poeticdesires

Category: Doc

  • Anxious

    “Boring and more sedate is good for you.” – Doc

    As he read off the characteristics, one-by-one, I wanted to laugh. There I was in black and white. Well, actually he was reading off of his e-Reader, so maybe black and beige. But still…

    At the start of our session today, I asked Doc to talk more about attachment styles. He had spoken about it last session and I wanted greater detail.

    So, to drive the idea home, Doc pulled up the style we had agreed I was, anxious/avoidant. I’m a mixture, so I guess I’m kind of special in the not-so-fun way.

    (For reference, about 50% of the population is secure, while the other 50% are insure/ambivalent/anxious, avoidant, or a mixture.)

    As he read, point after point hit home.

    – Has a hard time not making things about themself.
    – Lets partner set the tone. (That one got a big guffaw.)
    – Fears small acts will ruin the relationship.
    – Difficulty explaining what’s bothering them.
    – Expresses insecurity in the relationship.
    – Puts their partner on a pedestal.
    – Feels like this is their only chance for love; it’s too hard to find someone compatible for them.

    And this was only the anxious side. When it came to my avoidant nature, though it was not as prominent, still a few points resonated.

    – Values independence.
    – Unrealistic romantic views.
    – Mistrusts; fears being taken advantage of.
    – Doesn’t make intentions clear.
    – Difficulty talking about what’s going on between them and their partner.
    – Says or thinks they are not ready to commit, but stays with partner for years.
    – Forms relationships with impossible futures.

    So, with that info dump, Doc and I then started talking.

    We pinpointed that I am more anxious than avoidant, and many of my avoidant traits come from my reactions to avoidant people.

    Unfortunately, because of my parents as models, I subconsciously seek out avoidant people as potential partners because my father was avoidant (my mother was/is anxious).

    Doc cautioned me about my “in love” feeling. For me, we’ve identified “in love” as the reved up feeling I get from being juiced by someone who is avoidant (see The Gent). I get a taste of the person, and then they pull away.

    Doc pointed out because I am so used to the up and down, to the high, I have yet to feel the secure middle. He explained that that security is what love feels like. Feeling secure in yourself, your relationship, the person you are with; no constant emotional roller coaster. Yes, there will be highs and lows, but the “boring and sedate” baseline is what I now must work towards.

    Doc asked me to think about my friends. What kind of attachments do I form with them? Are they secure? Avoidant? Anxious? He encouraged me to use these examples when looking at potential partners.

    And now that I’m armed with the knowledge that this is how my brain works, Doc also encouraged me to try to remember this each time I worry that a small faux pas will create turmoil, or when I think so highly of someone else while putting myself down.

    But, most importantly, Doc reminded me to go for security, not instability; love will flow from there.

  • Good Session

    “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but you really are clever. You do these really good things, but then you always find a way to put yourself down… How about you instead use your cleverness to find humor in how your brain twists the good you’ve done.” – Doc

    This past Tuesday I had another therapy session. As per normal, it did not go as I envisioned in my head. Don’t get me wrong, it was still great though. Without fail each time I walk out of Doc’s office I feel a million times better than when I walked in.

    For this past session, we touched on a few topics. The first, which I found surprising, was the idea of therapy as work.

    Doc wanted to dissuade me from viewing the homework he gave me, the tools he’s imparted, and the ideas I have swimming through my head as work. To do so he felt was a trap, setting myself up to fail.

    This was all in response to my non-meditation. I’m suppose to meditate fifteen minutes a day using a musical track he gave me. While listening to the song, I am to repeat a mantra, the lines focusing on parts of my life I wish to change.

    I am open to love in all its possibilities. I see the beauty others see in me. I will love others for who they are, not for who I want them to be. I am good enough to accept and receive love from others.

    The closest I’ve come to meditating was listening to the song a few times before I drifted off to sleep, recalling two of the lines as I slipped into rest. I promised Doc I would do better.

    Second, we talked about my cleverness. I spoke to Doc about a good conversation I had recently, but I prefaced it with the fact I used baby steps to ease my way through the talk.

    Doc immediately jumped on my downplay of my accomplishment. He wanted me to be proud of myself for even having the conversation. And he pointed out that “baby steps” was not a bad thing. In fact, it was what I needed to do to get myself through the conversation. It was what I was suppose to do.

    Doc feels I don’t give myself credit. I always qualify the emotional weightlifting I’ve done. I find ways to not acknowledge my work.

    As a deterrent, or at least to shake up my head a bit, Doc suggested I use my cleverness to laugh at myself. Each time I put myself down, or find one small thing to harp on, he wants me laugh at how my brain works.

    Laugh at how, even though I had this great conversation, I chastised my method. Laugh at how, after having an awesome time with a friend, I harped on myself for the lilt in my voice at our parting. Laugh at the ridiculousness that is, ostensibly, my Little Hater.

    The last thing we touched on was The Gent.

    “I’m not going to tell you what to do, but I’m going to tell you what to do.”

    I laughed.

    You won’t be reading much, if any, about The Gent anymore. We’re done.

    Somehow I found myself in a situation similar to my parents; big shocker there.

    I explained to Doc how frustrated I am. How much I don’t understand what’s going on. How I wondered if The Gent even knew what he was doing was shitty.

    I also talked about why the situation was so hard, why it is so hard to let him go.

    The Gent is the stereotypical guy I should want, the guy I should bring home, marry, have kids with. He is handsome, successful, charming, intelligent, an excellent fuck.

    “Emotionally distant and absent.”
    “Yes.”
    “Like your Dad.”
    “Dammit!”

    Doc hit the nail on the head.

    In wanting to make things right with The Gent, in wanting to tell him how shitty he made me feel in hopes that he would do better, be better, I was seeking love from a person who was not giving it back. I was sinking energy into a person who did not reciprocate my efforts. I was repeating the pattern I learned from my parents.

    So now the hard part is not calling him. Not texting him. Not contacting him. The hard part is going against my nature to forgive, to give the second, third and twenty-sixth chance.

    The hard part is being strong by not giving in. The hard part is putting me first.

    So, yeah, good session with Doc this week.

  • My Heart

    One of the latest long term homework assignments Doc has given me is quite simple, yet also very effective.

    Everyday I tell myself that I love myself.

    It’s often in the car when I’m alone, listening to music, speeding along to here or there.

    Occasionally it’s when I’m sitting around with friends.

    Once it was when I was about to start working, knowing that day’s crew had two people I didn’t care for.

    Each time I use a easy method Doc suggested: I touch my heart. On my chest, just to the left, I rub in small circles, applying pressure until I feel the beating.

    It is an amazing and humbling moment each time I feel my heart beat.

    When I’m alone, I usually say it out loud.

    “I love you. I love you.”

    I usually say it about five times, sometimes more, sometimes less.

    Often I tear up. Doc says that’s because it is a sentiment that is hard for me to take in, hard for me to accept, hard for me to believe. It stems from my self worth issues, the neglect from my father, and the example of my mother as a doormat.

    My father never told my mother that he loved her.

    Do you love yourself?

    I love myself…sometimes. I like myself most of the time.

    Sometimes, though, I don’t. Sometimes I am mean and downright cruel to myself.

    Sometimes the background noise in my head points out every defect, small and large, and amplifies how much I don’t love those parts of me, even though the sum of it, all of it, makes me.

    Sometimes I want to scream and gnash my teeth and rage at myself and the world.

    But only sometimes.

    More often then not, especially lately, I’m good. More often then not, I love me, flawed imperfect me. Changing, ever growing me.

    But always, whenever I put my hand over my heart, and say those three words, over and over again, I feel wondrous. I feel joyful. My heart is full, almost bursting. I feel loved.

  • Commitment

    A few things from my day.

    It’s Tuesday, which more often then not lately has meant I get to see Doc.

    As we talked about the happenings of my past week, my practice of his homework assignments, and things bugging my brain, an interesting topic came up: commitment.

    Well, more to the point, my lack of commitment.

    I’ve found myself in a freelance job that requires no commitment. I can take on as much or as little work as I want without fear of loosing my position, so long as I do my job well when I am there.

    I am not in a relationship, nor are prospects likely that I will be in one anytime soon.

    I’ve rented for the entirety of my adult life and actually never want to own a home.

    I can trace back all of my non-commitment choices to fear.

    I fear opening myself up emotionally to people, keeping most at semi-arm’s length, and thereby shutting out those I could be more with.

    I love my job, and my career field, but I’ve chosen to not accept positions that were more stable, many times over, because I feared the shackles of a normal 9-5 work week.

    With the housing crisis, and seeing my mother deal with her home, which is paid off, I know I never want to own a house.

    Fear of being hurt. Fear of being trapped. Fear of financial collapse. Fear. Fear. Fear.

    Doc said the one thing I seemed to be committed to was my lack of commitments.

    And then, the second moment of my day occurred.

    I held in my arms a tiny human, less than two weeks old, who hiccuped and sneezed and kicked my belly. I held my niece, a new person to this world, for the first time this evening.

    She is so so tiny, with tiny fingers and tiny feet and beautiful slate blue eyes.

    “Every baby in your arms in the cutest baby in the world.” My gem for the evening.

    But she is so very cute.

    Holding her, in my lap, in my arms, and against my chest. Feeling her breathing. Feeling this little life in my hands. I damn near cried a few times, though I didn’t let my friends see.

    Talk about commitment. My friends have a daughter. A year ago they were trying and now they are parents.

    I think back on me telling Doc today the things I wish to accomplish to fulfill my life. Become a published working author. Get married. Have kids.

    And I rightly pointed out that my fear of commitment is seriously hampering my hopes, seeing as everything I listed requires the most solid of commitments.

    And then I held a tiny human in arms.

    And I knew, no matter the fear, no matter the extreme levels of terror and dread, that indeed a family is what I want.

    I don’t know when. I don’t know how. But I certainly know it’s what I absolutely want for my life.

    Of course how I’m going to get it is another story.

  • Stupid

    Boys are stupid. 

    Boys. Are. Stupid.

    But if I keep giving boys second and third and twenty-sixth chances, I think that makes me stupid too.

    It doesn’t take much to placate me. The occasional call or text. A conversation. An acknowledgement that both you and I are still alive. Really, not much.

    Honesty, respect, simple consideration. Really, not much at all.

    And yet I find myself in a situation with a boy where I want to rip my hair out.

    If I text you and say I’m free in the middle of the week, and you say cool I’ll text you and we’ll hang out when I’m free, and then you never do, no phone call, no message, and my free days go by, with me doing other shit because I have come to expect you to cancel (Did you catch that? I expected him to flake even as I asked to spend time with him.), and an entire week goes by, and I don’t hear from you, so I call you, and no pickup, in my mind one of two things has happened.

    1- Are you fucking dead?
    2- You just don’t give a shit. Because even if the shit hit the fan, even if your life blew up, even if work or personal affairs exploded in your lap, one short fucking text would be enough. One text to explain why you flaked on me, again. Or one text to say you needed to flake on me again. One text. I didn’t even get a fucking text.

    This past weekend at The Floating World, I attended an amazing sermon delivered by Laura Antoniou. Laura Antoniou, by the way, is fucking awesome.

    I call it a sermon because that was the disclaimer at the beginning. This was not a discussion, nor a lecture. This was preaching and it was a message we all needed to hear.

    Though many things resonated with me, one in particular hit me today on my way back from TFW when I realized he had not contacted me in a week. When I realized he didn’t call or text. When I realized it would be fun to see him but I didn’t expect it to happen, so much so that I planned aftercare absent him knowing he wouldn’t pick up his phone when I called. I didn’t bother leaving a message.

    Laura spoke about how we have to take responsibility for the people in our lives, take responsibility for the relationships we’ve been in, examine why these people were in our lives, and what that says about us.

    So it got me thinking. Through my work with Doc, we’ve established my skewed vision of love, with my parents as my models. We’ve identified distance, both physically and emotionally. We’ve talked about the doormat nature of my Mother and how I have the tendency to both loathe her actions yet emulate them in different but somehow similar ways.

    And so I think of my current situation. I think of being dangled by a hook. I think of being ignored, strung along. I think of all the times I’ve spent with him. And I wonder, is it worth it? Is it worth it to even try? Why do I try? Why do I give a bazillion chances? Has he earned any of them?

    And I push back the tears because I know I’m better than that. I deserve more. I am worthy of more.

    I didn’t text. I called only once.

    I think this is it. I think I’m done with stupid.

  • Self Soothing

    I could feel it gradually building, waxing and waning throughout my Ropen Space day. I could hear her, just on the edge of my fun, just beyond the chorus of beautiful voices I listened to on Friday.

    She was patient. I finally, really, heard her when classes were over. Few others were in the room.

    I was tired. Dog tired. With each breath it felt like I could fall asleep or faint. I stayed upright through force of will, little pops of adrenalin, and the thought that I was helping a good friend.

    When I finally made it back to my room, she now had my undivided attention. I couldn’t run away, tired and ready to drop.

    So I let myself drop.

    I threw on my pajamas, slipped on my Zim hoodie, grabbed some tissues from the bathroom, and brought along my phone. Out on the patio, the swirl of the wind mixed with the din of cars and temperature control units. It was perfect.

    I sat on the concrete floor. Unlocking my phone, I set my timer for ten minutes.

    Before I was even outside… In fact, the second I grab those tissues, it began. By the time I decided on ten minutes, I already had a head start.

    I let it out. I let. It. Out.

    I cried. I wailed. I hyperventilated into screams. I hugged myself. My chest heaved. I cycled and cycled, never dropping low on my threshold, but merely finding moments to almost catch my breath. And then I started all over again.

    As I wailed, as I wallowed, as I let the pain I’d been holding back all day come out of me, I found myself wondering if the noise were so loud that I did not hear my timer go off. Surely it had been ten minutes. Surely I had wailed that long. Surely this pain would end soon.

    And yet still I wailed. Tears drenched my face. I almost feared some other hotel guest on their balcony would hear me. However, truly, I did not care. I sobbed, consoling myself in my pain.

    I remembered what Doc said. This would not kill me. It is normal to feel pain. It is how we deal with it that dictates suffering. I let the little girl inside be oh so sad.

    And then my alarm went off. It was nearly the longest ten minutes of my life.

    And though my phone made it’s cute little noise, which meant it was time for me to get up, I almost didn’t want to. For a moment, I felt lost in the pain. For a moment, I still needed to sit. I still needed to be on that balcony.

    But then I blew my nose. And I stood up. And I turned on some music.

    I danced about. I took off my jacket. I smiled a bit.

    I danced more. I liked it so much, I played another song. I picked up an apple and ate it while I bopped around the hotel room.

    I found myself looking at my reflection in the sliding glass door, and eventually I stared at myself in the mirror. For a brief second, I thought I saw what others spoke about Thursday night. I thought I saw the weight they say I’ve lost.

    As the second song ended, my apple finished, I smiled a cute grin at myself. My curly hair about. My clothes a mess.

    I felt better.

    Ten minutes later, there was Chicago style pizza, and then a nap before Cigars, Boots, and Chocolate.

  • My Life, In List Form

    Part of my last session with Doc focused on the idea of life goals. For this week’s homework, he wanted me to make lists of my life goals/desires. He encouraged me to be detailed (“Use that writing of yours.”) when describing what I want.

    In some ways this task is easy. In others it is quite difficult.

    I know I want to finish Sticky. I know I want to publish it, sell butt loads of copies (physical and digital), and develop my main character into an entire series of books.

    I know I want to live off of my writing. But, until I reach that goal, I want to make a certain money level in my current job.

    I know I want to attend at least one new kink event a year, and make sure to stay close and connected with my current (and growing) kinky family.

    But here is the rub. It is so much harder to talk about what I want from a life partner, from my romantic relationships.

    I know I want to fall in love. I know I want to find someone to partner with and create a life together. In theory, I want marriage and at least one kid. I want a Daddy who will give me all this.

    However, I am a slut. A big slut. A super-duper-huge-gleefully-naked-fuck-me-fist-me-forever slut. I am so very kinky. I love fists and cigars and boots and rope. I. Am. A. Slut.

    I want my kinky fetish cake and to eat it too. I want to commit to someone, wholly and fully, and yet still have free leave to go play and fuck whomever I want. And I would freely extend this leave to my life partner.

    Now ask yourself: do you know anyone like this? Cause, well, I don’t. Can I really be owned if I have so much freedom? Is it even possible to have it all? The life, the kink, the fucking, and the love? Who could be strong enough to be by my side for all of that? Could I even be strong enough to be a partner to this person?

    In a previous session, Doc asked me if I was trying to be someone I’m not. I told him about Green Eyes, and how I sometimes feel when watching others play.

    He asked me why I thought I needed to be able to watch someone I care for with another? He insightfully pointed out all the things bothering me stemmed from my comparisons of myself to that other person. He encouraged me to have compassion for “the little girl inside me”, the one who feels less than, not good enough.

    If I can’t do this now, when I am not partnered, when it is just friends, how can I hope to do it later? How can I hope to be that super strong poly cheerleader? How can I hope to be that uber-me? I am so far away from who I strive towards. Will I ever be her?

    It feels more than a little odd, writing about this in the lobby of Shibaricon. How often does one have broad sweeping conversations with themself when they are suppose to be on vacation?

    Even so, after I finish this blog, I’ll pull out my journal, look at the bare bones of my lists, and add or do some tweeking.

    I’ll wonder about money, my job, my hopeful writing career. I’ll think about my family and friends. I’ll ponder if I want to stay a renter or someday own a home. One kid or more? Stay on the east coast or move some where else.

    And, eventually, I’ll crawl back upstairs, collapse into my bed, my mind still dancing around my life, in list form.

  • Uncensored

    Save for brushing against each other while in passing, we didn’t touch for hours. He did this on purpose.

    “I haven’t decided if I’m going to fuck you tonight.”

    It was the first time I’d seen him since right after my spring break. The first time I’d seen him since he told me he had a girlfriend. The first time we’d gotten together in a month.

    He’d canceled on me twice since, so I didn’t actually think I was going to see the Gent last night, but then he showed up.

    “How are you going to feel if we fuck?”
    “I’ll be fine. Wait, am I lying to myself? My emotions are my emotions. It is not your job to take care of me.”
    “You’re my friend, so of course I want to take care of you. Of course I care about your emotions.”

    I wanted to fuck him. I really wanted to fuck him. I didn’t want to think about how I’d feel after.

    Since I decided to be completely open and honest with him, no longer censoring my thoughts, stopping myself from asking questions or relaying my opinions, words that I never thought I’d say left my lips Tuesday night over french fries among the din of the bar/pool hall.

    “You know you are going to break up with her. She wants to wait til marriage for sex, and you are such a sexual person.

    “I mean, it’s obvious, it is so fucking obvious that you should be with me.

    “So when you break up with her, because you are going to break up with her, I’ll be here, and I’ll say, ‘Alright, let’s do this.’

    “And I’m not saying that this is it or I’ve found the one or some bullshit like that. But our chemistry is amazing. And you’re a good friend. And you make me laugh. So I think we should give this a try.”

    When we finally did touch, it was outside while we stood beneath an overhang away from the light rain. He asked me my odds on us fucking that night.

    “60/40.”
    “In favor?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s high.”
    “Not really. It’s just favorable.”

    He had been playing a song over and over again for the past week. I said I had as well.

    “Wouldn’t it be weird if it were the same song?”
    “It’s not the same song.”

    But he was right; it would’ve been weird.

    His endless repeat reminded me of European pop rock, trance-like, with unintelligible lyrics, though I thought the vocalist was singing about waiting.

    As I listened, his phone resting on his right arm, we both leaned over the railing. My left arm snuck up against his. It didn’t matter that three layers of clothing stood between our skin. It felt intense to be near him.

    I closed my eyes and took in the music. I swiveled my hips, finding myself wanting to dance.

    My endless repeat was J. Cole feat. Missy Elliott – Nobody’s Perfect. Truth be told, J. Cole has nothing to do with why I love the song. The back beat and Missy Elliott’s chorus make me want to hear the single over and over again.

    Nobody’s perfect, Nobody’s perfect, A, A
    But you’re perfect for me
    Nobody’s perfect, Nobody’s perfect, A, A
    But you’re perfect for me
    We rumbling, we riding
    He like to go inside and
    I love to go all night and
    We rock the boat Poseidon
    I love to call your name, name, name
    And baby I love to call your name, name, name, yeah…

    This wasn’t a marathon session, unfortunately; we only hung out for a few hours at the bar. He walked me to my car and said he was going home, alone. No reason why, other than the time. It was around 10:30pm.

    “If we start fucking, I won’t want to stop.”
    “I’ve trained myself to survive on an hour’s sleep.”

    I looped a finger through his belt.

    “Not in public.”
    “Right, your job.”
    “Conservative company.”
    “You could use your job as an excuse for just about anything.”
    “Yup.”

    We finally hugged. He let me linger in his arms as I took in his scent, a scent I caught in passing throughout our evening. I had almost forgotten how good he smells.

    As we parted, and he strolled away, for a moment he paused, spinning his keys on his finger, a large grin on his face. This is how I remember him.

    With Shibaricon in eight days, his now frequent travel for his job, and me neck deep in busy season, I don’t know when I’ll see the Gent again. But I do so look forward to our next encounter.

    I’m guessing when I bring this up to Doc, he’ll praise me for sticking up for myself, not sitting idly by and letting life shit on me.

    I did something different. What comes of it, though, is yet to be seen.

  • Not Another Doormat

    “I keep accepting these little pieces of people, and being so incredibly happy with them, which I think is incredibly shitty. It is so much like my mother, and I don’t want that. A friend recently told me I keep settling for small bites when I should be demanding the whole entree.”
    “Yes, but first you have to believe you deserve a seat at the table.”

    This past session with Doc was full of aha moments.

    Doc talked about how, even if I found myself in a relationship, unless I love myself I won’t be able to accept or believe the love my partner would give to me. I can’t take in love unless I first believe and love myself. If I tried (and I have), I’d most likely see (and have seen) the affections of another as a lie, or me tricking them, or a result of me emotionally bribing them.

    The more I look at my life, I more I see what I don’t want to happen happening. And then, of course, Doc made the point that the more we don’t want to be something, the more we become it.

    One of my notes from our session was passing the doormat.

    After our first session, Doc gave me a packet of papers to fill out with background information. It asked general questions about my life. The one section that sticks with me, even now, were adjectives for my parents. He told me not to think about the questions, just whatever came to mind as soon as I read them. For both my parents I put distant. For my Dad, I put strained. For my Mom, I put doormat.

    I see myself inadvertently emulating my mother’s behavior. She spent time with my Dad twice a week, always on the same days. She accepted that all she could get were these small moments with him. She loved him, and I believe still does. She still has a picture of him on her end table, even though she broke up with him almost ten years ago.

    My mother accepted less and called it love. What the fuck do I think I’ve been doing?

    “How do you feel right now?”
    “Very raw, and emotionally open.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t let others see my pain.”

    It is really shitty to say this, but I don’t know if I ever felt love and affection from my father, nor do I know if I was appreciated from either of parents as a child unless it boiled down to my intelligence.

    When I was young, I was complimented on my grades, even paid money as a reward each time my report card came around. And yes, that made me feel awesome. I most definitely excelled in school and drunk in the praise.

    But, and Doc pointed this out, I don’t know if I was ever complimented, praised, loved for just being me. Not the smart little girl, but just their little girl.

    So again the subject of me crying in front of people came up, though in a round about way. I cried in front of Doc because we were talking about me growing up, how I felt about my parents. And I started to clover, talking logically about my life, and Doc made me go back. He made me stay there, talking about my feelings, and I cried, and thus the quote above.

    I don’t like to talk about how much pain I am basically always in. I have learned to adapt and survive, putting on a smile and going on. But, inside, I could rip apart the world. I could tear and rage forever.

    My parents taught me I was not good enough: not good enough to have a full time father, not good enough to live with my father (and thus loose out on an entire half of my family), not good enough of a daughter. Not fucking good enough, no matter how hard I tried.

    “My mother always called me her smart girl, but it wasn’t until I was in my mid-teens until she called me beautiful. So, for the longest time, I thought I was ugly.”

    Yeah, that one still pisses me off.

    Doc talked about how everyone is broken, and parents end up projecting their faults on their children. Me, being logical, asked when it stopped. If everyone is just passing the shit along, from parent to child ad infinitum, does it ever stop?

    “It stops with you.”

    I know I deserve love. I know I deserve more than I am asking from my life, from the people in my life. I know that instead of quietly asking, I need to start loudly demanding. And I also know that unless I do, I will forever be walked on, never finding or accepting the love I so desperately desire should it come my way. I will be another doormat.

    “That’s good.”
    “What?”
    “You stood up for yourself. That’s progress.”
    “But I was bitchy. And I didn’t properly express my emotions. And…”
    “My god, you’re not cured?”
    “Point taken.”

    During my first session with Doc, he made note that our work is not perfect. At best, therapy is a series of close approximations.

    The problem though is that I have this mindset where I believe things, no people, can be fixed. More specifically, I keep thinking I can be fixed; please fix me. Thankfully Doc is kind (for now) and keeps reminding me how wrong I am.

    “To a certain extent, you will be like this for the rest of your life. And that’s okay. It’s not your fault. There is no other way you would’ve ended up. When you’re old, say 85, you’ll probably still be like this, but hopefully you’ll have learned, you’ll have grown, because when you stop growing emotionally, you’re dead.”

  • Being Happy Alone

    You’d think by now I’d know how to do this. In my almost twenty-nine years on this earth, I have spent by far more of my time uncoupled and alone than with someone. And yet…

    During my last session with Doc, he talked about how everyone on this Earth has two basic fears. 1- Not being good enough & 2- dying alone.

    Everyone fears being alone.

    Everyone fears being alone.

    Doc said I have a phobia of rejection. Unfortunately, I think he hit the nail on the head. Instead of the instant no, I draw out the situation and just never hear the yes. I settle for less because I fear the instant pain of rejection.

    So what did Doc prescribe?

    Wallowing.

    My current ongoing homework is to take twenty minutes every day (I skipped today because of work; bad patient), and use the time to make myself feel unhappy.

    My session with Doc was on Tuesday, and I’ve automatically taken therapy days off since we’ve started. So when I got back home, I put my sleep clothes back on, crept into our basement, sat behind the bar, and made myself cry.

    You would not believe how hard it was to make myself feel like shit for twenty minutes. I had to resort to saying some awful things to myself to keep my head there.

    You’re always going to be alone. None of them will ever know how much you feel for them, how much you love them. No one will ever love you as much as you love them. You will always be the friend, never the lover. You never had a chance with any of them. Why would anyone love you…

    And on and on.

    I cried and sobbed and silent screamed a lot, to the point that my throat hurt. I immediately wanted to self soothe. I found myself hugging my arms tight, pulling my knees in, and sometimes rocking. More often then not though, I leaned my head against the brick wall and let the tears slowly slip down.

    At the end of the twenty minutes, however, was the second part of my assignment. For five minutes, I was to dance around silly and goofy as could be, preferably to a high energy song. I chose Black Eyed Peas – Party All The Time.

    At first when I tried to dance, I just wanted to cry again. The urge was almost as strong as when I started the wallowing. But I made myself keep moving, made myself dance badly at first. And then I got into the song, got into the movement. I started smiling and swinging my hips. I flung my hair about. I acted silly. And just as Doc knew would happen, I felt better.

    The point of the exercise: feeling pain, feeling rejection is not going to kill you. Pain is a part of life. The fear of rejection, the fear of being alone is something everyone has and everyone has to learn to deal with.  I can choose to be happy, even when I’m sad.

    By taking the time everyday, he wants me to build up my tolerance and acceptance of pain like I would build a muscle. And, hopefully, one day I will no longer avoid rejection because of my fear of pain and instead accept the pain as a possibility I will be able to handle.

    And now, to bring this post full circle.

    I believe part of my acceptance of pain is also the idea of being happy alone. Andrea Zanin gave a wonderful presentation that I was able to attend called 10 Rules For Happy Non-Monogamy based off of a wildly popular blog post she wrote (link love given to the post and the homepage of her blog).  One of her rules was Be Happy Alone.

    If I am truly to get over my phobia of rejection, I think I must be happy alone.

    If I don’t fear solitude, then surely rejection will be lighten.

    If I am happy as I am, just being me, surely the idea that a person not wanting to be in my life would seem small, minuscule.

    If I am happy by myself, then others not wanting to be with me is really their loss.

    I think all of this will be a part of my Bravery for the year: actively working on my phobia of rejection and being happy alone.

    Bring it on.