heal properly from them. This is called an impasse. And you’ve been suffering inside of one for a long time. If you were to begin to analyze your therapy from the perspective of an impasse, my guess is that we would see it has remained quite stuck since the Flood and if not the Flood, most certainly, Notice. 

 

E

FUCK you. 

 

A

You keep saying, week after week and now, S, we are going on a year, that you do not feel reached for. This, S, is because Eileen does not deeply, to the bones, understand you. And, S, you are not that hard to understand.

 

E

FUCK you. 

 

A

She does not understand you because she is…who she is. 

 

MLG

Limited. 

 

A

This is where we simply lack information but it could be many things that make you feel that you are not working with a strong, competent, healed adult. You are working with someone insecure, varying in her ability to help you at best. You feel that she is lonely, not well physically, not all that well mentally at times, angry at you, defensive, not 100% for you but rather, battling against you. She is expecting you to forget her unprofessionalism and negativity in January and February but all the work you do here in your Sandbox is about not forgetting—in fact it’s about remembering. 

 

B

Here here. Park Bench Park. We stand—and sit—for never forgetting. 

 

S

I feel like I am supposed to forget about Eileen’s negativity and unprofessionalism and simply use these “gifts” as a means to look at things from my deeper past. But I think I am over using pain in my therapy as a “gift” for ignoring this pain flies against all the pain endured to learn the lesson to not forget, to incorporate it all.  

 

A

Well said. 

 

S

She puts up these boundaries around email—like it happens over the course of a few days. 

 

A

It’s because when she does email you, which isn’t the worse thing in the world, she more often than not fails to say the right thing. It’s because, S, she is…a douche bag. 

 

E

FUCK you. 

 

A

Every once in a while she can muster something compassionate and right on. But mostly her emails are…

 

MLG

About her. 

 

A

Whether what you are doing spikes her and makes her angry and defensive—like giving her a heads up that you went to see a specialist (no response.) Or you are reviewing the Flood and understanding it better (best wishes for your journey.) She is immature, defensive, unwise, uncaring and, S, just not on your side. Your muse, S, has run her course with you. Gala poisoned Dali in her old age and this poison took away his power to paint. Beware. 

 

S

I woke yesterday morning, my mind insistent on telling me it will write a fairytale and that Monkey would do it. 

 

A

It is our mind’s way of handling a great blow…it is the way of the Sandbox. 

 

MLG

After great pain

A fairy nightmare comes

 

A

Your therapist has lost her way…and she is not going to be finding her way back any time soon. You have been hoping for her to help you to find insights, wisdom, healing. But rather, what she has done has helped you to realize that you need a different kind of guidance and that you can, indeed, survive a therapist who turns ugly on you. The gains in having this woman hurt you have come to an end. 

 

S

Really? Is this it?

 

E

I thought we were done after the Flood. Oh—and FUCK you. 

 

MLG

Really? Is this it?

 

S

A?

 

A

S?

 

S

I’m breathing. But I’m not crying. 

 

A

You’ve done your crying and grieving, S. You have reeled from a great deal of crappy therapy from this woman who loves you and also hates you or, rather, let’s say, reacts to you in ways that are inappropriate. You are too much for her, too complicated, requiring too much energy. You have become a challenge to her she cannot meet, a mountain she cannot climb and you cannot but help feel her anger and resentment at you for somehow failing her, for not giving her the success that she wants. 

 

S

Back in February, on the phone, I am in so much pain around this relationship and she begs of me—can’t we just have the warm relationship that we have had in the past—something like this—and I see she is not well, so not present in seeing that begging for this is like asking me to deny all the pain that I am in and how I got there—that she is asking me to forget how she lashes out at me, how inappropriate and unsafe she feels to me? She begs for me to deny my feelings. 

 

A

S, you have done a heroic job of trying to use all these insensitivities and fuck-ups to your advantage to learn. But the lesson you learn now is that this type of therapy is over. 

 

S

When I get back from Spain I feel clear. And I send her a very positive transcript from that time and she says she feels like such a happy therapist. And I do not understand why but this really hurts me. 

 

A

It’s a very complicated thing going on. You feel that she is somehow taking credit for the work when, in fact, the work you are doing is surviving some very, very rough therapy—working to survive her. 

 

S

I guess. I don’t quite understand it. And deep down inside I feel like she does not understand the journey all that well by what she says. 

 

A

That’s an understatement. You are worlds more empathetic and sensitive than this woman you hand your heart over to. If you were to get a peak into her lack of understanding and true compassion for your journey you would be very pained, S. Someday you will read back on this—all of it—and see how poorly you were managed by this woman, how she most likely has been using your case to prop up her own self in her personal and professional life—how everything you are, every beat of your heart and every ounce of blood you have poured into this work are really more to her about her than you. This Sandbox and this therapy you have been through S, are about survival. Surviving a well meaning but limited—both in experience, energy and emotional capacity—therapist. And surviving a past wiped out too. We pause now, S, in moving forward in our deep therapy for we realize that using shitty therapy as a means to access pain in the past is no longer our path. We are…done. 

 

S

Thanks so very much, A. 

 

A

I am here for you, S. How can I help. How can I serve. How can I always be on your side. 

 

E

FUCK you. 

 

S

Is there any way to remedy this?

 

A

This all wrests on the shoulders of your therapist—of her digging very deep. And this, S, will not happen. 

 

E

FUCK you. 

 

S

She called yesterday to see how I was doing—she said the session was rough. 

 

A

She called because you’re on the brink of quitting her and she can’t believe it. She wanted to see if you would be booking an appointment. Do not think it’s because she cares more about you than she does. 

 

E

I took you for granted. I grew used to your dependency. It’s easy for a therapist to rest on the power of dependency. I’ve been asleep to how much hard work you’ve been doing. I’ve been preoccupied with my own stuff to put it mildly. 

 

A

It’s not your job, S, to make excuses for this therapist. It’s your job to dig deep and feel, feel, feel everything that you feel. Your Sandbox is revolutionary. Keep the faith, keep the practice and be as proud as the big white clouds that sit in the sky this morning. You are here, you are more alive and awake than you have ever been.  Praise to the Not Gods for allowing us to find and to be all that we are. 

 

E

FUCK you. What about me? What about me? What happens to me? What the FUCK happens to me?? Are you listening?? Me? What happens to me? Me? Me? Me? Me? Me? Me? Me? Me? Me? me?

 

 

 

 

This concludes Volume Ten of the Sandbox.