One day past the procedure. Okay, I hate transitions, have I mentioned that? (relevant to update later in this post) Many people say they hate ‘change’ but I like the word transitions because I, in fact, do make some changes in my life that are okay, albeit with occasional difficulty. Hmm, examples…. changing my furniture makes me feel good, it’s a sense of newness I suppose. Organizing is my forte and always relieves stress. My house is by no means a perfectionists dream, it’s just too exhausting to keep up with that, however, having it organized is a must. My environment very much effects my stress level. I changed my hair; that causes many people a great amount of discomfort, not me. I do have an adventurous spirit. I changed my style a wee bit which was uncomfortable but fine now. You know how you occasionally see those older women who dress gypsy style, or as my friend says, Earth Goddess style. Typically layers with leggings too, short hair with long danglies (my word for long earrings), and hats, lots of hats. Yeah, that’s me. I always envied those women and now I am one of them. I honestly don’t know when it happened but it did. Adventurous. So despite my insecurities of my last post, I have to admit that I am not altogether without confidence when I go out. Sometimes I do dress down, however, I have to change multiple times to look like I just threw what I’m wearing on and got going for the day, sigh.
A couple weeks ago I discovered, halfway through the day, that I was wearing two long danglies in one ear, the matching of one in the other ear and a small hoop in the second hole only on one side! I was a bit aghast and hoped people thought it was sort of a quirky thing, then fixed it. I was at the cafe when I discovered this too. I was over it in a few minutes. Earlier in my life I would have been mortified and probably slinked out in shame.
I’m sharing all this because of a conversation I had with slicefolife11 who reminded me that getting older does lessen the impact of such things. To you sliceoflife11, I thank you for that!
There are way more relevant examples but I don’t want to get to the main subject matter for this post.
After my last post I worked with my therapist to deal with the ‘before and after’ of the procedure. I visualized each room and found a calm place I good access while there. I was going to do the tools of observation: counting 10 things I could hear, 10 things I could see that were a certain color, then of another color, etc. We used EMDR to instill all this and get to the bottom of why I felt so abandoned while in holding. I discovered that the reason I have such a difficult time is I feel abandoned, even though I know I’m not. There is usually a long wait where I’m left alone, sometimes up to an hour. It takes me back to when I was seven. I was at my aunts and suddenly she shooed me into her room. Please understand, it was forbidden to go into her room, period. Obviously my aunt had her own issues. I was shocked and confused to say the least. I heard the voice of my dad yelling and carrying on. Yelling always shattered me, still does. I have few, like three, memories of my life up till seven years old. I had later, as an adult, figured out that there was loads of arguing and much frustration on my dads side during the time. There was a hole in the wall, maybe more, where he must have hit it in utter frustration of dealing with my mom. She was always silent and unmoving, unfeeling, like Spock from Star Trek. I know how frustrating a one way conversation is. I was a very sensitive child so I suppose it is why I reacted/react as such.
We left our house and stayed with my aunt. Dad disappeared, no explanation. I was confused, I didn’t know what was going on and no one told me. I was walking to school and stopped at this one corner where I could see my own home down the street and at that moment felt a complete separation from people, all people. I was alone, all alone. Remember, I was only seven. I couldn’t even cry. I think I lost something I lost something in myself at that moment. Eventually I turned toward school and started walking. It’s hard to express in writing what that felt like, what that utter and complete abandonment felt like. To note, I remember in 3rd grade we had a journal exercise to write about our dads. I sat there with a blank page. I explained to the teacher, when he inquired, that I had no dad. It was he who explained that I did, in fact, still have a father; he just wasn’t there. What a revelation. I was a child and thought he simply was gone, no longer in existence. No one explained anything to me. I will always be grateful to this teacher for that.
Other examples of abandonment came after that but there’s only so much space to write so I’ll go to the other major one.
I was 14. I was raped. I ended up pregnant. Because I was terrified of my mother’s disapproval at this point, afraid of failure, afraid of admitting mistakes, I didn’t tell her. I didn’t tell anyone. Time went by, a couple of months, and I had to say something so I sat down and told her. Her response? She stood up and walked out and never talked about it again. I was stunned. Sometime later my Grandmother showed up (she insisted we call her that, no shortened version of endearment. Our relationship to her was more of a business relationship than anything else.) In the car she told me how disappointed she was in me. She was in the Rosecrucian Order and had wanted me to be initiated when I was 16. I had to be a virgin. I knew nothing of this. Disappointment, failure, her anger… where was love and compassion? I wasn’t aware that I needed those because I wasn’t aware of what that was since I had yet to experience it. She took me to a clinic for an abortion. The doctor didn’t believe I was raped because date rape wasn’t a thing back then. And no, I wasn’t drugged by that guy, I was fully aware. I had somehow known I ended up pregnant. I remember, after he was gone, trying to use a brush to get him out of me. I was terrified, alone, hating every bit of me; my fault, my fault, my fault became my mantra. I don’t know what abortions are like now but it was extraordinarily painful back then. I think I was screaming, it’s hard to remember. I do remember a nice nurse at my side, my hand crushing hers during the procedure. Afterward I was put in a recovery room. I was on a metal bed, cold and alone. There was no one in there. I had no family, I had no one. Alone. Abandoned…. Time went by till my Grandmother picked me up, never saying a word. This was never spoken about again. It was pivotal and changed my life forever. The pain in my heart, while lying there, went away; a part of me died. During the month after I had sharp stabbing pains in my gut. I told my mom who, once again, never responded. I remember thinking that maybe I was invisible, maybe no one saw me and that is why no one cared.
continued in part two